Chapter 12
SUTTON
I don’t look at it immediately because I’m elbow-deep in a box of canned tomatoes at the food pantry, counting and recounting as if the numbers might change. Sixteen cans. Sixteen cans to feed how many families? The math makes my stomach twist.
Where is all the food?
Shouldn’t there have been a shipment?
What are we supposed to tell people?
“Hey Helen?”
The manager of the Portland Pantry tips her head around the corner, her small reading glasses bridging her nose as she looks over them. “Yes, dear?”
“There’s no more bread, and I passed out the last of the bananas this morning when Mr. Prednigot stopped by.
” I hear the tremor in my voice, the one I’m trying to swallow down.
“Also, we don’t have any more baby formula, or oatmeal, and we’re down to one bag of apples.
Should I divide them up instead of giving out the bag? ”
Her shoulders deflate and I can tell she’s just as worried as I am at the lack of food on our shelves. “I think that might be best so we can stretch as far as we can. Maybe one apple per person until we run out?”
I nod, a knot forming in my throat.
One apple.
One single apple when I know some of these people won’t eat again until tomorrow. The unfairness of it all burns in my chest. I choke back tears with the knowledge that at some point today, I’m going to be forced to turn people away. And that’s the very last thing I want to do.
My phone buzzes again and again, I ignore it.
It’s probably Shepherd and after the way I acted the other day, I’m not sure what to say to him.
I kissed him.
I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to know what it felt like and damn, did it ever feel good.
But it’s not me.
We come from two different worlds and though he may say he enjoys spending time in mine, he won’t love it forever, and I simply can’t keep up with his.
I hate to say I feel an inevitable end to whatever is going on between us but it’s true. I don’t see how it would work long term.
By noon, we’ve turned away six people.
Six.
The words stick in my throat every time. “I’m so sorry,” I tell an older man with shaking hands. “We hope to have more stock tomorrow.”
We might.
We might not.
Regardless, he nods politely like I’ve done him a favor.
Like I didn’t just send him back into the world empty-handed and hungry.
And when Mrs. Lingle stops by with her two little kids, I can’t stop myself from pulling all the cash out of my pocket and slipping it to her, even as a voice inside me whispers that I’ll need that money for rent.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
I’ll make it work.
“The supermarket down the street has canned chicken and tuna on sale,” I inform Mrs. Lingle, my voice steadier than my heart. “A loaf of bread is only one dollar there and their produce isn’t too bad. Use all of this and get whatever you can. I’m so sorry it’s not more.”
She gives me a hug I don’t deserve and I offer suckers to her two littles, their hopeful eyes making me wonder if they’ll go to bed hungry tonight despite my twenty-three dollars and change. I watch them walk away with nothing more than a box of soup crackers and a couple cans of Spaghetti-O’s.
It’s not enough.
I’m not enough.
I want to scream.
I want to cry for them…and for me.
I want to help every person that walks into the Portland Pantry but after just a few hours, I have nothing left to hand out and no more money in my pockets.
Why can’t I be in a position to do more?
I’m a healthy person and a hard worker.
But no matter what I do, it will never be enough.
It’s fine.
I work tonight.
I’ll make more tips.
I’ve handled worse and if Mrs. Lingle and her kids get to eat tonight, then it’s all worth it.
My phone buzzes for what feels like the fortieth time. I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull my phone from my pocket, expecting Shepherd or maybe Mari. Instead, a text notification from my landlord flashes on the screen, and the words blur as my vision tunnels.
NOTICE OF SALE — BUILDING OWNERSHIP TRANSFER
Wait…what?
The phone trembles in my grip as I read the email once, and then twice, my heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape the inevitable. The building has been sold. All tenants must vacate by the end of the month.
The end of the fucking month.
I glance at the calendar pinned to the wall, the cheerful kittens in the picture mocking me.
Three weeks.
A laugh bubbles up, sharp, bitter, and verging on hysteria.
Of course.
From raised rent straight to eviction? Of course this would happen now.
My fingers curl into a fist so tight my nails dig half-moons into my palm.
I want to punch something, to scream until my throat bleeds, but what good would that do?
Three goddamn weeks to find somewhere I can afford in a city that’s been slowly pushing me out since the day I arrived.
And to add the fucking cherry on top of my shit sundae…
I just handed away my last twenty-three dollars.
For a moment I stand here, rage and terror wrestling inside me like two starving animals. My phone slips in my sweat-slicked palm. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack and my chest heaves with breaths too shallow to reach my lungs.
This is fine. People move all the time. And they survive worse.
I can do this.
I don’t know how I’ll fucking do this, but I can do it.
The thought lands like it always does, hard and familiar.
Mari.
Mari will know what to do.
She’s my voice of reason every time I need it.
When my time is done at the Pantry, I wave goodbye to Helen and the other volunteers and then start the hike from mid-town to the Alley Tap by way of my favorite thrift shop. With any luck, Mari will be able to talk sense to the Mad-Hatter vibes going on in my brain.
It smells like dust and old paper and lavender when I finally step inside Funky Junk, my favorite place in the city. My hair is damp from the misty precipitation outside, but what else is new? It’s Portland in the fall.
Mari looks up from behind the counter, her usual bright smile nowhere to be found.
“You look tired, Nina.”
“I feel it,” I admit. “And my real workday hasn’t even started yet.” I study her lifeless expression for just a second and say, “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look any better than me. You feeling alright?”
She gestures for me to come around the counter. When I do, she takes my hands in hers, hands that tremble slightly, I notice. Her eyes are swollen, the whites threaded with red, and tears have carved tracks down her cheeks like tiny riverbeds.
Has she been crying?
What’s wrong, Mari?
“Frank passed,” she says, her voice cracking on his name.
Her words land like a wrecking ball to my chest and for just a moment, I can’t breathe.
Frank.
The old man who shuffled in every Tuesday with his cane tapping a gentle rhythm as he looked through Mari’s latest treasures.
The one who donated blankets to the homeless shelter even when his own heat got shut off last winter.
The one who kept butterscotch candies in his pockets for any kids he might pass by, the wrappers always slightly linty but the gesture so pure it made my throat ache.
If I remember correctly, we last bonded over a potato salad bowl.
“When?” I manage to ask through the vise tightening around my windpipe.
She sniffles. “They found him last night. Alone in his apartment.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They think he was there a couple days before anyone found him.”
My knees nearly buckle.
A couple of days.
Alone.
Cold.
I nod mechanically, the weight of it crushing down on my already burdened shoulders. No dramatic tears come—I’m too empty for that—just that same leaden heaviness that’s been suffocating me all day, now doubled. No, tripled.
Another person gone.
Another light extinguished.
Another safe harbor destroyed.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice raw as I fight the burning behind my eyes.
Mari squeezes my hands until it almost hurts. “You carry too much,” she says, her accent thickening with emotion. “I shouldn’t add to your burden. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, the words tasting like ash. “You’re my friend, Mari. When you hurt, I hurt. And Frank…he was such a sweet and kind man. He made this cruel world gentler and happier just by existing in it. Will there be funeral arrangements?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. He didn’t have any family left here. He and his wife never had any kids.”
“What about his things?” I ask, voice tight. “His apartment?”
“The landlord said they’ll clear it out if no one claims anything,” Mari says, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “All those memories, all those little treasures he collected…just tossed away like garbage.”
The word strikes me like a physical blow.
Garbage.
Tossed away like the chipped teacups I rescue.
Like the people at the food pantry I couldn’t help today.
Like me, with three weeks to find a new home.
“That’s not right,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Everyone deserves to be remembered.”
I stare at the worn floorboards of the shop, at the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. Frank had been a fixture in this neighborhood for decades. The thought of him dying alone, with no one to mark his passing, crushes something inside my soul.
What if that was me?
Would anyone know if something happened to me?
Would anyone remember me?
“Maybe we could do something,” I suggest. “Not a funeral exactly, but…something. A gathering at the shelter? He loved that place.”
Mari’s eyes soften. “That’s a beautiful idea, Sutton.” She squeezes my hands once more before releasing them. “I’ll talk to Director Reynolds tomorrow.”
I nod, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “Let me know what I can do to help.”
She studies my face. “Why do you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world today? Did something happen?”