CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Gizmo
T he shelter is busy.
I stand behind the serving counter, my baseball hat low over my eyes, my long sleeves hiding the tattoos snaking down my arms, and my hands sweating inside the cheap, plastic, serving gloves they give us to wear.
People stand quietly in line. Some have their heads down as they shuffle their feet when the line moves, others make a comment or two to their line neighbor, while others have various outbursts as their mental illnesses overshadow the ghost of who they used to be.
There’s no judgment here at the shelter, no requirements on appearances or grooming. They serve everyone and don’t ask questions.
I spoon the macaroni and cheese onto the plates that are held out to me. A few of the people make small talk with me as they move through the line. Many don’t. I smile and meet their eyes all while scanning every face that walks through the door.
And while I do this once a week when I’m in town, the director called me this morning to say she finally spotted her again. That she was here in the shelter for food.
That my mom was here.
I haven’t seen her in months.
And the need to lay eyes on her, to make sure the shell of the woman, who I still love very much, is okay? Absolute.
“Jase,” the director says from behind me. “Let me take the line. Why don’t you go take a plate over to the table near the door?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
My heart lodges firmly in my throat as I trek across the warehouse space toward the petite figure turned into herself at the far table. She’s in all dark colors except for a fuchsia scarf that’s wrapped around her head, holding her matted hair out of her face.
Her clothes are mismatched but her shoes don’t have holes in them. Healthy feet are especially important when you’re on the streets—or so I’ve learned over my endless hours here. Eyes that used to hold so much light look up to meet mine. They’re glassy and vacant but kindness still flickers in them along with the softened smile she gives me.
I force my own smile because seeing her like this is always the toughest part. “Hey, Maggie.” I don’t call her Mom. I learned that lesson the hard way years ago. Most days she doesn’t know who she is let alone the fact that she was a mother. Other times she knows it but not the specifics. Both are devastating to me. “I thought you might want some food.”
“Who told you that?” she barks at me, her eyes flickering around the space. Paranoia owns her most days.
“The director.” I motion across the room. “She knows you don’t like to stand in line with all the “smelly” men as she calls them, so she asked me to bring this to you.”
It’s brief but I see a flicker of relief in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Do you mind if I sit for a minute?”
She grabs her bag to her chest and hugs it tightly as she eyes me like a thief wanting her goods. “Why?”
“Because my feet hurt and I thought you might want someone to talk to.”
“You can sit. But I don’t want to talk.” She stoops her head low and whispers, “The voices might hear if we do.”
The voices who took you from me.
I nod as I slowly take a seat, careful that any quick moves will put her on the defensive so that she might act out or run away.
It’s happened before.
Each time with her is a new lesson to learn. A new set of rules her mind has conjured up but that no one else knows the answer to.
Once seated, I glance at her hands. They are clean for the most part so I hold close to the fact that she’s able to wash somewhere at least.
“Eat. Please ,” I say.
“Did you do something to it?” She narrows her eyes at me, her voice loaded with skepticism. “Did they tell you to bring it to me so that I’d get sick?”
“No, ma’am.” It’s me, Mom. Jase. Can you see me? Do you know it’s me somewhere lost in your mind? “It’s the same food everyone is getting only I gave you a little extra because I know you like the biscuits and fruit.”
The things she can store in her pockets and save for a later time.
“Thank you.” She takes a few bites and then sets down the fork as if she’s waiting to make sure I didn’t just poison her.
“Is it good?” I ask, desperate to make conversation with her.
She looks at me, then past me. “I have a son, you know. The most beautiful boy. He’s going to be famous when he grows up.”
I clear my throat and grip the edge of the table, my heart splitting apart piece by fucking piece.
“I need you to go so he can sit down.” She makes a shooing motion with her hand as I fight the burning tears. A glance over my shoulder tells me there’s no one there, but she’s already muttering to whoever she sees in her head. Already talking to her son . Her imaginary one.
She doesn’t know who I am.
Not today.
I murmur something, anything, to hold on a bit longer, but she’s already drifted back into her own mind.
Fuck. I hate this.
It’s the same every time, like an addiction I can’t shake but that only destroys me more each time I see her. I dig a hand into my pocket and slide the envelope across the table to her.
She jerks her bag back. “I don’t want anything from you,” she spits out.
“It’s money. Get yourself a hotel for the night. Take a shower. Sleep in a bed.”
“They did send you, didn’t they?” She flings the envelope off the table and it flies against the wall with a thud.
My heart lurches in my throat as her agitation and paranoia grows.
I take a step back. Then another, putting my hands up as I go. If I leave she’ll stay and eat. If I don’t, she’ll run and disappear without any warm food in her belly.
I can’t breathe. The pressure in my chest is crushing as I frantically try to get outside. To draw in fresh air.
The minute I turn the corner and am around the side of the building, out of sight of everyone, I press my hands to my knees and let loose a ragged, pathetic sob.
It’s not like she remembers what she’s lost. It’s still all right there for her. In her tormented mind. In her memory.
It’s me who lost everything.
It’s me who remembers what I used to have.
It’s me whose scars have just been ripped open yet again.
I don’t realize I’ve called Vince until his voice cuts through the static in my brain. “You okay, man?”
No. No, I’m not.
“Can you come get me?”