Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless (24 page)

As part of my usual routine, I lingered by her bedside last night. I held her hand and mumbled my feeble attempt of a prayer. But before I left, I did notice that her eyes were closed and her expression was no longer that of a frightened old woman balancing on the edge of life. In fact, her facial muscles seemed relaxed, as if she was at peace. At least she is in a better place. I try not to be envious. I'm not sure I can even imagine what that would be like -a better place ... peace-it's beyond my grasp.

Then realizing that someone from River Woods might come out the back door to speak to the hearse driver and subsequently notice my vandalized van still parked here, I decide to make a quick getaway. Before long, I'm sitting in the nearest coffee shop, where I plan to thaw out until it's time for my shift. But my mind feels blurry and slow, like I can't even run my thoughts in a straight line.

"You look like you've lost your best friend," the waitress tells me as she refills my cup.

I just nod. "Yeah ... I kind of did."

"I'm sorry." She gives me a sad smile. "But take it from me, dearie, it's always darkest before the dawn."

"Thanks. I'll try to keep that in mind."

I feel like a zombie as I go through the paces at River Woods. I know I should be concerned about putting my job in jeopardy, but I really don't care anymore. And as I'm punching my time card at the end of my shift, I know I should be making a plan to head to the library or somewhere else warm to do my homework. But it's like something in me is broken now ... like I don't even care about school anymore. Really, what difference does it make how hard I try to make my life work? It always goes wrong in the end.

On my way out, I pass by Bess's old room. Maybe it's habit or maybe I miss her, but I feel drawn into the room. It's quiet as usual, and her silent roommate is still hooked up to various forms of life support. I stand there staring at Clara's pale face, so oblivious to this world. Her family members come and go, workers see to her needs, and yet she is completely unaware. I wonder at this irony-a woman who may not even want to be alive is being kept and cared for (at an expense I cannot even comprehend), and yet I am broke and homeless and left to my own sad devices to survive. How is that fair?

I go and stand by Bess's empty bed, placing my hand on the pillow. The bedding has been changed, and a new resident will probably be here soon. If Bess were still alive, I would probably be praying right now. With her gone, I cannot utter a word. Instead I remove my shoes and climb into her bed. I know it's pathetic and creepy, not to mention foolish because this could cost me my job. But I'm so worn out, so defeated ... I just don't care anymore. If someone wants to fire me for sleeping in a dead woman's bed, let them. Just bring it.

When I wake it's to the quiet murmur of voices, and although my eyes are still closed, I sense that it's lights-out. At first I can't remember where I am. All I know is I was having a lovely dream-walking barefoot in a place where it was warm and sunny and bright. Heaven perhaps? Without moving and with my eyes still shut, I strain my ears to understand the whispered words, to process what they're saying.

"What is she doing in here?" It sounds like Ellen.

"I don't know, but I think she's been here all night."

"Ugh, I wonder how she can stand to sleep in a bed that someone just died in." This comes from a man's voice.

"Oh, it's just a bed, silly," Ellen says.

"Should we wake her?"

"Ms. Michaels will have to hear about this." this is followed by what I imagine to be Ellen's footsteps walking away, off to find the boss. I wait a few more seconds, wishing none of this was really happening. Then I open my eyes and sit up to see a night orderly named Neal and a nurse's aide I don't really know. They are both staring at me with slightly stunned expressions.

Without saying a word, I climb out of bed, slip on my shoes, and leave.

"Hey wait," the nurse's aide calls. "I think Ellen wants to talk to you."

Now I'm faced with a choice. I'm pretty sure my job here is about to be terminated anyway, so I might as well keep going. But I've never been the kind to just walk out on a job. I guess I'm not ready to start now. So I head toward the office area and soon am sitting in front of Ellen. Without waiting for her to question me, I simply pour out my sad little tale. I don't give all the details. But I do give enough to ensure that I will be jobless when I leave the room. All the "less" words seem to describe my status now-jobless, homeless, penniless, hopeless, friendless. All I need to add to the list is lifeless. Then it would be complete.

"Please tell Ms. Michaels I'm sorry for being such a disappointment," I say as I stand. "But I just can't do this anymore." Then I walk out. And this time I just keep going.

I get in the van and drive away from River Woods. I have no idea where I'm going. And I don't care. I just drive away. I know the gas tank is nearly empty. I know I have less than ten dollars in my backpack. I know the cold air and rain are rushing in through my broken window. And after a while, I know that I'm having difficulty seeing the lines on the road. I turn my wipers to high speed, but it doesn't get better. That's when I realize my vision is blurred by tears streaming down. So I pull into a 7-Eleven and turn off the engine, lean my head into the steering wheel, and just cry.

I've reached the end ... I cannot go on. I don't want to. I just want all of this to end. If someone gave me a magic button that would erase me from the face of the earth right now, I would be relieved to push it.

Finally I have no more tears left to cry. I pick up a slightly used Burger King napkin from the floor of the van, blow my nose on it, and just look around. I have no idea what to do next. Where to go? What does it matter? Then I notice a wrinkled business card sitting on my dashboard. I pick it up and stare at the words. They look foreign and unreal to me. Mercy and Grace Community Church. But I remember Pastor Roland at the mission; he seemed real. And I remember what he said-how I could ask him and his church for help. I wonder if he really meant it.

With nothing to lose, and since the address of the church doesn't look far from this 7-Eleven, I decide to drive over and check it out. Before long, I'm driving past a small white church, and I'm surprised that the parking lot in back is nearly filled with cars, but then I remember it's Sunday. So I park my van, and feeling almost like a sleepwalker or maybe an alien, I get out of the van and go directly into the church.

Before the door barely closes behind me, I'm tempted to turn and flee, but the warmth lures me in. I go into what seems like an old-fashioned sanctuary-the kind you see in an old movie, complete with wooden pews, stained-glass windows, and several dozen old people with open books in their hands, singing slightly off tune but with enthusiasm.

I sit in the back as they continue singing, and while the music is completely unfamiliar, it's kind of soothing. But I notice some uncomfortable glances tossed in my direction. Not obvious, but I know people are looking at me ... then looking away again. Almost as if I'm not really here. That's when I notice the people in here are nicely dressed-probably wearing their "Sunday best." Men have on suits and ties. The women look nice too. Everyone looks neat and clean. I look down at my stained jacket and wrinkled pants. I must look like a bum to them. Oh, that's right, I am a bum.

Even so, I continue sitting there and listen as a man, not Pastor Roland, reads from what I can only assume is a Bible. The words sound like another language and go right over my head. And then Pastor Roland steps up to the wooden podium and begins to talk. I try to take in his words, but quite honestly, I feel confused by them. He's speaking about goodness and kindness and generosity . . . and how love changes the world. But all I can think of is - what love? Where is it? Why have I never been on the receiving end of all this fairy-tale generosity and love? Does it even exist? I feel like I'm ravenous and starving, watching one of those food channels where everything looks so delicious I can almost smell it. And although I might be salivating, there is no real food here-not for me anyway. It's all an illusion, a mean trick.

And so as quietly as I came in, I slip back out again. But as I drive away from the little white church, I feel confused and betrayed. Why did Pastor Roland think that I would find what I needed there? How can those people help me? It felt as if they couldn't even see me, didn't want to see me. I'm sure my presence made them uncomfortable.

I drive around some more, trying to think, but my thoughts are like tennis shoes tumbling in a dryer, rattling and thumping, disconnected and random. Nothing makes sense. And then just as I'm accelerating after a red stoplight, nothing happens. My foot presses the gas, but the van is not moving. The engine is dead. I am out of gas.

Horns are honking behind me now, and I don't know what to do. Feeling desperate, I climb into the back of the van, quickly gather up everything I can stuff into my backpack or carry, then exit through the sliding side door. I hear horns beeping and people yelling unkind remarks and the sounds of engines as drivers maneuver their cars around the big black barricade formerly known as Darth Vader. But I don't look back as I hurry away with my belongings in my arms. I have no idea what will happen to the van. Why should I care?

By the time I stop walking, I'm out of breath and slightly disoriented. Mostly I just wanted to get away, but now I realize that I'm in the center of town, not far from the swanky hotel that hosted the homecoming dance. That night feels like another lifetime now. I can feel people's curious glances as I walk with my backpack on my back and my arms filled with my other belongings. I feel them stepping aside just slightly, avoiding me like they're worried I might contaminate them or perhaps that I'm going to pester them for money.

I remember what Cybil said about panhandling. Is this one of the areas she frequented? I must admit that the idea of picking up a few bucks is tempting, and the threat of arrest isn't even terribly disturbing now. Really, would jail be so bad? A bed, warmth, food-why would I complain? I also remember how Cybil said there were numerous ways of getting money. I didn't press her for details, but I'm fairly certain she traded her body for money upon occasion.

Just thinking of Cybil makes me angry. Why did I ever let her into my life? Look where it got me! But as I walk, I realize I don't have the energy to be angry and survive. I must choose. I know I'm on my way to the mission now. I'm not even sure what I expect they can do for me there, but I hope to get a meal, perhaps even a bed. After that, I don't know. But I have a feeling I won't be in school tomorrow.

he following week is all about survival. School is a dim memory now. My focus is on getting food, finding a place to sleep, and keeping my stuff from being stolen. I learned this lesson the hard way my first night at the mission. I stupidly left my backpack under my bed and woke up to discover that my dead cell phone, nearly empty wallet, and several other things were missing. Now I sleep with my backpack cradled in my arms like a baby. I would report this theft to the police, but that might mean I need to divulge my age ... and risk ending up in foster care. And while I have moments when I think even a bad foster home might be preferable to this, I still have that old fear. It's hard to get past it. Really, incarceration sounds preferable.