Between Octobers

October 29th

October 29th

I wouldn't be taking the kids trick-or-treating this year, either. The doctor put me on bed-rest so Lily was taking Caleb, and that was so depressing. One bright spot was that I had convinced Noah to dress up. I gave him the red clown nose I'd been carrying around in my purse and told him how it would cheer me up to think of him wearing a costume, having fun with his friends, while I was stuck on my back. Basically, I guilted him into it.

Preeclampsia—pregnancy-induced hypertension—was my little gift for the constant worrying. I'd been on bed rest for the last four weeks. No salt, no activity. No end in sight. I was retaining water and the headaches started every time I got out of bed. I had to avoid stress at all costs, but it seemed everywhere I turned, there it was, waiting to pounce and maul me.

The freaking video and of course, him.  Always him. Evan—my infinite and temporary love was ever-present—the reluctant reason behind every decision I made, or lack thereof. Seeing him that night at the hospital had pulled me back to an emotional square one. I wanted to know what he was doing, who he was with, and if he was happy. Anything and everything. I'd been constantly consuming every bit of information I could get—disregarding the tidbits I didn't like and savoring the ones I did. I couldn't ask anybody what was true and what wasn't without revealing my desperation.

I'd been feeling more and more desperate since Pastor Tony called to inform me that my services at The Kitchen, the soup kitchen I volunteered at, were no longer needed. That was my last connection to the outside. I'd started volunteering there after that painful confrontation at the hospital. Evan knew, so there was no reason left to hide and I needed the distraction that service had always provided.

And being relieved of that volunteer position was entirely my fault. Though I couldn't tell the Pastor that I was sorry for what I did. Maybe I should have been, but I just wasn't.

I'd been placed in the serving line. I was doing my job, taking every ones tickets and putting dinner rolls on each plate before handing them out. But my heart was barely in it. I was still bleeding. I felt trampled on, beaten down, and I think that's why I reacted so keenly.

My shoulders were squared. I was determined to focus on the hurting faces seeking consolation in a full belly. Most looked as if they hadn't eaten in a week. It multiplied my pain, made me hurt for them, too. My heart seemed to break for each one.

I'd noticed the other volunteers further up the line were openly chatty with one another, not really looking at the people they were serving. I huffed a little, offended by the apathy, but kept my focus and my haughty attitude to myself. As the line shuffled by, I tried to appreciate each person and wondered what circumstances had brought them to that place. 

Among the shuffling line I spotted one familiar face. It was the homeless mother, the one Evan and I first saw at the shelter and then again downtown, when we visited the star of James Dean on the Walk of Fame. She was propped against the side of a building across the roadway. We'd talked that day and I tried to help her, but she was resistant. Suddenly, I wanted to know how she and her daughter were doing.

I wasn't sure what to say, or even if she'd know me, so I waited until she passed by. When I handed her the plate of food, her eyes widened, looking too big for her thin face.

"I remember you," she said. 

She had no orange ticket. I wasn't supposed to give her a plate without one, but let it slide.

"I remember you, too. How are you?"

She tilted her head to one side. "I been dry a couple weeks now, but my daughter . . ."