Shelter Us: A Novel (13 page)

What strength it must take for her to tell me this, to reveal herself to be living a disappointment.

“So a few months ago I decided to buy a bus ticket here. Just come here and make everything work out.”

“Wow, good for you.”

“Not really. Because it turned out that Frederick was staying with a friend of a friend, and that guy was like, ‘You can’t all stay here; it’s too small.’ The three of us were in the living room, sleeping on the couch. It wasn’t good for Tyler—people coming and going, up late talking and
smoking, right in the living room, so we couldn’t go to sleep. Most of the time Tyler would sleep in my arms, not a bed. Or I’d take him out in his stroller to let him sleep in some fresh air.” She stops, as though she’s remembering something. “I used to see these kids sitting on the sidewalk, same age as me, asking for change. I never imagined . . .”

I think she might be finished talking, but she continues with a vehemence that seems like getting through this story is crucial to her self-respect, like she has been waiting for someone to listen. “One night when I came home from one of those walks, I told Frederick we needed our own place. He freaked out. He shouted at me, told me to stop harassing him—can you believe that?—then stormed out. And that was it. No call, no checking on us. Nothing. For a while I would go out looking for him and come home and ask if he’d called. I went from mad to worried to sad to disgusted. I mean, if he’s that pathetic, I don’t want him in our life.” She looks over at Tyler, fiddles with her food.

“You don’t know what happened to him?”

“No. He up and vanished. I mean, I can’t understand how a person can leave their child. You know?”

“I know,” I answer, thinking about my dad—but I granted him permission to leave.

She shakes her head. “Eventually, the guy we had been staying with said his landlord had found out we were crashing there and we had to leave or he’d get evicted. He felt bad, but there wasn’t anything he could do.”

I try to imagine what it must have been like to live through this, her and her baby, alone in this city. “How long ago was that?”

She doesn’t pause to think. “Six months.”

“You’ve been in the shelter since then?”

“No, four. When you get to six months, you have to move out.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding as if that makes sense.

“For the first couple of months, we couch surfed with some people I’d met, for a week here or there. But when landlords find out, they threaten to kick everyone out. So then we spent some nights on the
street, a couple in parks. Some nights we’d ride the bus all night. Once I took Tyler into the emergency room around 7 p.m. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, but I’d heard that if you go in that late, they won’t get around to seeing you until morning, so you have a safe place to sleep.” For me the ER was germs and bad memories, for her a sanctuary. “Or sometimes we’d go to an all-night Kinko’s and I’d pretend to use the computer.”

I am astounded at how this young woman figured out how to survive. But I am even more mystified as to why she doesn’t just go home to her mom. How bad could a fight be? I’d like to ask her, but one of the neon wall clocks catches my attention, and I’ll have to save the question for another time. “I’m sorry. I really hate to leave, but I have to pick up my kids. Can I drop you somewhere?”

“No, that’s all right. We’ll be fine.”

“Really? You sure?”

“Yes, I’ve canceled all my afternoon meetings,” she says with a wry smile.

“How lovely for you,” I reply. I stop my hurrying for a second and look in her eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you remind me a little of my grandmother. That’s a huge compliment.”

“Okay, then. Thanks, I guess.”

Before I leave, I ask, “Would you want to have lunch again next Monday?”

She looks at Tyler, at the table, through the window at Union Station across the street. She says—coy or polite, it’s hard to tell—“Sure, that would be nice.”

“Perfect. See you next Monday.” I run to my car, trying not to show how elated I am.

I
t was not
until later that I realized our next lunch date would fall on Ella’s third birthday—today. I get in the shower this morning thinking about Ella, what she would smell and feel and look like today. The balloon blowing, cake baking, and gift wrapping that should be on my agenda. I turn the water hotter to shock me out of sobbing, until I scald my skin; then I quickly turn it off.

On what would have been Ella’s first birthday, Bibi joined Robert, Oliver, and me for a picnic at the beach in commemoration of a day that should have held only joy. We watched Oliver play in the white foam at the shoreline, and I let my mind imagine how she would have followed him, crawling up to the water’s edge or wobbling along with a soft fist holding Robert’s pinky as they shadowed Oliver.

The second birthday, we tried again: another beach picnic, that time including baby Izzy, who slept through it all. His existence helped heal the scar, not erase it. A therapist told me that Ella wouldn’t want me to stay sad. How could she claim to know what Ella would want? Ella didn’t want anything. Ella lived six weeks—all need, no want.

I get out of the shower, red skinned. Robert is taking off his running clothes, ready for his shower. I grab my towel and begin to dry my hair. Our eyes meet in the mirror; then he turns to face me.

“Hey,” he says.

“It’s March twenty-first.”

“I know.” He pulls me to him and whispers in my ear, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I reply in my own whisper.

He pulls back a little so we are looking into each other’s eyes. Our gaze confirms that we are forever bound by trauma, survivors from the same battlefield. Then we look away, and return to getting ready for our days. He turns on the shower, feels the water spray, waiting for a comfortable temperature. I say to his back, “No picnic this time.”

He turns around, shaking the water off his hand. “I know. I wish we could. I have class and meetings all day.”

“Of course. It’s fine.” I hold my secret lunch date like a gleaming gemstone, rubbing its smooth promise around in my head. “We’ll be together for dinner.”

“Absolutely,” he says, and steps into the shower.

I go on autopilot through my morning routine. Kiss Robert goodbye. Open the door for Joan when she comes for Izzy. I hug Izzy tighter and longer than usual. I do not say a word to Joan about today’s date. I take Oliver to school, kiss him and hug him, hold his face in my hands and stare at him. “Bibi is picking you up after school today, remember?” He nods.

Layla walks over to help us untwine. After Oliver is settled on the rug with a box of dinosaurs, she asks, “Are you okay, Sarah?”

I shake my head no. I blow a kiss to Oliver and wave good-bye. I make a special trip to Whole Foods. I buy a roasted chicken, apples, cheese, crackers, cookies, milk, and lemonade. I head for my picnic with Josie and Tyler. We will mark this day.

T
hey are
at the swing set when I pull up. “Hi. I brought lunch,” I say, getting out and locking the car. “I thought we could go to Disney Hall and eat in the garden.” I’m less nervous than last time.

“Is it far?” she asks.

“It’s just up the hill from here. We can walk.” I don’t want to repeat the car seat drama. She gets Tyler out of the swing, and he sits in the stroller. “I brought Tyler a toy,” I say, showing her a small car with plump, soft wheels that can’t be bitten off or choked on, which I grabbed at the last second on my way out of the house. It won’t be missed. “Is it okay to give it to him?”

“Sure.”

I hand it to Tyler, and it fills his small hand. He begins to roll it back and forth along his lap, smiling and humming. Josie and I walk side by side. The sun is starting to warm the day. I’m relieved when Josie breaks our mute companionship. “So, what is this place we’re going? Are there rides?”

“It’s not that kind of Disney. It’s a concert hall. For orchestras. I think you’ll like it.” I’m pleased I’m the one who gets to take her there—I feel like a favorite aunt—and my stride perks up. I take another step, and then correct myself: what aunt lets her niece stay in a shelter?

We stand across the street from the blinding silver facade of Walt
Disney Concert Hall, squinting and waiting for the walk signal. Josie hangs a light blanket over the front of the stroller to shield Tyler’s eyes. Massive, bright banners hang from the roof of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion across the street. Hot pink opera; bright blue dance; chartreuse symphony. The young head conductor’s floppy hair and baton salute us from lampposts.

“Wow,” Josie says.

“I know,” I agree.

We walk to the doors next to the closed box-office windows. People are standing around, looking as if they’re waiting for something. I worry that it’s closed, my plan foiled, but I try one door, it opens with a sigh, and we enter. The AC smacks my forehead and seduces a headache to the surface. It ricochets from one temple to the other, an arc of red. The lobby is soundless except for the steady whir of empty escalators. A printed sign in a standing metal frame says F
REE
S
ELF
-G
UIDED
T
OURS
. A young man wearing a uniform sits at a table next to the sign, audio equipment arranged in front of him.

“May I help you?” He looks from me to Josie to Tyler, then back to me. He smiles.

“We’re going to the garden.”

“Across the foyer, over by the gift store, you will find the elevator. Take it to the third floor. The garden exit will be on your left. Would you mind signing in?” he asks.

“Sure.” The white form on the clipboard asks for guests’ name and zip code. I hesitate. Before we have to think too long about Josie’s living situation, I say, “I’ll just put us all together on one line.” He hands us each an orange sticker. Tyler reaches up for his, puts it on his nose.

We walk across the lobby. Josie shows Tyler how to push the button to call the elevator, and we step in. I never would have expected to be in this spot on this day with these people. I should know by now not to be surprised by life, yet I still am.

We step out of the elevator onto a thick carpet. I remember from the first time I was here that the carpet’s design has something to do with
Mrs. Disney’s carpet at home—the colors, the floral design. Everything has a meaning. Everything has a purpose, even if it’s hidden.

We exit to the garden outside, and the heat wraps my skin. My headache shatters into tiny pieces and rises away. The sun feels good. Tyler hops out of the stroller with the soft car in his hand and walks toward a spiral design on the ground, silver embedded in opalescent stone. He starts at the outermost point of the spiral and walks along it toward its center, his arms extended. He tumbles down, dizzy, with a huge smile when he gets to the center, then stands up and runs his way back out, still clasping the car. I try to enjoy his joy. My mind projects Ella next to him, playing with him.

He moves on, exploring a path to the right. We follow him. We pass between silver wall-waves of metal that feel like they could close in on us any second if we don’t run through to the other side, Indiana Jones–like. When we emerge, we are welcomed by plentiful green trees, shaded tables with chairs, and the melodic strains of a violinist practicing on her lunch hour. Her sheet music is propped up inside her open violin case. She tries the same four bars again and again. Her face says she’s dissatisfied. We walk past her. Tyler runs ahead to examine a fountain made from broken shards of blue and white china—Mrs. Disney’s pattern—fused together in the form of a massive rose. You cannot see the fountain’s center; you know it’s there from the sound, the rush of water reaching the outermost petals.

I choose a table close to the fountain. “How’s this?” I ask Josie.

“This is good,” she says.

It is a relief to sit. The violinist practices a new song. She repeats four new bars until she likes the sound. A bird flits through the tree we are sitting under. A small sign planted next to the tree informs:
T
IPUANA TIPU
. T
IPU
T
REE
.
F
ABACEAE
, B
OLIVIA
. Tyler wobbles around the fountain, letting out a shriek when he touches the water. Josie shushes him. The violinist tsks herself. She moves to a new section of the piece, a minor key, a mournful reverie, capped by a trilling flourish. She stops, studies the page, holds up her bow as she ponders the notes.

A woman in a pantsuit and sneakers walks laps around the garden, her arms self-consciously pumping. A middle-aged man wearing a green plaid shirt sits at a table, chewing his sandwich, slowly turning the pages of a newspaper. A young man paces by the wall, listening to his earbuds. Pale tourists in sandals amble through the garden with audio tours held up to their ears. They stand by the fountain, shuffle around it, inadvertently bringing Tyler into their group. Josie watches him closely, making sure he doesn’t run off somewhere she can’t see. I think about making a wish in the fountain, but I don’t have any change. I close my eyes anyway, make a penniless wish. All I can come up with is a vague prayer:
Keep them safe
.

I open my eyes, open our lunch bag, and set out the food. I hope they like what I’ve brought. Across the street, apartments situated to take in the view of the concert hall have drawn their blinds. In the sole open window, a woman is doing yoga. When she finishes, she brushes her hair and then walks into another room. Josie calls Tyler to come eat, and he runs over still clutching the car. I alone know that this is a birthday party.

After we’ve eaten, Tyler explores the different plants. He pulls a leaf off a plant, and Josie admonishes him. “Not for Tyler. Go look at the fountain.” He runs back to it and resumes circling it, running his hand along the textured surface, occasionally dipping it in water. He is a child accustomed to making his own entertainment.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” I say.

“What do you want to know?”