Shelter Us: A Novel (15 page)

After we eat, Robert gives the boys a bath. He sits on a towel on the floor, watching them play with their bath toys. I stand in the doorway trying to think of what to tell Robert. I wipe my sweaty palms on a towel. “Honey, would it be okay if I go up north tomorrow? Up to Berkeley,” I decide to add.

“Why?”

Why, why, why? I want so badly to be candid, to tear down the wall that separates us. But I know that if I am honest right now, things will spiral into an argument and I won’t be able to help Josie. I fear that more than I dread this wall. “Carolina called. She has to be on bed rest, so I wanted to help her out a little. I can leave when you’re home from work tomorrow.” I stop. I don’t know how this lie came to me so quickly. It’s true that Carolina’s on bed rest, but I hadn’t planned on using her as my excuse.

“Sure. After work tomorrow is fine. And I only have one morning class the next day, so my mom can take Izzy, and I can cancel afternoon office hours.”

“Great.”

“I think we have miles if you want to try to get a last minute flight.”

“No, that’s okay. I may need a car for the market, or whatever.” And I have two passengers, I wish I could tell him.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable driving?”

“Yes, I want to. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” He smiles at me, thinking his wife is getting back to her former independence. “We’ll have Daddy’s Club, right, guys?” he asks Oliver and Izzy.

“Yay! Boys only!” Oliver enthuses, unintentionally poking my motherless, daughterless wound.

We discuss arrangements. Robert will take over after dinner tomorrow. I remind him that Bibi can help if he needs. I go downstairs and find the paper with the phone number of the shelter Josie gave me. I dial it, nerves exploding like fireworks.

“This is Yvonne,” a woman answers.

“Um, hi. Hello. I’m calling for Josie? She gave me this number?”

“Josie who, Ma’am?” comes the reply.

Josie who? Holy shit. I don’t know her last name.

Into the silence, she asks again, “Hello? Which Josie?”

I thought I knew so much about her. “Um, I’m so sorry, I don’t have her last name. Josie, Tyler’s mom.”

“Hang on a sec.” I wait for a few minutes, listening to Robert trying to get the boys out of the bath. Finally, a voice comes through the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Josie, it’s Sarah.”

“Hi.” Her voice is quiet. She waits for me to talk.

“I can pick you up tomorrow night, around six thirty. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine.” The normal energy of her voice is gone. Droplets of doubt begin to circulate through my veins. What kind of family tragedy have I volunteered to participate in, without even telling Robert where I’ll be? But I can’t back out. She’s counting on me.

“Okay. See you tomorrow night, Josie.” I swallow my fear.

“Bye.” She hangs up first.

I hear Robert’s voice upstairs. I can’t make out the words, but the cadence sounds like he’s reading a book. The boys respond with a laugh. A queasy feeling starts to grow in my stomach, a side effect of the deception expanding between me and my family. But I am decided. I will tell this one lie, hide this one truth. Then we will go back to normal, as fine as we can be.

M
y stomach
hums with apprehension all day. I consider changing my mind a dozen times. After dinner, I clear the table and run the dishwasher. Robert takes the boys upstairs for their bath. I’m ready to go. All I want is to do this and be done, to be home again with my family.

I walk into the steamy bathroom to say good-bye. The boys are playing. Oliver’s shark is eating Izzy’s squid. The water reaches Oliver’s belly button and Izzy’s armpits. Izzy basks in his brother’s attention. A large blue towel on the floor soaks up splashes. I watch them and become conscious of my blessings. Two healthy children, buoyant in warm water, destined for clean pajamas and soft beds.

Robert looks at me looking at them and catches my eye, and we share a smile.
Look what we’ve done
, we say.
We are all going to be okay
, we say. For one moment I allow myself to see Ella in there with them, and then I let her go. “I’m leaving now,” I say.

“Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy,” Izzy says, his arms reaching to me. I lean in and kiss his wet forehead. I lean over to Oliver and kiss him, too. “I love you guys so so so so much.”

“I love you, Mommy,” Oliver says, still looking at his shark. “Bring me a toy!” he adds, an afterthought.

“Toy! Toy! Toy!” Izzy concurs. They sing a song about toys. “I love toys! Toys toys toys!”

I turn to Robert and kiss him on the mouth. “I love you,” I say.

“Love you, too. You be careful. Say hi to Carolina from me.”

“Okay.” His sweet concern for my friend reproaches me. I am not proud of myself.

I hurry down the stairs, grab my keys, my thermos filled with coffee, and my packed overnight bag, and go outside. The sidewalks are mostly empty. Strollers and tricycles are parked on porches, and children on the block are being toweled off and read to, all the neighbors tucked safely in their own worlds. I get into my car and check the rearview mirror, and then set out on my peculiar and unnerving expedition.

I
arrive
at the shelter at six thirty p.m. A periwinkle sky in the waning twilight hints at the summer nights to come. It occurs to me for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes that this is a very stupid plan. How on earth am I going to make it all the way to Oakland tonight when I can’t keep my eyes open past ten most nights? And Josie’s mother—God, what will I say to her mother?

In front of the shelter, Josie is holding Tyler with both arms, his head resting on her shoulder. Next to them, the stroller holds a bag with their belongings. She is bouncing and rocking, whether to calm Tyler or release her own worry, I can’t tell. I get out of the car.

“Hi. You ready?”

“Yep,” she says, and opens the car door. Her movements are rigid, her voice tense. She’s terrified. I put the bag and stroller in the trunk. Josie gets in the back with Tyler, fastens the car seat buckles, and puts on her seat belt next to him. We make our way to the I-5 North. I take a few gulps of coffee. Tyler is asleep by the time we’ve gone a mile on the freeway. Josie climbs into the front. She looks at me and puts her seat belt on. She looks so worried. I wish I knew what to say.

We stare out the window in silence. I shush the voice in my head that says,
You have two young children. You of all people should know better than to drive late at night
. I take another sip of coffee and practice my relaxation exercises: deep breath and exhale the tension.
People do this all the time
, I talk back to myself.
Accidents are the exception. I
am not my mother. I am not my father
. I grip the steering wheel and concentrate on my job: taking Josie home.

We leave the city. I expected to see stretches of undeveloped brown hills, but the suburbs keep reaching farther and farther, the space filled with tile-roofed housing tracts and malls anchored by Home Depot and Bed Bath & Beyond. I could measure the distance we cover by the number of Starbucks we pass. The red lights of the cars in front of us are hypnotic. I drain the rest of my coffee. I glance at Josie. Her eyes are closed, and her head leans against the side window. I turn around to check on Tyler. He’s still asleep, lips parted, head tilted, slack cheeks resting heavily against the plush cover of the car seat.

I turn my eyes back to the road. After a few minutes, Josie speaks, eyes still closed. “You remember that first time we went to McDonald’s?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Well,” she continues, “when I saw you walking down that street, about a block away, I sort of tried to hide.”

“You did? Why?”

“I guess”—she pauses—“because I remembered you from the lunch box. I was worried you were with Child Services, coming to take Tyler away.”

I’m thunderstruck. She saw me as a threat, someone who would separate her from her child. It is so contrary to how I viewed this situation: me coming to help. But I consider what she saw: a middle-class woman tracking her down, expressing interest in her child who is living on the street. Maybe there was a seed of truth to her fear. Maybe I harbored a fleeting thought about rescuing Tyler and leaving Josie to her own devices. But that was before I knew her.

“You don’t still think that, do you?”

“No. Though I’m still not sure why you cared.” She manages a self-deprecating smile.

“I don’t know,” I say. I give it some thought. “Normally, if I see someone in need I might give them some food if I have it. Or a dollar,” I begin tentatively. “Or, to be honest, I do nothing. There’s so much
need, it becomes easy to ignore people. That’s terrible, isn’t it? ‘Ignore people?’ I’m not proud of it, but I do it. It’s what people do. That’s how we live without feeling totally ashamed—because no one else is doing any more.”

“Yeah, that’s true. So why did you come looking for us?”

“Honestly, after I saw you and Tyler that first time, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing you and Tyler out in the night, so vulnerable. I thought about my own children, and what it would be like to have to take care of them if we didn’t have anywhere to go. I thought of you being so alone and responsible for him. And I just had to try to do something.”
We remember we were strangers, too
, I hear my mom’s voice reading.
We made a covenant not to turn away
. “And I think it’s what my mom would have done.”

“That’s cool,” she says.

I am relieved that my off-the-cuff explanation came out sounding halfway sensible. I open a pack of gum and offer her a piece. She takes one, and we drive for a while without talking, keeping our own thoughts company. For some reason—maybe to show her she’s not alone in her hurt—I choose this moment to tell her at last about Ella.

“Josie, I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a long time, and I’ve never found the right time to say it. I just wanted you to know, I had a daughter. She lived for six weeks. Her name was Ella.”

She looks at me. “Whoa.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It’s hard for me to talk about. And I know this isn’t a good time either, but I just thought you should know.”

“I’m glad you told me. What happened?”

I look at the road and tell her about the exhaustion of having a toddler and a new baby to take care of. The night of uninterrupted sleep I craved and finally got. Then the horrible discovery in the morning. Talking about Ella after having spent so much time keeping her to myself pierces holes in the steel armor that surrounds and protects my heart. It’s a terrifying sensation, being defenseless. It’s how Josie must
feel right now about Michael. I want to tell her that she’ll be okay, no matter what happens. This is my way of telling her.

She shifts in her seat and blows air through her mouth. We cover the hours and miles toward her home.

T
he sound
of the tires pulling onto gravel wakes Josie. She sits up and looks around, getting her bearings. The digital clock in the car says 12:01.

“What are we doing?” Josie asks me in a voice heavy with sleep.

“We’re at a motel, about an hour away. I was getting tired, so I got off the freeway.” When I was in high school and wanted a later curfew, Bibi said, “Nothing good happens after midnight.” The idea must have stuck. “We can get there first thing in the morning. Okay?”

Josie stretches, turns around to check on Tyler. He’s sound asleep. “Okay.”

“I’ll be right back.” I return with a room key and drive to the parking space by our room. “I just got one room with two beds. I figure we only need to sleep for a few hours.”

Josie brings Tyler in from the car. He is still sleeping.

“They didn’t have any cribs,” I apologize.

Josie puts him down in the middle of one of the beds. “He hasn’t slept in a crib since we left Oakland.” She goes into the bathroom, and I sit with the lights off, watching Tyler sleep by the light from the parking lot that comes in through the drapes. She comes out and lies down in a protective curl around Tyler’s body. I go into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and splash water on my face. I look up at my reflection. How did I end up in this highway motel room, scented with cigarettes, serenaded by big rigs, with a woman I didn’t know a few months ago?

I come out of the bathroom and lie on the other bed. “’Night, Josie.”

She’s sleeping already. I close my eyes. I think about Ella, and Oliver and Izzy. I hug my arms around me, pretend I’m encircling all three of my babies. They are my security blanket in this unfamiliar place. I wonder if Josie’s mom is dreaming about Michael, swaddling him in protecting arms. Or if she can’t sleep because of the nightmare she’s living. I feel like a runaway; no one but us knows where we are. Finally, to the white noise of the highway, I drift away.

When I open my eyes, the curtains of the motel room are open. Josie is sitting on the floor feeding Tyler a banana. She must have brought it with her. “What time is it?” I ask.

“Eight,” she says.

A haze coats my eyes and fills my forehead. I sit up slowly. “I’ll take a quick shower.”

I close my eyes under the stream of water, blocking out the off-white fiberglass shower wall and the metal circle from which a clothesline can appear. The water falls straight onto my face. My elbow brushes the rubber curtain when I wash my hair, making me feel claustrophobic.

I emerge from the bathroom dressed in a suit. I thought I should look lawyerly, in case they needed help with the police or something. Josie and Tyler are still sitting on the floor.

“What time do they expect you?”

“Actually, I didn’t tell my mom I was coming,” she confesses.

I am dumbfounded. “Why not?”

“Because before I left, every conversation was a fight. I was afraid she would tell me not to come.” Her last words ascend into a peep, her shoulders cave in on her normally erect frame.

I kneel down and put an arm around her. Through all our time together, I have never seen her cry. I forget she is so young; she has been through so much.