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She might know that Jane was my mother. Gina and Fletch hadn’t been here when my mom and I got in a loud—on her part—fight a few months ago. But word travels.
Gina shook her head. “She keeps to herself, mostly. Saw her maybe Thursday night? Fletch and I tried to get into a shelter because it was raining, but it was women-only, don’t matter that we’re practically married, and I wasn’t going to leave Fletch alone. And they weren’t women-only last time we went there, so I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He doesn’t do good when I’m not around.”
Will had helped Gina and Fletch register as domestic partners so they could apply for benefits reserved for married people.
“I’m going to check on her,” I said.
“I’ll go with you.”
Every step was filled with trepidation. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to see how my mother lived. But I had to. What if she was sick? What if she needed help?
What if she’s dead?
I stood outside the flaps. They had zippers, but they’d long ago broken and the tent was now tied closed from the inside. I couldn’t get my voice to work.
“Jane? It’s Gina. You okay? There’s juice and coffee out here. Can I bring you something?”
I should have done that; I should have brought coffee and a doughnut. A peace offering.
The last time you brought her food she threw it in your face.
Silence. Maybe she wasn’t in there.
Maybe she’s dead.
It was frowned upon for anyone to enter another person’s home. And this six-foot-square tent was my mother’s home.
I almost turned away, but something in the back of my mind told me to check on her.
I pulled apart the flaps. Like many women who lived on the streets, she had a second tent on the inside, a means of protection, as weak as that was. Protection from sexual predators, drug addicts who didn’t know what they were doing, thieves who would steal drugs or valuables. It was far more dangerous to live on the streets than most people were willing to acknowledge. Because no one wanted to look at the humanitarian crisis in their backyard.
There were pie tins around the secondary entrance, so my mom could hear if anyone was coming in. I intentionally stepped on one, hoping to just hear her shout, swear, tell me to go to hell.
Silence.
“Mom?” I said, my voice cracking. “Mom, are you okay?”
A moan.
I tore open the second flap and the smell of urine and rotten food and marijuana and body odor hit me. And I saw her in the semidark, naked, her eyes unfocused, her body shaking. I gagged, stepped out, breathed.
“Will,” I said, trying to get his attention. My voice was raw. I couldn’t shout. I tried again. “Will, I need you.”
Gina saw the look on my face and ran over to where Will was working.
I had to go in. Get my mom out, do something! But I stood there frozen, tears burning, and all the training I had disappeared.
I heard the pie plates crunch and then my mother crawled out of her tent. Her long blond hair was tangled and matted, her body bruised.
“Ah fa fuck fo.”
“Mom,” I said, squatting next to her.
She stared at me, but didn’t see me. Her eyes were wild and bloodshot.
I looked around for a blanket, for anything. I reached inside and pulled out an old red wool coat I’d seen her wear. I put it over her shoulders. She screamed and threw it off as if it burned her.
Will ran up to us. “Jane, it’s Will Lattimer. Remember me? Jane, can you hear me?”
