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“Did you find a warm enough place for the bread to rise?” I ask her.
She nods. “It’s in that storage room upstairs.”
“Okay, perfect.”
“Are these carrots all for the pot pie, or should I save some for the salad?”
“Let’s set some aside for the salad, that’s a good idea.”
Angelia and I are mostly business when we’re in the kitchen, but she’s quickly become my best friend since I moved to Chicago. From the moment I met her and heard her story, I was drawn to her.
After enduring years of physical and emotional abuse, Angelia left her husband. She did all the right things—got a restraining order and hid herself, but he found her. When he did, he threw acid on her. She was lucky that most of it missed, but the skin on the side of her neck and one of her arms was badly damaged.
Her ex-husband is in prison now, and Angelia works for the Women’s Mission, which once sheltered her when she needed it. She wears short sleeves to work, hoping to serve as a reminder to the women here that abuse often escalates. Every time I see the scars on her mocha-colored skin from her skin grafting surgery, and remember her telling me that some of the acid that got on her arm burned through so much tissue that it did permanent nerve damage, I think about how lucky I am.
When Eric jilted me at the altar more than a year ago, my sheltered heart thought it was the worst thing that could happen to me. The women at the Mission teach me every day that it wasn’t. And helping them move on from what they’ve been through is essential to who I am now.
“Did you see that email from Gloria?” Angelia asks me, the corner of her lip quirking up just slightly in her trademark scowl. “About doing a girls night out tomorrow?”
“I did.”
Angelia gives me a weary look. “After a week of working, all I want to do on Friday night is eat some pizza and move as little as possible.”
“Same, girl. And I know I’ll be here late tonight helping sort stuff for the food pantry, and I have a long day at work tomorrow because we have a high-profile engagement party happening and I have to stay late to make sure everything runs smoothly with the desserts.”
My friend shakes her head. “You know, half of me would like to know how much an engagement party at that place costs, and half of me knows I’d be too disgusted.”
“Upwards of ten thousand,” I tell her. “Probably way upwards if you include the alcohol bill.”
“You know what we could do with that kind of money here?”
“I do.” I open up another canvas bag full of carrots. “I heard the children’s after-school program might be getting cut.”
Her big brown eyes pool with sadness. “It’s a damn shame. That program keeps so many kids off the streets and helps them keep their grades up with tutoring. Instead of giving ‘em a safe place to have a snack and do their homework, we’re gonna have to turn ‘em out.”
“It’s not right.”
“No.” She sighs heavily. “So you aren’t going out tomorrow night, either?”
I shake my head. “I’ll be exhausted by then. I’ll probably go to bed about an hour after I get home.”
“I don’t feel so bad about skipping it, too, then.”
“It’s nice of Gloria to try to put something together.”
Angelia smiles wryly. “I’ve never been a girls night out kinda girl.”
“I used to, but I’m over it.”
My old life in California involved many a girls night out with my over-privileged friends. We dressed up, drank and took way too many selfies. That life feels shallow to me now. I was wasting time and money with “friends” like Mandy. I’m happier having just one true friend in Angelia than all my old friends put together made me.
“Want me to try to braid your hair again Sunday?” I ask Angelia.
She laughs so loudly there’s a snort at the end, shaking her head emphatically. “Hell no, Reese. You made me look like a damn fool last time.”
“I’m still learning.” I furrow my brow.
“You’re just too white, that’s all. But I love you for wanting to try.”
She’s right—I did a terrible job when I tried to recreate the all-over braids she had in her hair when we first met. But that evening was so much fun. We drank cheap wine and laughed until we had tears running down our faces.
“Hey Reese,” someone calls into the kitchen from the doorway.
I turn to see Tina, who works at the shelter’s front desk.
“What’s up?” I ask her.
“There’s a man here to see you.”
The chatter between the dozen or so women working in the kitchen gets quiet. We don’t get many male visitors here, and that’s by design. And if a deliveryman needs to come, he doesn’t get past the front office, so none of our residents will ever see him.
