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“I’m glad he’s ok. I have to get back to clinic.” I couldn’t stomach it.
“Okay, hon. Thanks for checking with us.”
I didn’t have the patience to ask for any more details or bother talking to my brother. He was twenty-eight. At some point our mother had to stop treating him like a small child. He had to take responsibility for his life. I hadn’t been able to convince anyone of that yet.
“Bye, Mom.”
I hung up and shoved my phone in my bag. What was wrong with them? Why couldn’t they deal with it on their own? Why bring me into something that was a nothing?
I decided to skip the rest of my lunch hour. I had lost my appetite. I turned for the clinic building and smiled at Meg when I walked toward her desk.
The waiting room was full.
“I’m back.” I nodded at her.
From my brief introduction with the clerk I knew she was studying human rights law and was trying to get as many hours at the clinic as she could this semester.
She had round glasses and a bob haircut that I wished I could pull off.
“You cut your lunch short,” she observed.
“Too many people here need me,” I answered. “Who’s next?”
“I’ll send someone in.”
“Good.” I walked into my shared office.
The space was cramped. My officemate was still at lunch so it was a good time to try to see as many people as I could. Next week it would be even harder to work in here when we were assigned students to mentor.
Her name was Addie Brownley, and she seemed nice enough. We didn’t have much time to trade backgrounds or war stories. As soon as she walked in she had a client and I was wrapping up with mine. I hoped she was someone I would enjoy working with.
I opened my laptop. I had to forget about Garrett. I had to forget about the insane conversation I’d just had with my mother.
I needed to focus on how I could help the women who were here with legitimate challenges in their lives.
People came here seeking help. They were trying to make changes in their lives, or fight for justice. They were willing to do something about it. To take a stand. To challenge what was wrong.
They needed me. And they were willing to listen to what I had to say. They took my advice. They heard what I said.
The three women I had seen this morning had come here because there was nowhere else for them to go. One was being sexually harassed at work. Another was fighting for custody of her children, and the third client was fighting a wrongful eviction.
I could make a difference here—something I hadn’t been able to do at home.
I looked up from my computer when my first afternoon appointment walked in. She dabbed a tissue at the corner of her eyes before balling it into her fist.
“Hi, I’m Elliot Charles. Please take a seat.”
She shuffled into the chair. It squeaked as the legs slid along the hardwood floor.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” I offered.
She looked around the cramped office. “I don’t know if I should have come.”
I had a gut reaction to her presence. To know what it felt like to think asking for help was a mistake. To question having vulnerability.
I tried to reassure her with a smile. “Maybe you could talk me through your situation a little bit. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Her eyes misted again and I looked around for a tissue to offer her.
