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No.
She wouldnt sit here and stew about it. Enough was enough. This was definitely the last time shed vow to forget what couldnt be changed.
Shed go into the store, buy some over-the-counter sleeping pills, and take just enough to get her through the night.
She got out of her car and went into the sprawling white-lit store. None of her family would be here, she knew. They patronized the locals.
She went straight to the aspirin aisle and found what she was looking for.
She was halfway to the checkout aisle when she saw them.
A bird-thin woman in dirty clothes carrying three cartons of cigarettes and a twelve-pack of beer. Four raggedly dressed children buzzed around her. One of them--the smallest--asked for a doughnut, and the mother cuffed him.
The childrens hair and faces were filthy; their tennis shoes were pocked with holes.
Angie stopped; her breathing felt heavy. The pain welled up again. If it would have done any good, she would have looked up at God and begged, Why?
Why did some women make babies so easily, while others . . .
She dropped the box of sleeping pills and walked out of the store. Outside, rain hit her hard, mingled with her tears.
In the car, she sat perfectly still, staring through the beaded windshield. In time, the family came out of the store. They piled into a shabby car and drove off. None of the kids put on a seat belt.
Angie closed her eyes. She knew that if she sat here long enough, it would pass. Grief was like a rain cloud; sooner or later, if you were patient, it moved on. All she had to do was keep breathing. . . .
Something smacked on her windshield.
Her eyes opened.
A pink flyer was on her windshield. It read: Work Wanted. Steady. Reliable.
Before she could read any more, the rain pummeled the flyer, ruined the ink.
Angie leaned toward the passenger seat and rolled down the window.
A girl with red hair was planting the flyers. She moved stoically from car to car, heedless of the rain, wearing a threadbare coat and faded jeans.
Angie didnt think. She reacted. Getting out of the car, she yelled, "Hey, you!"
The girl looked up.
Angie ran toward her. "Can I help you?"
"No. " The girl started to move away.
Angie reached into her coat pocket and pulled out money. "Here," she said, pressing the wad of bills into the girls cold, wet hand.
"I cant take that," the girl whispered, shaking her head.
"Please. For me," Angie said.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Finally, the girl nodded. Tears filled her eyes. "Thanks. " Then she turned and ran into the night.
LAUREN CLIMBED THE DARK, SHADOWY STAIRS TOWARD the apartment building. Every step seemed to draw something out of her, until, by the time she reached Mrs. Mauks front door, Lauren was certain shed grown smaller somehow. She was so tired of feeling vulnerable and alone.
She paused, staring down at the damp wad of bills in her hand. One hundred twenty-five dollars
