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She gives me a tight hug. “Welcome home,” she mutters into my shoulder before she releases me.
“Thanks,” I say and wish I could tell her it’s good to be here, but at this point, I’m not sure if that’s true.
I’m not going anywhere, I know that much, and I’ll do what I can here, and keep on doing it until I make a difference, but I can’t deny that I had hoped to find more of the home I remember here, the friendly, warm, safe and good place of my childhood. But it could be I just painted those rosy pictures of home in my head over all these years I’ve been gone.
“Come, sit,” Ariana says, ushering me to one of the four barstools by the counter. “What kind of coffee would you like?”
I shrug. “A latte, I suppose. And a water, if you have it.”
“Of course we do,” she says with an even wider smile and rushes into the back, which houses a large kitchen that looks a lot like every other home kitchen I know, with an island in the middle, and appliances and cupboards all around. Everything looks brand new.
She grabs a bottle of water from the almost-industrial sized fridge and brings it to me, along with a glass she takes straight from the dishwasher below the counter.
I can’t quite figure out how old she is. Her skin is smooth and wrinkle-free, but the look in her eyes suggest she’s lived a long and sad life.
“Sorry about the meat smell,” she says. “My husband, Mitch just got done prepping lunch for the…well the poor. He insisted on burgers today, even though a nice soup would be healthier.”
I chuckle. “I grew up in a house with about thirty guys coming in to eat and whatnot at all times. If there’s one thing I’m used to is the smell of meat.”
Her eyes widen in shock, surprising me right out of realizing just how much I’m starting to miss the guys.
“Thirty men?” she asks.
“And their wives and children,” I say. “But yeah, in the beginning it was just me and them for a while.”
She nods like she understands, but the confused look in her eyes tells me she doesn’t. Whatever.
“I passed through a town with a single liquor store and a lot of very drunk people,” I say. “Two of them, at least, require medical attention.”
She nods again, more knowingly this time. “Yes, the town of White Falls. My husband is taking food to them there too.”
She turns away from me and starts prepping my coffee, her hands as deft as any barista’s I’ve ever seen.
“A man and a woman were just lying passed out in the street,” I say just as she turns on the coffee grinder. I have to raise my voice to be heard over it. “I almost ran over them. They need a doctor. Is there one here, on the reservation?”
She shakes her head as she screws the coffee filter into the machine after having just filled it with the exact right amount of ground coffee, which she weighed meticulously. She’s not meeting my eyes anymore. Or smiling.
“The last doc we had left about six months ago, and they’re trying to get a new one, but it’s taking a long time,” she says. “Don’t worry, if my husband sees anyone in a really bad way, he’ll take them to the hospital in the city.”
“Mitch sounds like a saint,” I say and smile. “It’s a job for more than one saint though, judging by what I’ve seen so far.”
She gives me a sad look and then turns her attention back to frothing the milk, while my coffee brews. She doesn’t say anything and neither do I.
Once the coffee’s done she smiles again, more sadly this time, as she places it in front of me. It’s in a large, white porcelain cup with small pink flowers painted on it.
“Lilies,” she says as she sees me looking at them. ”Like you.”
She’s so sweet and so sad and it hurts me deep in my chest.
“This place isn’t quite what you were expecting to find, is it?” she asks. “I hope you’re not already thinking of leaving. There’s a lot of good here, a lot of light and happiness. But a lot of darkness and sadness too.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving,” I say so loudly that two of the women working on their laptops look up at me in alarm. I smile at them apologetically before turning back to Ariana. “Just tell me where to start. I want to do everything I can to make this a much better place.”
She gives me another one of her brilliant smiles. “Good, I’m so glad to hear that. And Joyce and Carrie will be too. I told them I’d let them know when you got in, so they can come meet you.”
“So call them,” I say. “I’m ready to get started.”
Carrie and Joyce are the two other activists I spoke to a few times before coming here. Their primary focus is running a suicide helpline, and group counseling sessions, but they’re very eager to try and expand their outreach. I think I can help. At least, I hope I can.
