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Trying a more comfortable tactic, I ask, “Where’s Jay-Jay?”
“With his grandparents.”
That’s it.
It’s the only thing he offers me.
I don’t handle walking into the unknown very well.
I need answers.
“Where are we going?”
He glances at me before concentrating on the road. Then he does it again.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I reach out and knead my fingers into his forearm. He tenses under my touch.
“Jake?” I plead, a lump so big in my throat, I fear I’ll choke on it. “Stop the car.”
“No,” he clips.
“Stop the fucking car.” My voice is louder than I intended, but it has the desired effect as he swerves to a halt on the side of the road. His breathing is so harsh, I’m sure he’s consuming all the oxygen.
“I left with you. No questions asked. But I need to know what’s going on.”
The only sound in the car is our panting, the rain pelting against the windows, and the wipers.
He steeples his fingers over the steering wheel, leaning his mouth against them.
“I know someone. She’s in trouble. She called me tonight needing help.” Slowly, he turns to look at me. The anguish marring his face makes me want to reach out and soothe it. “I need you to make room at the shelter.”
Oh, shit.
I run my tongue over my dry lips. Again, I don’t ask questions. It’s not what’s important.
“Drive,” I order.
Twenty minutes later, it’s city lights I see in the distance. My stomach rolls, bile rising in my throat.
Shaking off any remaining emotion from our silent car journey, I pull out my phone. He needs to start answering me so I can make arrangements at other shelters if she doesn’t have children.
But as I open my mouth to speak, he pulls into a bus shelter. City bustle engulfs me. Traffic passes by as normal, not knowing the dark sides of what life holds.
The car lights reflect in the rain, and then I see her—huddled together with a little girl, hoods covering both their heads, shivering in the evening chill. The little girl has long hair like mine. It peeks out from the side of her coat and flows to her waist. My chest tightens.
Memories assault me, and I fight to bury them. The woman sitting inside the bus shelter with a swollen eye and bloodied lip isn’t my mother. The little girl glued to her hip with her neck buried in the crook of her mother’s neck isn’t me.
No, these people aren’t me and my mother, but they are mirror images of my past. I remember standing out in the cold with my mother while she looked for somewhere for us to stay while my father cooled off.
“Papa just needs a little space, Claire Bear,” my mother would say, stroking my hair and trying her best to keep me warm while ignoring her own pain. I just wanted my mother’s tears to stop and once I was with her, nothing else mattered. I didn’t understand what I did wrong. Why would Papa need space from us? He loved us, didn’t he?
“Claire?” A warm hand rests on my shoulder and squeezes some life back into my motionless body. I swallow and shake my head. “Are you okay?”
No, but I will be.
I’m not important here. The woman standing on the edge of the path, reflecting particles of a broken soul, and the little girl trying to fall asleep in her arms—they matter. I gather my memories and stuff them into the farthest part of my mind.
The woman stands, and her belly juts out from her unbuttoned jacket.
