She had to tear herself away finally, and went back to her bedroom, feeling drained and exhausted. But she refused to give in to it. She saw Ted's clothes hanging there, and it was almost too much for her. She lifted a sleeve to her face, and the rough tweed felt incredibly familiar. She could still smell his cologne and almost hear him. She almost couldn't bear it. But she forced herself not to give in to it. She couldn't. She knew that now. She couldn't afford to become a robot again, to stop feeling, or to let the feelings destroy her. She had to learn to live with pain, to go on in spite of it. If nothing else, she had to keep going for Pip's sake. She was grateful she had group that afternoon and could talk to them. The group was about to end soon, and she wasn't sure what she was going to do without them, and their support.
When she went to group, she told them about the night before, the Chinese food and the loud music, and Pip sleeping in her bed with her. And they saw nothing wrong with that. They saw nothing wrong with any of it, even with dating, although she insisted she wasn't ready for that, and didn't want to. They were all at different stages of their grieving. But at least it was comforting to share it with them.
“So, do you have a girlfriend yet, Mr. Feigenbaum?” she teased him as they left the building together. She liked him. He was honest and open and kind, and willing to make an enormous effort to recover, more than most.
“Not yet, but I'm working on it. What about you?” He was a warm roly-poly old man with pink cheeks and a shock of white hair. He looked like one of Santa's helpers.
“I don't want a boyfriend. You sound like my daughter.” She laughed at him.
“She's a smart girl. If I were forty years younger, young lady, I'd give you a run for your money. What about your mother? Is she single?” Ophélie just laughed at him again, and they waved as they left each other.
And after that, Ophélie stopped at the shelter. It was in a narrow back street South of Market, in a fairly dicey neighborhood, but she told herself that she could hardly expect it to be in Pacific Heights. But the people she saw at the desk and wandering in the halls were all friendly. She told them she wanted to make an appointment to sign up as a volunteer, and they asked her to come back the next morning. She could have called to make the appointment, but she wanted to see it. And as she left, two old men were standing outside with shopping carts full of everything they owned, as a volunteer handed them styrofoam cups full of steaming coffee. She could see herself doing that. It didn't seem very complicated, and it might do her good to feel useful. Better than sitting at home crying, and smelling Ted's jackets and Chad's pillow. She just couldn't let herself do that, and she knew it. Not again. Not for yet another year. The year before, of mourning them, had been a nightmare and nearly killed her. Somehow she had to make this year better. The anniversary of their death was coming up in four weeks, and although she was dreading it, she knew that in the second year of their grief, she had to make it better. Not just for herself, but for Pip as well. She owed it to her. And maybe working at the shelter would help her. She hoped so.
She was on her way to pick Pip up at school, and was stopped at a light, when she glanced into the window of a shoe store. She wasn't paying attention at first, and then she smiled to herself when she saw them. They were giant fluffy slippers for grown-ups, that were made of Sesame Street characters. There were giant blue ones of Grover, and a red pair of Elmo. They were perfect, and without thinking, she pulled over and double-parked, and ran into the shoe store. She bought Grover for herself, and Elmo for Pip, and then she ran back out to the car with them in a shopping bag. She made it to school just in time to see Pip come out of the building and head for the corner where she always waited for her mother. Pip saw her as soon as she got there. She looked tired and a little disheveled, but delighted.
She hopped into the car with a big grin on her face, happy to see her mother. “I've got great teachers. I like all of them except one, Miss Giulani, who's a dork and I hate her. But the others are all really cool, Mom.” She sounded not a minute older than eleven when she said it, and Ophélie grinned at her in amusement.
“I'm very glad they're cool, Mademoiselle Pip,” she said, lapsing into French, and then pointed at the bag in the backseat. “I bought us a present.”
“What is it?” Pip looked pleased as she pulled the bag into the front seat and looked inside, and then she squealed and looked at her mother in amazement. “You did it! You did it!”
“Did what?” Ophélie looked confused for a moment.
“Bought something silly! Remember? That's what Matt said last night. He said to go shopping today and buy something silly. And I told him I had to go to school and couldn't. But you did it anyway! Mom, I love you!” She put the Elmo slippers on right over her school shoes and looked ecstatic, as Ophélie stared at her in amazement. She didn't know if it had been a subliminal message or just serendipity, but she had never thought of what he'd said, or of him, when she bought them. She just liked the slippers. But they were certainly silly. And Pip loved them. “You have to put them on when we get home. Promise?”
“I promise,” Ophélie said solemnly, smiling as they drove home. It had actually been a very decent day after all. And she was excited about her appointment at the shelter. She told Pip about it on the drive home, and she was impressed and pleased to see her mother doing better. It had been horrible coming home the day before, but things seemed to be improving. The black holes didn't seem to be quite as dark, or as deep, and Ophélie was able to get out of them more quickly. It was what they had told her at the group would happen eventually, and she hadn't believed them. But things were slowly getting better after all.
Pip made Ophélie put the Grover slippers on when they got home, and after she had a glass of milk, an apple, and a cookie, she called Matt, before she went to do her homework. He was just coming in from the beach, and her mother was upstairs somewhere, probably in her room, Pip thought, as she sat on a kitchen stool and waited for him to answer. He was just on his way in, and he sounded a little breathless, as though he'd been running to the phone.
“I called to tell you how smart you are,” she announced, and he smiled the minute he heard her.
“Is that you, Miss Pip?”
“Yes, it is. And you're a genius. We ordered Chinese food, and I put on my best CD, as loud as Mom would let me. And I slept with her last night, and we loved it… and today she bought us both Sesame Street slippers. She got Grover, and I got Elmo. And I really like my teachers, except for one, who's disgusting.” He could hear in her voice how much better things were than they'd been the night before, and he felt as though he'd just won a national award. She made him embarrassingly happy.
“I want to see the slippers. I'm jealous. I want some.”
“Your feet are too big, otherwise I'd ask Mom to buy some.”
“That's too bad. I always liked Elmo. And Kermit.”
“Me too. I like Elmo better.” She rattled on then about school, and her friends, and her teachers, and after a while, she told him she had to do her homework.
“You do that. Give your mom my love, I'll call you tomorrow,” he promised, feeling the way he used to when he called his children. Happy and sad, excited, and hopeful, as though there was something to live for. He had to remind himself that she wasn't his daughter. They were both smiling when they got off the phone, and Pip stuck her head in her mother's door on her way to her bedroom.
“I talked to Matt and told him about the slippers. He said to send you his love,” Pip gloated, as Ophélie smiled at her from across her bedroom.
“That's nice of him.” Ophélie didn't look excited, just happy and peaceful.
“Can I sleep with you again tonight?” Pip asked, almost shyly. She was wearing the Elmo slippers, and had taken her shoes off. And Ophélie was wearing the Grovers, as she'd promised.
“Is that Matt's idea?” she asked curiously.
“No, mine.” Pip was being honest. He hadn't made any suggestions this time. He didn't
need to. He had helped them the night before, and they were doing fine now, for the moment.
“Sounds good to me,” Ophélie said, as Pip hopped and skipped to her room to do her homework.
It was another good night for both of them. Ophélie wasn't sure how long the new sleeping arrangement would go on, but they both liked it. She couldn't imagine why she hadn't thought of it before. It solved a myriad of problems and gave comfort to them both. She couldn't help thinking then of the positive changes Matt had made in their life.
13
OPHÉLIE'S APPOINTMENT AT THE WEXLER CENTER WAS at nine-fifteen. She dropped Pip off at school first, and headed for the area South of Market immediately after. She had worn an old beaten-up black leather jacket and jeans, and Pip commented on the way to school that she looked nice.
“Are you going somewhere, Mom?” she asked, in her white middy and navy blue pleated skirt, which were her school uniform. She hated wearing it, but Ophélie had always thought it solved a multitude of fashion decision problems at that hour of the morning. It made Pip look sweet and young. She wore a navy tie for important school events, and her red curls seemed like the perfect accent to it.
“Yes, I am,” Ophélie said with a quiet smile. She loved the nights they had been sharing in her bed. It dimmed the pain of the loneliness, and quelled the agony of mornings. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it before, mostly because she didn't want to lean on Pip for comfort, but it was turning out to be a blessing for them both. And she was grateful to Matt for the suggestion. She had slept really well next to Pip for the first time in months, and waking up to Pip hugging her and looking into her eyes nose to nose was the happiest thing that had happened to her since Ted died. He hadn't been nearly as cozy and friendly in the morning, and hanging around in bed and cuddling, or telling her he loved her as he woke, had never been his thing.
She told Pip about the Wexler Center then, what they did and the fact that she hoped to volunteer.
“If they want me.” She had no idea what they would want her to do, or if she could really be useful to them. Maybe if nothing else, they would let her answer phones.
“I'll tell you all about it when I see you this afternoon,” she promised as she dropped Pip off on the corner, and watched her head into the school driveway with her friends. She was so busy talking to them, she didn't even turn to wave.
Ophélie parked in a space on Folsom Street, and walked into the alley where the Wexler Center was, and she saw a cluster of drunks, sitting against a wall as she went past. They didn't have far to go to the Center, but it seemed to be too much trouble for them even to move. She glanced at them, and they seemed not to notice her, they appeared to be lost in their own private world, which was more a private hell. Ophélie walked past them with her head down, feeling silently sorry for them.
She walked into the same lobby she'd seen the day before. It was a large open room hung with posters, and paint chipping off the walls. There was a long desk and a different receptionist than she'd seen. She was a middle-aged African American woman who was manning both the desk and the phones. She looked competent and pleasant, and had tightly braided salt-and-pepper hair, and she looked up expectantly at Ophélie. In spite of the simple clothes she'd worn, she looked well kept and beautifully groomed, and she looked out of place in the threadbare room. None of the furniture matched and it all seemed beaten up. It was easy to guess they'd gotten it at Goodwill, and there was a coffeemaker with styrofoam cups in the corner.
“May I help you?” the woman at the desk asked pleasantly.
“I have an appointment with Louise Anderson,” Ophélie said quietly. “I think she's the head of volunteers.” And with that, the woman at the desk smiled.
“That and the head of marketing, donations, ordering groceries, supplies, PR, and hiring new talent. We all wear a lot of hats around here.” It sounded interesting to Ophélie, as she walked around the room, looking at posters and literature, while she waited. She didn't have long to wait. Two minutes later, a young woman seemed to burst into the room. She had bright red hair like Pip's and wore it in two long braids down her back, one hanging over the other. She obviously had a huge mane of hair. She was wearing combat boots and jeans, and a lumberjack shirt, but in spite of it, she was obviously pretty, and looked utterly feminine. She had a lithe grace, like a dancer, and was small like Ophélie and Pip. But she exuded energy, and kindness, enthusiasm and power. She had a take-charge style about her that suggested confidence and ease.
“Miss Mackenzie?” she asked with a warm smile, as Ophélie stood up to greet her and nodded that she was. “Will you follow me?” She walked with a quick, sure step to a back office, with a bulletin board that covered an entire wall. There were bits of scrap paper, bulletins, announcements, messages from government agencies, photographs, and an endless list of projects and names. It was overwhelming just looking at all she presumably had on her plate. On the opposite wall were photographs of people at the Center, and her small desk and chair and two chairs for visitors, nearly filled the small, sunny room. Like her, the room was tiny, cheerful, chock full of information, and blatantly efficient.
“What brings you to us?” Louise Anderson asked, smiling warmly straight into Ophélie's eyes. She was clearly not the normal profile of their volunteers, who were usually college students, or grad students accruing hours toward a social work degree, or people who were somehow related to their field.
“I'd like to volunteer,” Ophélie said, feeling shy.
“We can sure use all the help we can get. What are you good at?” The question stumped her for a minute. She had no idea, and even less of what they needed from her. She felt totally out of her league. “Or maybe I should say what do you like to do?”
“I'm not sure. I have two kids.” She winced as she said it, but correcting it would have sounded pathetic, she thought, so she didn't. “I've been married for eighteen years…or was…” She was brave enough to say that at least. “I can drive, shop, clean, do laundry, I'm fairly good with kids, and dogs.” It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, but she hadn't thought for years about what her real skills were. And it all sounded so foolish and limited now. “I was a biology major in college. And I know a fair amount about energy technology, which was my husband's field,” another useless bit of knowledge they wouldn't need, “and I have some experience with dealing with family members of people who have mental illness.” She thought of Chad. It was all she could think of as she looked into Louise Anderson's eyes.
“Are you going through a divorce at the moment?” She had picked up the reference to having been married, and the “was.”
Ophélie shook her head, trying to look normal, and not scared, but she was. It was intimidating being here and feeling so useless and unskilled. But the woman across the desk from her was gazing at her with openness and respect. She just needed to know more.
“My husband died a year ago,” she gulped nearly audibly, “and my son. I have an eleven-year-old daughter. And a lot of time on my hands.”
“I'm sorry about your son and your husband,” she said sincerely, and went on. “Your experience with mental illness could be very useful to you here. A lot of the people who come through here are mentally ill. It's just a simple fact of homelessness much of the time. If they're too sick, we try to refer them to the right agencies and clinics. But if they're relatively functional, we let them in. Most of the shelters have criteria that eliminate people who exhibit bizarre behavior, which makes many of the homeless population ineligible for the shelters. It's a pretty crazy rule, but it makes things easier for the shelters. We're a little soft on that here, but as a result, we see some pretty sick people.”
“What happens to them?” Ophélie asked, looking concerned. She liked this woman, and hoped she would get to know her better. She had a peaceful but powerful positive energy that seemed to fill the room. And her passion for what she did was contagious. Ophélie was excited about being there and the prospect o
f working for them, even as a volunteer.
“Most of our clients go back on the street after a night or two. The family units stay, but most of them move on to permanent shelters. We're not permanent. We're a temporary facility. We're a Band-Aid on the face of homelessness. We let them stay as long as we can, we try to find them referrals to agencies, or long-term shelters, or foster care for kids. We try to meet their needs in every way we can, clothe them, house them, get them medical assistance when they need it, apply for government benefits when that's appropriate. We're kind of like an emergency room. We give them lots of TLC and information, a bed, food, a hand to hold. We like it because we serve more people this way, but there are also a lot of problems we can't solve. It breaks your heart sometimes, but there's only so much we can do. We do what we can, and they move on.”
“It sounds like you're doing a lot as it is,” Ophélie said with eyes full of admiration.
“Not enough. This is a business that breaks your heart. You're emptying an ocean with a teacup, and every time you think you've made a difference, the ocean fills up again faster than you can look. The ones that kill me are the kids. They're in the same boat with everyone else, and more liable to drown, and it's not their fault. They're the victims in all this, but so are a lot of the adults.”
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