This Side of Providence

by Rachel M. Harper

  “Let me tell you who’s not on my side. My ex. The bastard only lets me see her two times a week.” I point two fingers at her, a peace sign, even though all I can think about is war. “Two times. Not even overnight. This is my daughter I’m talking about. My baby.” I sit back in my chair and lower my voice. “She came out of my body, you know. My body, not his. That ain’t right.”

  “I understand that it’s difficult, but all you can do is take care of the things you control. Keep going to meetings, check in with your parole officer, and most important of all: stay healthy. If you get run-down you’re not going to be able to handle any of this.” She closes her file. “Next week let’s focus on getting you a job and a nice place to live, okay? You have to show them how much you’ve changed. After that, it’s all going to fall into place.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I can do that.” But in my head I’m thinking, How can I show them I’ve changed on the inside?

  She walks to the office door. “How are you feeling, aside from that?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. It changes minute to minute.”

  “That’s normal,” she says, making herself smile, “for you to feel confused and overwhelmed. You have a whole new reality to get used to. Sometimes it takes a while.” She puts her hand on the doorknob. “Why don’t we talk about that when you come in next week, okay?”

  She gives me her card with my appointment time written on the back. Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and escorts me to the front desk. She’s trying to be nice, but all I can feel is her nails through my shirt, the tips filed like claws.

  “I’ll see you then,” she says, smiling at me.

  I say okay but I’m already thinking it’s gonna take a miracle to get me back here on that exact day and at the right time. I never been good with dates or numbers aside from money. A week seems like a lifetime now that I’m back on the outside. And who knows how many lifetimes I’m gonna get.

  I keep forgetting to go back to the pharmacy to pick up my meds, so I end up missing a lot of doses. As soon as I get the pills I’m back on track, but I liked those days when I didn’t have to take them. I felt like a normal person again. Inside I used to tell my counselor how much I hated taking all them pills. How it was hard to think of myself as different. Sick. On the outside I don’t know who to talk to like that. I have a case manager and a doctor and an advocate at the shelter, but I don’t have any friends. Or a lover. Everybody else is getting paid to listen to my problems, and knowing that makes it hard to open up.

  Cristo asks me questions but I don’t know how much to tell him. He already does more than he should. Every time I bring home my meds, he counts them out and organizes them in the fancy pillbox I get from the doctor. He watches me while I take them—one by one with milk so I won’t gag—and then he puts a big red check on the daily planner he got from his teacher. He carries that thing in his backpack like it’s keeping him alive.

  One time when I’m at the CVS, I run into Snowman on my way out. He’s buying an ice cream bar at the checkout counter, even though it’s twenty-five degrees outside. The cashier keeps asking him if he’s serious. Snowman takes off his gloves and pays for it with exact change. He spots me in line and stops. I can see him look twice at me. Like he can’t believe it’s me.

  “Hey.” He nods at me. “How’s it going?”

  He approaches me slowly, like I’m an ex-girlfriend he thinks might make a scene.

  I shrug. “It’s going.” I tuck the bag with my meds under my arm.

  “I guess that’s better than it not going,” he says.

  “You’re right about that,” I say.

  He looks me up and down. “You look good.” From anyone else it would seem like flirting, but he’s just making an observation.

  “Thanks.”

  He looks exactly the same. Pale and cold, like that statue in Prospect Park of the man who settled Rhode Island.

  “So how’s business?” I ask him.

  He unwraps the ice cream bar slowly, not answering me.

  “I mean, with the houses and shit,” I say. “The rentals.”

  “Business is good. It’s a good time to own.” He takes a bite of the chocolate shell, which cracks like a piece of ice. “Hey, I fixed up your old place. Redid the floors and painted everything. Got a new fridge. It looks real nice inside.”

  “Oh yeah?” I make myself smile, even though I feel sad just thinking about it. “I guess that means you rented it.”

  “Yeah, they’re moving in next month,” he says. “A young couple with little kids. I could have doubled the rent after fixing it up, but I decided to give them a break, you know? Since they’re just starting out.”

  “I’m starting out, too,” I tell him. He looks at me real hard, like he’s trying to see something that isn’t there. “Starting again.”

  “Yeah, I heard—” he cuts himself off. “Well. Cristo says you’re doing better.”

  “You talked to my son?”

  He shrugs, taking another bite of the chocolate shell. It’s dark against his white skin. “I see him around sometimes, in the neighborhood. He’s a good kid.” I wonder if it bothers him, to be so pale.

  “Course he is,” I say. “All my kids are good.” It’s the truth, even if it’s hard to believe some days. Even if I don’t have much to do with it.

  “Yeah. Well. I don’t see the girls that much.”

  “They like to stay close by,” I tell him. “But Cristo…he’s like a bird.”

  Snowman moves to leave, but I step in front of him. I lose my place in line but I don’t care.

  “So listen, you got anything else open? Any other apartments?”

  He thinks for a long second. “Not right now, Arcelia. Not in this neighborhood.”

  “I could live somewhere else. They keep saying that’s better for me anyway. The counselors and everybody.”

  “Can you afford to pay more?” He finishes the ice cream bar and sucks on the wooden stick like a toothpick.

  “A little more,” I say. “I’ve got a case manager now, they can pay some of the rent. She called it a sub-city, or something like that.”

  “A subsidy?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “I can’t always take that grant money,” he says, making a face like he really cares. “Where’s she work at?”

  This is it—the moment when I have to tell him the truth. If I want his help.

  Finally I say, “ACOS,” using the initials instead of saying the whole name.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  There’s no taking it back once I say it, like telling someone they have to move out, or that you don’t love them anymore.

  “AIDS Care Ocean State.” I say it real fast, like it’s one word.

  “AIDS,” he repeats, “like the disease?” He bites on the stick, which breaks in half in his mouth. I nod. “I didn’t know,” he says.

  “Neither did I.”

  He spits the smaller piece out of his mouth, but keeps the bigger one, biting on it again. “You okay?” His eyes narrow, like he’s actually worried about me.

  “Sure, yeah. For now.”

  He bites on this one until it breaks too. “I’ll see what I can do,” he finally says.

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “Appreciate it.”

  The door opens behind him as a couple walks in, bringing the cold with them. I smell winter in the air as they pass by us. He turns to leave, but I reach out and touch his hand. It surprises me, how warm it is.

  “Hey, Snowman, one more thing.” He looks down at where I’m holding onto him, then looks back up at my face. “If I ever come to you later and want something else. Not help with an apartment but…” I squeeze his hand. “Just don’t give me anything, okay? No matter what I say.”

  He keeps looking at me, his eyes clear like water. It’s the first time I’ve ever really looked at him, and what I see is a surprise. He is a decent man.

  “Okay,” he says. “Consider it done.”
>
  He squeezes my hand back, almost like we’re shaking on it, and then puts on his headphones and walks out of the store. From the street outside, I catch him looking back at me.

  I got nothing to do for the rest of the day, so after I pay for my meds I go back outside. It’s cold out, but the sun is shining. I stand in front of a Mexican restaurant for twenty minutes, imagining what I would order if I had the money to eat out. The sun warms the back of my head and it feels good to stand there and not have to move. If I was still inside and writing those gratitude lists I’d add this moment—Snowman, the sun, the smell of winter.

  The sidewalks are empty. I keep my head down as I walk, wondering how my feet can look so small when my boots—Kim’s boots—are two sizes too big. I step over a pink carnation with a broken stalk, lying in the middle of the sidewalk. I can’t remember the last time I saw a flower. In Puerto Rico they’re everywhere, growing like weeds at the side of the road. People always have them in small vases on the dining room table and you can smell them as soon as you walk in. But in the States I never see them, and the few times I did—before I got locked up—I never stopped to look at them. I knew it was a waste, since the drugs took away my sense of smell.

  I turn around and walk back to the broken carnation to pick it up, wiping off the gritty slush from the street. I bring it to my nose. The fragrance is subtle, more like a flower shop than the flower itself. But it’s nice to be able to smell it. I straighten out the stalk, trying to make it whole again. The weight of the bulb’s head makes it bend slightly, like the breeze is trying to knock it over. I hold it together for the entire walk back to the shelter, my hand closed tight to hide the break.

  Later I pass the flea market and see a Chinese man selling encyclopedias. He gets my attention by saying he has something that will guarantee my kids will go to college.

  “What’s funny?” he says when I laugh. “You don’t want your children to get an education?”

  “If I had all those books, I’d live in a library.”

  “Ninety-nine bucks for the whole set. Twenty-six volumes, that’s less than five dollars a book. For your children, no? To invest in their future?”

  “I only got one kid who reads.”

  “Okay, okay. She like stories?” He pulls out a box from under the table. “I’ve got just the thing.” He hands me a book with a shiny white cover. “This has stories from all over the world.”

  “How much?”

  “Five dollars.”

  “I only got two.”

  “Take it,” he says, waving me away. “Give me the rest later.”

  “I don’t like to owe people.”

  “Don’t like to owe?” He has a wide smile on his face. “Who isn’t in debt? To someone, for something?” He hands me the book. I see my face in the cover, my eyes so small I can’t even see them. “Without debt, you have no life.”

  I give him the two dollars and he bows to me. “Money passes between people just like knowledge. There is nothing to count, it just is.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Thank you for your time,” he says, kissing the dollar bills in his hand.

  I zip the book into my jacket—Kim’s jacket—and walk with my head down into the wind. I hear church bells ringing up the street and when I pass the church the clock says it’s two o’clock. If I go now I can make it to school in time to catch my kids before they get on the bus. I can even meet their teachers and see their classrooms. One visit can’t make up for all the time I been gone, but maybe it’ll do something. At least show them that I care.

  I take the shortcut over the highway and get there early, before the bell rings. The crossing guard watches me like she thinks I’m gonna do something wrong. When I cross the street to get closer to the school she doesn’t walk with me. She stands against the stop sign chewing bubble gum and talking on her walkie-talkie. The bell rings and the older kids come out first. They run like they’re trying to escape. I wait for them to pass me, then I walk up the steps and stand by the front door. The doors look heavy. I see a teacher I recognize from when Cristo was younger and they called me into the school ’cause he pushed a kid down the stairs. I hide behind the open door, hoping she won’t see me.

  “You going inside?” A red-faced kid holds the door open.

  I shake my head and walk down the stairs, crossing the street with the crowd. When I’m safe on the other side I look back. I stand behind the chain-link fence and scan the crowd for my kids. I see Luz walking alone with her head in a book. She doesn’t stumble or slow down, even when she crosses the street to line up for the bus. When I call her name she stops and looks up. She doesn’t see me. I say her name again and when her eyes find mine she looks confused, like she doesn’t know who I am. I wave her over to me. She looks around first, like she’s making sure it’s okay.

  “What are you doing here?” She looks worried. “Is something wrong?”

  “I just wanted to see you. To see your school.”

  “Oh. Well, school’s over,” she says.

  “I see that. But I still wanted to come by.”

  Luz looks back to the bus line. “Cristo left early. He said he had to work.”

  “Work?” I wonder what kind of work an eleven-year-old does.

  “I think he had to help a teacher or something. I don’t know.” She twists her braid around her finger and chews on the end. Like I’m making her nervous.

  “Here, I got this for you.” I hand her the book, still warm from being inside my jacket.

  “What’s this for?” She takes it, but won’t open it. “It’s not my birthday or anything.”

  “I know. But I thought you would like it. Stories from around the world.” I cough into my sleeve. “You like stories, right?”

  She turns it over and flips through the pages, like she’s checking to make sure it’s real. “Thanks.” She’s looking down when she says it so I can’t tell if she really means it.

  “I’m sorry about the last book I got you,” I tell her. “The one I sent from inside. They didn’t have a lot of choices.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. She tries to smile but she still looks upset.

  The wind whips my hair into my eyes, making them burn.

  “Well, I should go,” Luz says, “so I don’t miss the bus.” She takes a step away from me.

  “Espera. Por favor.” I reach out and tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear. It’s just an excuse to touch her. “I know you’re mad at me. ’Cause I left you with Lucho, and then she left. Or maybe you’re mad from way before that.” She looks at me but don’t say nothing. “But you know what? I’m kinda pissed off, too. Here I am waiting all these months to get back to my kids, and now two of them aren’t even with me. That sucks.” I try not to look at the other kids as they walk by us. “But I keep telling myself that it’s okay because it’s not gonna be like this forever. It’s just a temporary thing, okay?”

  “I know.” She looks away like she’s bored.

  “You’re ten years old, and you think you know a lot of things. But I’m your mother, Luz. I could make you come with me. I could force you if I wanted. But I don’t want to do that to my daughter. I want you to want to be with me.”

  “Okay,” she says, leaning against the fence. “Can I go now?” She wrinkles up her face, looking just like Javier when he used to get mad if I stopped him on the way to the ballpark. My beautiful, angry little girl.

  “I want you to know I forgive you,” I tell her.

  “You forgive me?” Her face tightens up like she’s confused.

  “I was younger than you when my mother died and I missed her so much it made my belly sick. I threw up all the time. But before that, when she was alive and dying, I got so mad I used to sit outside her bedroom door and refuse to answer when she called me. I loved her so much, but I couldn’t see her in pain. I couldn’t watch her die.”

  Luz jams the toe of her sneaker into the fence, like she’s gonna climb away from me. I put my hand on
her shoulder. “It’s okay to be pissed. I get it. But I’m telling you right now, it’s gonna be different. I’ll make things right and then you’ll see. All of you are gonna see who I am.”

  Luz tries to walk away but I won’t let her. I squeeze my arms around her till she finally softens into me, like chocolate melting. She puts her face against my chest and I swear I feel my heart swell. I kiss her head and breathe in the smell of her shampoo.

  “I like your shampoo,” I say into her ear. “You smell like a big juicy grapefruit.”

  She laughs and tries to push me away. “You’re silly, Mami.” Then she puts her head back down.

  I hug her even tighter. Mami. A short, easy word. One she hasn’t said in almost a year.

  Back in June, when I was inside, I went to my first twelve-step meeting at the ACI. Surprise, surprise—I hated it. The meetings on the outside are pretty much the same, and I don’t like them either. They tell me to go to both meetings—NA and AA—but I like the snacks at the NA meetings better. And the people are just as fucked up as I am. I try going to one in Spanish but it’s filled with a bunch of old men who hit on me during the fellowship break and offer to drive me home in cars that smell like their wives. The English meetings are better since they always follow the script. When a part comes I don’t understand, I let my mind wander like it did when I was a little girl in church. Maybe that’s the point—to get you thinking about something other than yourself.

  The worst part is when they talk about God and how we need to follow His will and not our own. I gave up following God a long time ago, and He don’t seem to have any real problem with it. They say if I don’t want to use God I can choose anything else to be my higher power—a table, a chair, or some other person—but I don’t want to give myself over to any of those things either. I don’t want to surrender. To me, that’s like giving up. I’m tired as hell, but I still don’t want to do that. I don’t want to quit. Quitting means dying, as far as I can tell, and after all I went through I’m not gonna let that happen. It seems weak to admit you got no power over the addiction, and I don’t want to be weaker than anything.