Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless

by Melody Carlson

  "Who's hosting the party?"

  She laughs. "Hosting?"

  "You know what I mean. Where's the party?"

  "At Tony's."

  Okay, that's more than enough information for me. "Thanks, but no thanks."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I get a bad feeling about those guys."

  "Oh, Adele. Why are you so judgmental? They're nice guys. And it'll be fun."

  "Fun?" I glance at her. "Tell me, how do you describe fun?"

  "You know ... some laughs, some friends, some drinks."

  "I can go with the laughs and friends -I mean, if they're real friends-but I'll pass on the drinks."

  "Fine, you can pass. But you can at least come to the party."

  "I don't want to go, Cybil."

  "Oh, Adele!" She folds her arms across her front and slumps down in the passenger seat like she's about four years old.

  "Sorry, Cybil. I just don't want to. And I don't think you should go either." I'm pulling into the River Woods parking lot now. This time I park in the guest section.

  She jerks around and stares at me. "Are you telling me what I can or cannot do now?"

  I turn off the ignition and sigh. "I'm just saying I think it's a mistake to keep hanging with people like Tony and those other guys.

  "You are telling me what to do!" Her voice is getting shrill.

  "I'm trying to be a friend to you, Cybil. And I'm older and I just don't think you should go. Maybe we can do something else and-"

  "What are you, Adele, my mother?"

  Now for some reason this just totally irks me. "Look," I say in a sharp voice, "I'm trying to help you, but if you're going to act like an idiot ..." - I hold up my hands like I'm done - "then don't come running back to me when you get in trouble."

  "So that's it?" She's glaring at me. "You'll be my friend as long as I do what you want me to do? If you can control me, you'll help me?"

  "I don't want to control - "

  "You're just like my grandma, Adele. An old stick-in-the-mud."

  "Fine," I snap at her. "At least I know how you feel."

  "Fine!"

  Then we both sit there in silence, and I'm hoping her common sense will kick in and she'll realize what a fool she's being to even consider going back to those jerk guys when I'm trying to offer her a way to get off the streets.

  "Tell me something, Cybil."

  She just makes a harrumph sound, but I decide to continue. "What exactly goes on in Tony's apartment?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, I know there's alcohol there."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "And I assume there might be drugs, too."

  She doesn't say anything, which I take as a confirmation.

  "And I saw the way the guys were looking at us; I heard what they said, so I assume there's an expectation of sex."

  Still, she's silent.

  "And I'm sorry, but I have higher standards than that."

  "That's your choice," she says in a pouty tone.

  "You're right. It is. But this is my van, and if you're going to live with me, it has to be your choice too." I'm trying to keep my voice calm and nonconfrontational now, something I learned from years of "getting along" with my mom.

  "What right do you have to impose your morality on me?" she shoots back at me. "You don't own me, Adele. And you never will. If I want to go party with my friends, you are not going to stop me!"

  I just nod as a lump wedges itself into my throat. This all feels so familiar-like a flashback to a past conversation with my mom.

  "So that's it then?" She climbs into the back of the van and starts stuffing her things into her backpack. "You're through with me just because I want to go to a stupid Halloween party?" Now she's swearing and crashing about, and I'm worried that she's really losing it. "You're just like the rest of my family. You act like you care about me, and then you toss me out like the trash. Well, I don't know why I'm even surprised by that. I never should've trusted you in the first place."

  "Excuse me for caring about you," I say with a sarcastic edge. "I'm sorry I don't want to see you ruining-"

  She interrupts me with a few more choice expletives before she slides open the back door with a bang, then leaps out of the van. Pausing in the parking lot, she gives me the middle-finger salute, then throws a strap of her backpack over her shoulder and stomps away, leaving the door wide open as a rush of cold air whooshes in.

  I cough as I hurry to slide the door shut. Then I climb into the back, wrap myself up in my old quilt, and just sit there shivering. What could I have done differently? Why did I ever try in the first place? Seriously, who has room for all this drama? Certainly not me.

  Now I remember that Ms. Michaels said since October is a long month, we could pick up our checks today instead of tomorrow. So I hurry into River Woods and find my envelope in my time-card slot, remove it, and leave. I go to the check cashing place, where they charge me ten bucks just to cash my check. But feeling good to have the money in my hand, I drive back to River Woods and settle in for the night. Maybe a good night's rest will help to get rid of this cough I'm having a hard time shaking.

  But the next morning I wake up coughing and shivering. And there's frost on the windows of the van-this is not good. Still wrapped in my layers of blankets, I squirm over to where my flashlight bank is hidden. I added my latest earnings to it last night but never took the time to figure out the total. So I empty it all out now, and organizing the bills, I count. As badly as I'd like to save up enough to rent an apartment by the month, this cold weather makes me think it might be time to look into another form of accommodations. Maybe even one of those somewhat sleazy motels downtown, the kind that rent rooms by the week. I've done the math and that ends up costing more in the long run, but I'm not sure I have a choice anymore. Be frugal and freeze to death, or tap my budget and survive? This is about survival.

  Then the sun comes out, warming the van a bit, and as I get ready for work, I think perhaps I'm giving up too easily. Either I can bundle up better and hold out a couple more weeks, or maybe I can make a deal with a landlord, pay two months' rent, and promise to pay the cleaning deposit by the end of November. I do the math in my head, and it will make my budget tight but it seems possible.

  After punching in at work, I put my time card back into its slot and notice that Genevieve's time card is missing. I don't think too much of this, but a few minutes later when I'm in the dining room, picking up a sweater Mr. Lupinksi left behind, I overhear Ellen talking to Mary in the kitchen.

  "You were right," she tells Mary. "Genevieve had been stealing. Ms. Michaels has already called her and informed her of her termination."

  "I told you," Mary says victoriously. "I have a good sense about these things."

  "Yes, and we appreciate it."

  "If I wasn't such a good chef, I might go into the security business." Mary laughs like this is really funny.

  With sweater in hand, I scurry away. I'm not sure which is more shocking: that Genevieve has been fired, or that she's been stealing from River Woods. Then as I help Mr. Lupinski into his old worn cardigan, I wonder if Genevieve really did steal anything or if she's been falsely accused. It's no secret that she and Mary do not get along. But then no one really gets along with Mary. And if Genevieve actually did steal something, how exactly did Mary find out?

  I'm aware there are video cams placed here and there, both for security and to document any "alleged mistreatment of residents." I also know there's one out in the parking lot. I make sure to park just outside of its scope. Still, I can't help but be concerned that Mary might be watching me as well. Maybe it's time to park my van elsewhere during the night.

  I've just gotten Mr. Lupinski settled back into his room and am emerging into the hallway, trying to muffle my cough into my sleeve, when Ms. Michaels approaches me. "I'd like to talk to you, Adele."

  I just nod, force a little smile, and follow her to her office. And maybe I'm paranoid, but I feel
certain that Mary has informed on me as well. I am about to get the ax.

  "You probably heard about Genevieve by now," she says somberly.

  "Not exactly."

  So she tells me how things have been missing from the kitchen and how Mary rigged up a hidden video cam that caught Genevieve red-handed.

  "Oh no." I just shake my head. "I had no idea."

  "Naturally, I had to let her go."

  "Naturally." I wait.

  "Well, I know you were good friends with Genevieve, so I felt you should know."

  "I appreciate that." I nod.

  "And that means there will be a bit more work for you until I can hire another nurse's aide. But hopefully I'll get that taken care of by Monday."

  "That's okay; I like being busy."

  She smiles. "Yes, it hasn't escaped my notice that you're a hard worker."

  Now I feel a cough coming. I turn and cough into the elbow of my sleeve. "Excuse me."

  "Are you taking anything for that?"

  "I've been meaning to get something."

  "Well, go ask Ellen to give you something for it. We can't have you coughing on the residents."

  "No, I try not to cough around them. And I wash my hands all the time too."

  She smiles again. "Yes, I know you do."

  So I go find Ellen, explaining what Ms. Michaels said, and she gives me a small sample bottle of cough medicine. I take the prescribed dose and put the remainder in my backpack to use later.

  Genevieve's absence does make me busier, but it also makes the time pass more quickly. And before I know it, my shift is over. I clock out and head for my van, which I have decided to park someplace else for the night. I'm actually considering going back to the visitor area of the condos. Hopefully no one will notice or care. Then tomorrow I will come up with a different plan.

  But when I get to the parking lot, I notice what appears to be broken ice along the passenger side of the van. But upon closer inspection, I see that it's actually broken glass. The passenger-side window has been broken out. I jerk open the door to find that my van has been broken into. Stuff is strewn all over the place, and although it's hard to tell at first glance, it seems like a number of things are missing.

  I turn on the dome light and, with a pounding heart, go through my belongings, sorting them, folding them, methodically putting them away. As I work, I realize that two pairs of jeans, a sweater, some T-shirts, my favorite boots, some sweats, some bedding, my alarm clock, and much more are gone. And as much as I hate to think this, I know deep inside of me that Cybil is the culprit. Who else would know what was in my van? And only a girl would want my clothes. It has to be her.

  And then, like a punch to my gut, I remember my flashlight. Surely she didn't take that too. Then I remind myself as much as I trusted Cybil, I never once told her where I stashed my savings. In fact, I think she assumed I had a bank account, which was fine by me.

  I hit the floor behind the passenger seat and claw around beneath it, digging out the other bits of junk I stashed there as camouflage. But I cannot feel the flashlight anywhere. It's not there. Then I sit up and try to think. Did I put it someplace else and forget?

  Suddenly I remember how I counted out my money this morning, trying to decide if I had enough to get an apartment yet. I must've forgotten to replace it beneath the seat. Still, why would Cybil take an old flashlight? How could she have known what was inside it? Like a crazy person, I tear apart what I've just organized in my van, throwing the blankets and the few clothes I have left onto the seats as I search in vain for the missing flashlight.

  Finally I realize it's no use. I collapse in a fit of coughing and tears. It is not here! Every dollar I worked so hard to earn and save is gone-just like that, it is gone. Not only that, but my van is useless as a haven now. It's as cold inside as it is outside. There is no way I can survive like this. Because my shift ended at eight, I know it must be well past nine by now, and I have to work again tomorrow. Not that it makes any difference now. Really, what am I working for? What am I living for?

  I bundle up as well as I can, layering on what few shabby clothes I have left, wrapping myself in blankets, and then I finish off the rest of the cough medicine. I don't even care if it's an overdose. Really, it would be just fine if I never woke up. Dying cannot possibly be worse than living ... not like this.

  o my surprise and disappointment, I am still here in the morning. I did not die during the night. At least I don't think I died. I sit up and stare out the fogged window as a dark gray hearse pulls into the parking lot. Creeping along as if, like me, it does not want to be observed. As I watch the hearse coming closer, I can almost make myself believe it's here for me ... that I did die in the night and I'm simply imagining I'm alive. But then it slowly backs up to the rear entrance of River Woods, and I realize that one of the residents must've passed on during the night. The hearse must be here for Bess.

  As part of my usual routine, I lingered by her bedside last night. I held her hand and mumbled my feeble attempt of a prayer. But before I left, I did notice that her eyes were closed and her expression was no longer that of a frightened old woman balancing on the edge of life. In fact, her facial muscles seemed relaxed, as if she was at peace. At least she is in a better place. I try not to be envious. I'm not sure I can even imagine what that would be like -a better place ... peace-it's beyond my grasp.

  Then realizing that someone from River Woods might come out the back door to speak to the hearse driver and subsequently notice my vandalized van still parked here, I decide to make a quick getaway. Before long, I'm sitting in the nearest coffee shop, where I plan to thaw out until it's time for my shift. But my mind feels blurry and slow, like I can't even run my thoughts in a straight line.

  "You look like you've lost your best friend," the waitress tells me as she refills my cup.

  I just nod. "Yeah ... I kind of did."

  "I'm sorry." She gives me a sad smile. "But take it from me, dearie, it's always darkest before the dawn."

  "Thanks. I'll try to keep that in mind."

  I feel like a zombie as I go through the paces at River Woods. I know I should be concerned about putting my job in jeopardy, but I really don't care anymore. And as I'm punching my time card at the end of my shift, I know I should be making a plan to head to the library or somewhere else warm to do my homework. But it's like something in me is broken now ... like I don't even care about school anymore. Really, what difference does it make how hard I try to make my life work? It always goes wrong in the end.

  On my way out, I pass by Bess's old room. Maybe it's habit or maybe I miss her, but I feel drawn into the room. It's quiet as usual, and her silent roommate is still hooked up to various forms of life support. I stand there staring at Clara's pale face, so oblivious to this world. Her family members come and go, workers see to her needs, and yet she is completely unaware. I wonder at this irony-a woman who may not even want to be alive is being kept and cared for (at an expense I cannot even comprehend), and yet I am broke and homeless and left to my own sad devices to survive. How is that fair?

  I go and stand by Bess's empty bed, placing my hand on the pillow. The bedding has been changed, and a new resident will probably be here soon. If Bess were still alive, I would probably be praying right now. With her gone, I cannot utter a word. Instead I remove my shoes and climb into her bed. I know it's pathetic and creepy, not to mention foolish because this could cost me my job. But I'm so worn out, so defeated ... I just don't care anymore. If someone wants to fire me for sleeping in a dead woman's bed, let them. Just bring it.

  When I wake it's to the quiet murmur of voices, and although my eyes are still closed, I sense that it's lights-out. At first I can't remember where I am. All I know is I was having a lovely dream-walking barefoot in a place where it was warm and sunny and bright. Heaven perhaps? Without moving and with my eyes still shut, I strain my ears to understand the whispered words, to process what they're saying.

  "What is she d
oing in here?" It sounds like Ellen.

  "I don't know, but I think she's been here all night."

  "Ugh, I wonder how she can stand to sleep in a bed that someone just died in." This comes from a man's voice.

  "Oh, it's just a bed, silly," Ellen says.

  "Should we wake her?"

  "Ms. Michaels will have to hear about this." this is followed by what I imagine to be Ellen's footsteps walking away, off to find the boss. I wait a few more seconds, wishing none of this was really happening. Then I open my eyes and sit up to see a night orderly named Neal and a nurse's aide I don't really know. They are both staring at me with slightly stunned expressions.

  Without saying a word, I climb out of bed, slip on my shoes, and leave.

  "Hey wait," the nurse's aide calls. "I think Ellen wants to talk to you."

  Now I'm faced with a choice. I'm pretty sure my job here is about to be terminated anyway, so I might as well keep going. But I've never been the kind to just walk out on a job. I guess I'm not ready to start now. So I head toward the office area and soon am sitting in front of Ellen. Without waiting for her to question me, I simply pour out my sad little tale. I don't give all the details. But I do give enough to ensure that I will be jobless when I leave the room. All the "less" words seem to describe my status now-jobless, homeless, penniless, hopeless, friendless. All I need to add to the list is lifeless. Then it would be complete.

  "Please tell Ms. Michaels I'm sorry for being such a disappointment," I say as I stand. "But I just can't do this anymore." Then I walk out. And this time I just keep going.

  I get in the van and drive away from River Woods. I have no idea where I'm going. And I don't care. I just drive away. I know the gas tank is nearly empty. I know I have less than ten dollars in my backpack. I know the cold air and rain are rushing in through my broken window. And after a while, I know that I'm having difficulty seeing the lines on the road. I turn my wipers to high speed, but it doesn't get better. That's when I realize my vision is blurred by tears streaming down. So I pull into a 7-Eleven and turn off the engine, lean my head into the steering wheel, and just cry.