So Much More

by Kim Holden

  “Upstairs to help my friend, Miranda, cook dinner,” she says it like it shouldn’t be news to me, like I haven’t been gone for weeks.

  “Miranda?” I question. Seamus’s ex-wife? My stomach turns, and I wish I could take back the question. I wish I could take back being here right now. I wish I could take back seeing her this morning. I wish I could take back a lot of things, because the next thing Hope says, stomps all over my heart.

  “Miranda lives with Seamus. They’re a family.”

  I want to look brave and take the news stoically. He’s not mine. He was never mine. He belonged to her for years. They share a connected past. And children. I should be happy for him.

  But, I’m not. I feel like I want to beat my head against the wall, throw up, and scream all at once.

  I walk out of Hope’s to my apartment without saying a word. She didn’t notice. She was already walking upstairs when I shut her door behind me. I saw the envelope with Seamus’s name written on it that I left with Hope still sitting on her floor, unopened, half buried under a pile of junk mail. I guess she didn’t get around to giving it to him. Which, is for the best, given the news I just received.

  The minute I’m inside my apartment, I’m sitting on the floor crying. I’m grieving a man I have no right to. I’m grieving birth parents I’ll never find. I’m grieving this apartment I’ll have to leave in a few days. I haven’t been this down in years. It’s all mounting. And suddenly ugliness is rearing its head. The demon I slayed years ago is back clawing its way from the inside out. Breathing down my neck, leaving a trail of sweat covered goosebumps.

  I’m shaking my head, chanting, “No, no, no, no, no. I won. You don’t own me. I’m stronger than you are.”

  I want to use.

  I want to use so fucking bad.

  I can’t see through my tears.

  I can’t hear through the voices in my head.

  I need to get out of here.

  Now.

  Packing up my bag takes minutes.

  I set out on foot.

  And I pray like hell that I find strength.

  I don’t know who to call. The last thing I want to be is a burden. But I also don’t want to be a statistic. I fought too damn hard to get clean. And I promised myself I’d never go back. I take my cell phone—which will be canceled in a few days—out of my bag and call Claudette. She’s the only person I can confess this to. She helped me fight this monster once before.

  “Hello,” she answers.

  I take a deep breath and jump in. “I need to get high. Right now.” As soon as I say the words out loud I’m crying again. “I need help. I can’t do this, Claudette. I’m not strong enough.”

  “Honey, Faith, listen to me. You are strong enough. You don’t need to use.” Her voice is calm, but I can hear the subtle vibration that worry adds. “Where are you?”

  “I’m walking to the beach,” I answer. I don’t know where else to go.

  “Whatever you do, do not hang up the phone. Do you hear me?”

  I sniff. “I hear you.”

  An hour later I’m walking in the door of Good Samaritan House. It’s a homeless shelter that Claudette tells me offers counseling and other services.

  I’m met at the door by a gentleman in his late forties or early fifties, who introduces himself as Benito. His hair is graying and his eyes are thoughtful and wise, like thousands of stories and lessons are housed behind them. He’s the shelter’s crisis manager. After a brief, no holds barred, verbal retching of my guilt and doubt, he asks me to leave my bag in his office and follow him. “Before we do anything, you need to eat. It’s dinnertime.”

  The tables are all full of men and women in various stages of neglect and vagrancy. I try to turn down the food because I ate a few hours ago with Hope, but he won’t hear of it. “Eat. We’ll talk after you eat.”

  I give in and eat.

  And afterward, he talks, addressing our earlier discussion and my confessions. “Since you were brave enough to share your story with me earlier, please allow me to share mine with you because I think you need to hear it. I was a heroin addict for fifteen years. I lived on the streets for many of those years. My family disowned me because I lied to them, I stole from them, I disrespected them. I chose getting high over them. I chose getting high over everything. Until I overdosed and woke up in a hospital bed, being told that not only had I almost lost my life, but that I was HIV positive. HIV positive. There aren’t many other words that will get your attention like those will. Every drug addict gets a wake-up call, and if we’re lucky, the wake-up call isn’t death. That was my call. It was also, coincidentally, the moment my little brother, who I hadn’t seen in five years, reentered my life. When I was released from the hospital, he took me directly to an inpatient rehabilitation facility. My little brother saved my life. I haven’t used since. That was twelve years ago. I don’t let my past define me. For a long time, I did. I carried a lot of guilt. Then I realized that I had potential and something to offer the world, everyone does. So, long story short, I see myself in you. I like your spirit. You overcame. You have so much potential, Faith. You just need a little help.”

  “But, I almost threw away four years of being clean tonight,” I say. I don’t feel worthy of the help he’s trying to give.

  “The important thing is you didn’t. You had an urge, and you managed it. That’s what sobriety is. And I believe deep down that if you had access to drugs, you wouldn’t have given in. You would’ve fought for yourself. Because the young lady who walked in here looking for help is a fighter. A fighter with a gentle heart. That’s the best possible combination.” He sounds convinced.

  By the time I lie down on a cot in the women’s room, I’m convinced. The demon is gone. Chased away. The fact that I’m unemployed and homeless remains. I’ll take that trade any day.

  Pine-Sol gives me a headache

  present

  If you would’ve told me I’d be running a homeless shelter a year ago, I would’ve brazenly, and unapologetically, laughed in your face. There’s no reward, and the pay is shit. There’s no prestige. The building is in shambles. But, the hardest part is, this job requires compassion.

  Compassion is a language I don’t speak.

  I remind myself I’m trying as I walk in the door my first day on the job. The first thing that assaults me is the smell. It’s a mixture of the state of decay of the building itself and the people housed inside. The second thing that assaults me is the voice inside my head shrieking at me to turn around and go home.

  I’m questioning everything at this point. But, the biggest question is, why am I trying?

  I could lie and say it’s for me. That I want to be a better person and grow, but that’s unrealistic. The depression is lifting, that’s a positive. But actual transformation into a do-gooder isn’t possible with my past.

  I could lie and say I’m trying for my kids. Though I do feel like we’ve bonded now, and I enjoy spending time with them, but that’s not it either.

  Deep down, I know I’m trying for him. For Seamus. I don’t need a get out of hell free card, my fate is sealed in that department, not even Seamus could help me avoid it…but I love him. I know I don’t love like other people do. My version of love is driven by selfish need, a little self-loathing, and some jealousy. But it feels so damn real when it beats inside my chest, and it’s starved for his touch, and his adoring stare, and his loving words, and his complete devotion. God, I miss that. I know games don’t work. I wasted years on games. I thought I was winning, most of the time I was losing. Losing him.

  So, I’m here. In a job rooted, like Seamus’s, in humanitarian effort. Trying. Trying out a job that already doesn’t feel like it fits, for a second chance with him. Struggling to open up my mind to the idea of service to others to connect with him. It’s a long shot, I know.

  The saving grace in all of this, is that this establishment and the non-profit itself, are on the brink of disaster. That’s where I come in. It�
��s a business that needs to find funding and efficiencies to ensure its survival and prosperity. I’m looking at it as a chance to push myself creatively and think outside the box. It’s about developing a plan to make this company run like a well-oiled machine. It’s a challenge. A numbers and strategy challenge, I’m good at those.

  I’m introduced to the staff, the vast majority of which are volunteer residents. They cook, they clean, they do maintenance, they act as security, and they manage tangible donations like clothing, food, and hygienic items. They’re the engine that powers this train. By the time I make the rounds, I’ve learned a few things. One: I need to buy some different clothes for work. A five thousand dollar pantsuit doesn’t earn me respect from someone in secondhand, ten-year-old, stained, frayed denim. Two: The smell of Pine-Sol gives me a headache. I’ve never set foot inside a Costco, but I’m stopping at one on my way home and filling the back of my SUV up with cleaning supplies that don’t smell like a lemony, antiseptic, artificial, mountain forest. Third: Benito, the shelter’s crisis manager, is a good person. I hope he hasn’t already figured out I’m a bitch because I need him to stay and help me turn this place around.

  You don’t get a medal for trying

  present

  My body is being a bastard today. My legs are killing me and my head is thumping like a bass drum, that’s been the norm for a week now. But today I feel dizzy, like I’m walking the deck of a ship on rocky waters. I’m leaning into my cane fighting the urge to topple over. Things could be worse, things could always be worse, but I’m in a bad mood, and irritation has put an end to my ability to parley with Miranda.

  My kids are in bed. I need to be in bed myself, but I need to have this conversation before I do.

  Miranda is sitting on the couch drinking a glass of wine, when I approach and sit on the other end. I lead in with, “How’s the new job?”

  She nods slowly, I don’t know whether she’s gearing up for a negative response or if she’s just tired. “It’s going well.”

  Good. “Good.” Now that I know she’s employed, I don’t feel bad following it up with, “Your time is almost up here, Miranda. I need you to move out this weekend.”

  More slow head nodding, but it’s different this time, she’s thinking, scheming. I know that look. “I’m going to buy a house. I want you and the kids to move in with me.”

  A sigh whooshes out of me like an angry gust of wind. Maybe I don’t have the patience to have this conversation after all and should’ve gone to bed. I close my eyes to ward off the beginnings of an argument and simply say, “No.”

  “But, it would make life easier for everyone. You could get rid of your rent payment and save some money. And we could all be together.”

  For a split second she makes sense: convenience, save money. But then I come to my senses, and we could all be together rings like an alarm. “No, Miranda. You need to get your own place. And I need to stay here.”

  “I’m trying, Seamus,” she says softly.

  “I know you are.” It doesn’t sound convincing. I don’t have it in me tonight to sound convincing.

  “Why aren’t you?” she asks.

  I’m too tired to decode. “Why am I not what?”

  “Trying,” she says it as if she’s justified in asking. She’s pointing a self-righteous finger at me with that one little word.

  “That’s my goddamn life, Miranda. Trying,” I say it louder than I should. “Trying to be a good dad. Trying to be a good counselor. Trying to be a good person. Trying to be patient and accepting of my body, and this disease.” I could go on and on. “That’s what life is, it’s fucking trying. You don’t get a medal for it. It’s expected, as a member of the human race, that you try.”

  She’s good at keeping her mask on, but I know that’s not what she wanted to hear. “Think about the kids. They’re thriving with all of us under one roof again.”

  I shake my head. “They’re thriving because they’re happy to have two parents who are engaged in their lives. It’s all they’ve ever wanted. Hell, it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Propinquity isn’t driving the parent-child relationship, effort is. Effort can be made successfully from two houses divided by miles, especially if it’s a handful of miles instead of hundreds.”

  She’s thinking, not about what I just said, but about what she’s going to say next.

  I stand before she decides to continue the debate. “I need you out this weekend. Goodnight.”

  I know this will turn into a fight, not an arguing match, but quiet evasion. She’ll stay, hoping I’ll cave to avoid confrontation—the passive aggressive approach. I mastered passive aggressive for years, so I know it when I see it. I’m prepared to put her shit in my car and drive her to a hotel myself. I’ll show her how aggressive this pacifist can get.

  I see myself in you

  present

  “Faith, can I speak to you for a minute?” Benito asks as I’m mopping the floor of the dining hall.

  “Of course. What’s up?” I’m worried that because I got a job yesterday, they’re going to ask me to leave. But I can’t find a place to live until I save up some money.

  “I hear you got a job yesterday?” he asks.

  “I did. Waitressing evenings at a diner. I start at five tomorrow.” Please don’t ask me to leave. Please don’t ask me to leave.

  He smiles his big, gentle grin and I relax into it. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And because you’re already working, I understand if you decline my offer. I’m opening up a bakery with my brother in a few weeks. It’s always been a dream of his.” He smiles as if the thought makes him happy. “I would like to hire you.”

  “Pardon me?” I only ask because I need time to calm my excitement.

  His smile grows as I’m unable to contain mine. “I want to hire you.”

  “I would love to, but I don’t know how to bake. Except bread pudding. Oh, and chocolate dump cake, I can make a mean chocolate dump cake.” I’m rambling, so I stop.

  He’s laughing quietly. “My brother is the baker, he’ll stay back in the kitchen. He needs someone friendly and competent to run the front end, selling goods to customers, both walk-in and phone orders. His wife will work Monday through Wednesday. Your schedule would be Thursday through Sunday from five in the morning until two in the afternoon. Does that sound like something you’d like to do?”

  My head is nodding very fast. “Yes. Yes! Yes, please. Thank you. Thank you so much.” And before I know it I’m hugging him, which makes him laugh harder.

  “No. Thank you, Faith. One more thing, I live with my brother. He and his wife rent out a few rooms in their home. They set up the basement like a co-op. There are three small bedrooms, so you would have your privacy; and a community living room, kitchen, and bathroom that you would share with two other tenants. They charge four hundred dollars a month, but that includes utilities. They have a room opening up this weekend. If you’d like to check it out, I can give you the address. No pressure, but if you like it, it’s yours.”

  I’m waiting for the punchline. I’m waiting for him to tell me this is a joke. But I guess the joke is I don’t have four hundred dollars. I shrug. “That’s so kind of you, but I don’t have the money. It will take me a week or two to earn that much.”

  His face softens at my admission. “I know you don’t. My brother is aware of your current living situation and is willing to let you move in and pay him when you’re able.”

  Being genuinely stunned by overwhelming kindness is one of my favorite occurrences in life. Maybe because it happens so rarely on a grand scale like this. Or maybe because it comes out of the blue and you’re not prepared for it. But it threatens to knock me off balance and bring me to my knees every time. There are tears in my eyes when I hug him again. I hug him hard and long, and I cry into his shoulder. When I release him, I look him in the eye. “Why? Why me?”

  “Remember the first night we met? After dinner, we talked, and
I shared my story?” he asks thoughtfully.

  I nod. I’ll never forget that night.

  “Like I said, I see myself in you. That and I’ve watched you working hard at the shelter this week; any task you’re given you do it without complaint, and you do it well. All with a smile on your face and a grateful heart. You show kindness toward others, never judging circumstance. That’s refreshing. As I said earlier, you have so much potential. You just need a little help.”

  Claudette’s words spring to mind, something she told me on my recent visit about superheroes walking amongst us, and that they have the ability to make someone who felt unseen, unwanted, and unloved feel special. I’m convinced Benito is a Batman angel like Claudette, and that’s all it takes for me to accept his help and stop questioning myself. “I’ll take the room. Thank you.”

  He writes down the address for the bakery and the home, they’re only blocks apart, and hands it to me. The paper feels heavy in my hand, heavy with hope and promise and new beginnings.

  “Thank you,” I tell him again. I have a feeling I’ll tell him that a lot.

  Nobody pisses on my rainbow

  present

  I’m a jealous person. I think most people are if they’re honest with themselves. I feel a small degree of jealousy most of the time. Whether it’s directed at the person in front of me in line at Starbucks who the handsome barista flirts with, or the twenty-year-old running on the beach with the perfect body who reminds me those days are gone, and it’s all about maintenance from here on out, or that goddamn Bobby Flay because he can cook his ass off. I’m jealous.

  But, what I feel when I look at this woman is a raging variety, so rare that its presence is manic, and I’m unable to function normally when I’m bound by it.