by Zoey Derrick
I fight to keep my eyelids open as the bus rumbles along. Almost home. Almost to my mattress.
"Vivienne, honey, you’re home," I hear Al say, and my eyes fly open.
"Thanks, Al." I gather up my things and step off the bus.
"Have a good night, Vivienne."
"You too, Al," I say as he closes the door. I watch as he pulls away, and I quickly make my way around the corner without drawing attention to myself. The street is dirty and it smells like trash and rotting food. Graffiti covers the walls around me.
I see my shadow lengthen as a car comes up from behind me, and I pick up the pace a little. Cars on the street this time of night, in this neighborhood, usually mean someone is up to no good. The car passes me as I reach my door. I glance up and see that it is a sleek black Mercedes. I scowl at it. What’s a fancy car like that doing in this neighborhood? I push past the blue door and into the entryway and unlock the inner door.
The hallways are an uneven brownish yellow, almost like they're stained with nicotine. Judging from the smell, that’s probably exactly what it is. The garbage that lines the baseboards of the entrance and the stairs is disgusting, but tonight I don't have the energy to care.
I shuffle up the stairs to the third floor. When I reach my door, I unlock the two deadbolts, turn the handle and slip into my apartment. I shut the door with my butt and lean back against it.
There is always a sigh of relief when I get home, knowing that I made it safely yet again. I've been harassed more than a few times on the streets and the bus, even in the less than twenty-five feet between the bus stop and the door.
I lock the two deadbolts and the knob and slide the chain. To be honest the door is so flimsy that someone could easily just kick it in, but the locks help me feel a little bit better.
My apartment is one room, a closet, and a bathroom. The kitchen consists of a small oven with a two-burner cook top, a half-size refrigerator, a small counter and sink. A few cupboards lie as empty and as useless as the fridge.
I head to the sink, grab a glass and fill it with water. I swallow it down quickly and refill it. As I drink half of the new glass, I unbutton my uniform with my other hand. When I reach the apron I put the glass down.
My hands slip into the apron pockets, and I feel the wad of cash from Mikah. My heart sinks. I can't keep this. It's not mine, and I'm nobody's responsibility. I walk the two steps over to my bed and fish around for my notebook between the mattress and the pallets that raise my bed off of the floor. I tear a blank piece of paper from the notebook and throw the money, the paper, and a pen from my apron onto the counter.
Then I take off my apron, smock and shoes. Looking down at my semi-naked form, I can see that small bump rising between my hips. It looks bigger tonight, no doubt because I've actually eaten a meal. Trying hard not to dwell on my swelling abdomen and the reasons for my current state of affairs, I shed my bra and panties and stumble into the bathroom. When I release the bun atop my head, the thick, curly red waves fall down my back and tickle my hips.
I turn the water on to the hottest setting possible, hoping like hell that there is some hot water left in the tanks downstairs. After a couple of minutes the water is lukewarm at best. I climb in, praying that it lasts for at least a few minutes before turning ice cold.
It doesn’t. I don't waste time and I'm in and out quickly. Shivering, I towel off, turn up the heat a bit and grab my cotton pajama bottoms and a t-shirt full of tiny holes. I pull on the clothes and wrap my hair in the towel. A few more minutes of chattering teeth before I hear the heater kick on. At least that works in this damn place.
I need to write Mr. Blake a note, but it can wait until morning. The shower and shivering have drained me, and I can't stay awake any longer. I don't have to be to work until four tomorrow, so I'll have plenty of time to write the note before heading out.
I climb into bed and shiver again as the cool sheets touch my skin. Pulling the blankets up to my chin, I try and settle into the lumpy, uneven mattress as best I can.
As I close my eyes, the last image my brain conjures up is an image of Mikah bent over me as I woke up from my fainting incident.
FIVE
"No! Stop!"
"I could kill you, bitch! What the fuck? You're such a whore." Smack across the face. He grabs my arms and shakes me. "You little fucking whore. I knew you would do this. I knew you were a no-good bitch." He pushes me away, hard, and I slam into the wall. As I fall to the floor all I can feel is the crack against my skull and...
My eyes fly open. I'm covered in sweat and the blankets are all twisted around my legs. I stare up at the dingy ceiling. Light streams in through the small window by the kitchen. Blinking back tears, I attempt to calm myself down by rubbing absently at my tummy with one hand.
"You asshole," I mutter.
I spent three days in the hospital after that night with a skull fracture, a concussion, severely bruised ribs and a sprained wrist. I was purple and black from head to toe. On the second day I found out that Riley had been arrested and charged with domestic abuse. He was later charged with endangerment when the hospital revealed to the police that I was pregnant. They had said there was a chance that I could lose the baby, but they took good care of me.
Yolanda, a state social worker, asked me if I had anywhere to go. I told her no, and she did what she could to give me a safe place for me to recover after leaving the hospital. Once I was in Amber’s Place, Yolanda helped me find this apartment and set me up to meet grouchy Bartie at the diner. Given that I had no experience, he was reluctant to give me a job as a waitress, but he said I had a great smile and gave me a chance, and it all worked out okay in the end. I suppose Laura had something to do with it; she took to me quickly and was very attentive when it came to training me.
My stomach starts doing flips. I pull myself free of the blankets and stumble into the bathroom. At least I make it to the toilet this time.
After I'm done retching, I brush my teeth and run my fingers through my hair. As curly as ever. Looking myself over in the mirror, I notice that a little color has returned to my cheeks and my eyes don't seem as hollow. It must be the burger I ate yesterday, but it’ll only last for a day or two and I'll go right back to the way I was.
I head into the kitchen but stop before I get to the fridge, shaking my head. I’m choosing to skip the morning hot dog. Despite having just emptied my stomach, I don't feel hungry. I settle for a glass of water.
I grab the pen and paper and sit on my bed. Pulling the journal out to use as a hard surface on which to write, I start composing my note to Mr. Suit.
Mikah,
Or should I call you Mr. Blake?
While I truly appreciate your gesture yesterday, I cannot accept your outrageous tip. Please accept your change from your meal at the diner last night — you know, the one you didn't eat, and the one you forced on me.
I've always found ways to survive just the way that I am. I don't need your money to make it through.
Thank you,
Vivienne
A little while later, I leave my apartment. I'm dressed as nicely as I can manage in the skirt and blouse I wore to my interview with Bartie and the Mary Jane shoes that were given to me during my stay in the shelter. The outfit is hidden beneath my worn, oversized hoodie. It's colder today than it has been.
My hair is down. I'm hoping that it will make me harder to recognize when I arrive at Mr. Suit’s office. I really have no desire to see him again.
But before I can go there, I need to make a stop along the way. I cross the street to wait at the eastbound bus stop. It’s still early – about seven thirty – and the street is mostly quiet. The daily commuters are mostly already at work, and the neighborhood crowd hasn't emerged from their houses. There are a few passing cars, but the neighborhood just looks rundown and abandoned compared to other parts of the city.
I’m used to living like this, though. It’s the kind of life I've always known. I grew up the only chil
d of a single mom who worked three and four jobs. But she did it more to support her drug habits than to support me. It’s amazing that I managed to stay away from drugs.
The bus arrives and I climb up, put my money in the machine and grab a seat about halfway back. First stop, the diner. It's Friday — payday. Then I can run across the street to cash my meager check and head off to my next destination.
After cashing my check, I get back on the bus and head further east to my next destination: Moore's Family Home. I don’t usually go to see my mother on Fridays, but I figure that since I’m running downtown today it makes sense to go, and I can just stay in my neighborhood tomorrow.
When I walk in, the lady at the counter greets me by name. Then she tells me, "She's in the game room."
"How is she today?" I ask.
"She seems to be having a good day today. Enjoy your time." This is the typical response when I ask about my mother. I nod, and the buzzer sounds.
I walk quickly through the drab, white-on-white, hospital-style hallway until I reach the game room. When I turn the corner, I see her sitting in a wheelchair facing the window. Her nightgown is light blue, very old and thin at the shoulders. Her gray hair is about shoulder length. She looks years older than the forty-eight that she is. Years of drugs and alcohol have completely destroyed her body. And her mind. Until she moved in here about five years ago, she had never sobered up. Now they have her on all manner of medication for paranoia, bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. Most of the time she's pretty out of it.
"Hi, Momma," I say as I sit in the chair next to her.
She doesn't respond, just keeps staring out the window. This is typically how our visits go. It’s better than a bad day; it’s not pretty when she’s jumpy or freaking out. She can get very violent.
Knowing that I’m taking the money back to Mikah today has me on edge. To top it off, a lot of things from my past that I've worked very hard at suppressing keep floating through my brain. Like the way we moved around from city to city, state to state.
It seemed like every time my mother got a wild hair up her ass we were off. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Which of course was never a problem: She never let me keep toys, and I only had enough clothes to fill up half of a garbage bag. A few pairs of pants, a couple of t-shirts and a pair of sneakers were usually about it. Even to this day my list of material possessions is so small that I can probably pack everything inside of one box and a trash bag.
Hell, I moved into my apartment with about three days’ worth of clothes, two pairs of shoes, my journal — compliments of the psychotherapist at Amber’s Place — and my bag. Or purse. Or whatever you want to call it. Since then I’ve also acquired a small pitcher and a cooking pot. Not that they get much use; I’ve got nothing to cook.
My tummy rumbles. Maybe I should have had that hot dog before I left.
Momma still isn't saying anything, just staring out the window. Lord knows what she’s looking at. Or if she’s even looking at anything. Sometimes I think she’s just lost inside of her own mind, trying in vain to pull herself out. But then again, that’s probably just me hoping. Hoping she will come around. It’s wishful thinking, I know, but it is one of the few things that keeps me coming back here time after time.
It’s been about five years now that she had her stroke. We had just gotten into Minneapolis from somewhere in Chicago. We didn't stay there long, so I don't remember too much about it. Before Chicago we had been in Ohio, Michigan, New York, Maryland, Georgia - which is where we spent the majority of my younger years – Florida, Alabama and Texas. She told me that we had been in Arizona, California and Nevada when I was really young, but I don't remember it. I don't remember everything about Georgia either, but that is where some of the few brighter highlights of my life happened.
I never went to the same school for a whole year, but I was always enrolled. She found me easier to deal with when I was gone in school for eight hours a day. It meant she was free to do whatever she wanted without me around to bother her.
I was able to graduate from a vocational school shortly after coming to Minneapolis. I managed to test out of all the required classes and then some. I actually scored a seventeen hundred on my SATs — which I was told was beyond awesome — and that I could pretty much attend any school I wanted to. I even had a couple of colleges come after me, but the catch was, I was broke and couldn't afford their tuition. Besides, school wasn’t anywhere I needed to be.
It wasn't long after that SAT test that my mom suffered a severe stroke that left the right side of her body useless and put her in the mental state that she is in right now. The stroke was a blessing in disguise. It forced her to detox and sober up, but the flip side is that she can’t do much on her own and she’s forced to live in this home. But when you break it down, it’s better this way.
Better for me, or better for her? That is the question I always find myself trying to answer. The selfish side of me wants to say it's better for me that she’s here. Hell, even the non-selfish side of me says it is better for me. Having her here means she’s sober and not on the streets. Despite all the times I’ve been asked why I don’t just walk away, I still come here, thinking that maybe my presence brings her some sense of joy. Maybe one day I will find the strength to move on. But today is not that day.
I say my goodbyes, kiss her on the cheek and leave the facility. I need to get downtown and then be back at the diner by four.
The bus drops me off right across the street from Capella Tower. It's a beautiful building, sleek and modern with glass walls and a rounded rooftop. I cross at the crosswalk and head into the building. The entrance is huge, with stone floors and glass-domed ceiling. There is a large directory toward the back, and I head over to it.
I've seen this building a hundred thousand times in the Minneapolis skyline, but this is the first time I’ve been inside. The elaborate decor makes me feel even poorer than usual, even more out of place.
I finally find MSB Enterprises. It’s on floors forty-two through fifty-two. There’s an asterisk next to level fifty and a note: All Visitors Please Report To Level 50. Well, level fifty it is.
When I get to the bank of elevators, I see signs over several of them indicating which floors they go to. I push the up arrow next to the elevator labeled 42-52.
Jeez, they even have their own elevator?
I shift nervously from foot to foot while I wait for the elevator to arrive, again conscious of being completely out of my element. When it comes, I can hear voices — male voices — on the inside.
"Oh, no," I breathe, and I slink away toward the back of the hallway, hoping the men will just exit and turn toward the entrance, away from me.
The doors open and six men file out. Five of them head toward the entryway. The sixth gentleman quickly slides past me toward the door at the end of the hallway. Thankfully, I don’t recognize any of them as Mr. Suit.
I duck into the elevator and look at the control panel. Above the buttons there’s a little sign that reads, Entry to floors 42-49 prohibited without a key card. Floors 51-52 only accessible from floor 50. Well, I guess I have no choice but to go to the fiftieth floor. I push the button and lean into the wall, wrapping my arms around my ribcage. After a few moments the elevator starts to chime as we pass every third floor past the twentieth. I watch the numbers rise by threes, wrapping my arms tighter around my chest, nerves taking over.
I regret coming here. I hadn’t thought this far ahead, and I don’t have a clue how to go about leaving this for him. Maybe there will be a receptionist I can leave the note with.
I suddenly have the urge to see him again, something I hadn’t expected. The image of Mikah looking down at me when I woke up from fainting yesterday pops back into my mind, and the urge to see him grows stronger. I look up to see what floor we’re on. Forty-one. Almost there.
Ugh. It’s stupid of me to want to see him again. He’s everything I’m not, and I have no business thinking about him that way.
"When was the last time you ate?" a male voice says from behind me.
SIX
I jump, stop breathing and then try to sink further into the wall.
Without turning to look at him I mumble, "Uh, last night, with you."
Suddenly an arm reaches out for the panel in front of me. He presses stop and then presses the button with a phone on it.
A disembodied voice comes on the line. "Yes, sir?"
"Redirect us to the skyway level, please."
I huff.
"Yes, sir."
There are a couple of clicks, and the elevator starts to descend again. I'm still not looking at him.
"Why? What is so damn important about feeding me?" I try to growl and sound irritated, but the mention of food has made me hungry. Then again, I'm almost always hungry. But there’s no way I’m accepting more charity from him. In fact, this is the perfect opportunity to give him his money back. Then I can leave via the skyway system and grab a bus back toward my apartment. It’ll give me time to eat a hot dog, since it's still hours before I have to be at work.
"It's important to me because eating is healthy, and I don't like the way you look."
"Gah!" I exclaim. "Are you kidding me? What difference does it make to you what I look like? You’re some random customer who’s come into my diner for the last couple of nights. So what if I'm a little thin. That's my business and none of yours."
I look up, trying to see how long until we reach skyway level. I’m eager to get out of this conversation. We are still only in the upper twenties, and the skyway is on level two or three. Damn it.
I hear him sigh in frustration. "Because people, especially you, should not go without food."
Me? "What is so damn special about me?” I ask aloud. “For all you know I'm some random drug addict—"