Forgotten: Seventeen and Homeless

by Melody Carlson

  I've reached the end ... I cannot go on. I don't want to. I just want all of this to end. If someone gave me a magic button that would erase me from the face of the earth right now, I would be relieved to push it.

  Finally I have no more tears left to cry. I pick up a slightly used Burger King napkin from the floor of the van, blow my nose on it, and just look around. I have no idea what to do next. Where to go? What does it matter? Then I notice a wrinkled business card sitting on my dashboard. I pick it up and stare at the words. They look foreign and unreal to me. Mercy and Grace Community Church. But I remember Pastor Roland at the mission; he seemed real. And I remember what he said-how I could ask him and his church for help. I wonder if he really meant it.

  With nothing to lose, and since the address of the church doesn't look far from this 7-Eleven, I decide to drive over and check it out. Before long, I'm driving past a small white church, and I'm surprised that the parking lot in back is nearly filled with cars, but then I remember it's Sunday. So I park my van, and feeling almost like a sleepwalker or maybe an alien, I get out of the van and go directly into the church.

  Before the door barely closes behind me, I'm tempted to turn and flee, but the warmth lures me in. I go into what seems like an old-fashioned sanctuary-the kind you see in an old movie, complete with wooden pews, stained-glass windows, and several dozen old people with open books in their hands, singing slightly off tune but with enthusiasm.

  I sit in the back as they continue singing, and while the music is completely unfamiliar, it's kind of soothing. But I notice some uncomfortable glances tossed in my direction. Not obvious, but I know people are looking at me ... then looking away again. Almost as if I'm not really here. That's when I notice the people in here are nicely dressed-probably wearing their "Sunday best." Men have on suits and ties. The women look nice too. Everyone looks neat and clean. I look down at my stained jacket and wrinkled pants. I must look like a bum to them. Oh, that's right, I am a bum.

  Even so, I continue sitting there and listen as a man, not Pastor Roland, reads from what I can only assume is a Bible. The words sound like another language and go right over my head. And then Pastor Roland steps up to the wooden podium and begins to talk. I try to take in his words, but quite honestly, I feel confused by them. He's speaking about goodness and kindness and generosity . . . and how love changes the world. But all I can think of is - what love? Where is it? Why have I never been on the receiving end of all this fairy-tale generosity and love? Does it even exist? I feel like I'm ravenous and starving, watching one of those food channels where everything looks so delicious I can almost smell it. And although I might be salivating, there is no real food here-not for me anyway. It's all an illusion, a mean trick.

  And so as quietly as I came in, I slip back out again. But as I drive away from the little white church, I feel confused and betrayed. Why did Pastor Roland think that I would find what I needed there? How can those people help me? It felt as if they couldn't even see me, didn't want to see me. I'm sure my presence made them uncomfortable.

  I drive around some more, trying to think, but my thoughts are like tennis shoes tumbling in a dryer, rattling and thumping, disconnected and random. Nothing makes sense. And then just as I'm accelerating after a red stoplight, nothing happens. My foot presses the gas, but the van is not moving. The engine is dead. I am out of gas.

  Horns are honking behind me now, and I don't know what to do. Feeling desperate, I climb into the back of the van, quickly gather up everything I can stuff into my backpack or carry, then exit through the sliding side door. I hear horns beeping and people yelling unkind remarks and the sounds of engines as drivers maneuver their cars around the big black barricade formerly known as Darth Vader. But I don't look back as I hurry away with my belongings in my arms. I have no idea what will happen to the van. Why should I care?

  By the time I stop walking, I'm out of breath and slightly disoriented. Mostly I just wanted to get away, but now I realize that I'm in the center of town, not far from the swanky hotel that hosted the homecoming dance. That night feels like another lifetime now. I can feel people's curious glances as I walk with my backpack on my back and my arms filled with my other belongings. I feel them stepping aside just slightly, avoiding me like they're worried I might contaminate them or perhaps that I'm going to pester them for money.

  I remember what Cybil said about panhandling. Is this one of the areas she frequented? I must admit that the idea of picking up a few bucks is tempting, and the threat of arrest isn't even terribly disturbing now. Really, would jail be so bad? A bed, warmth, food-why would I complain? I also remember how Cybil said there were numerous ways of getting money. I didn't press her for details, but I'm fairly certain she traded her body for money upon occasion.

  Just thinking of Cybil makes me angry. Why did I ever let her into my life? Look where it got me! But as I walk, I realize I don't have the energy to be angry and survive. I must choose. I know I'm on my way to the mission now. I'm not even sure what I expect they can do for me there, but I hope to get a meal, perhaps even a bed. After that, I don't know. But I have a feeling I won't be in school tomorrow.

  he following week is all about survival. School is a dim memory now. My focus is on getting food, finding a place to sleep, and keeping my stuff from being stolen. I learned this lesson the hard way my first night at the mission. I stupidly left my backpack under my bed and woke up to discover that my dead cell phone, nearly empty wallet, and several other things were missing. Now I sleep with my backpack cradled in my arms like a baby. I would report this theft to the police, but that might mean I need to divulge my age ... and risk ending up in foster care. And while I have moments when I think even a bad foster home might be preferable to this, I still have that old fear. It's hard to get past it. Really, incarceration sounds preferable.

  On Friday, Pastor Roland is serving as the on-site counselor at the mission, and I actually made an appointment with him. I have no idea how or if he can help me, but I'm curious about his offer. Was it just empty words? When I walk into his office, he just smiles at me and introduces himself. When I tell him we've already met, he seems confused. Then he looks down at his appointment book. "Adele?" He stands, coming over to look more closely at me. "Is that really you?"

  My hand instinctively goes to my face, which is broken out in an ugly rash. I'm not sure what it's from, but I'm guessing it might be the pillow I've been using. Who knows how many heads have slept on it already? My long hair is pulled back in a greasy ponytail. And my raggedy frumpy clothes are the ones I used to wear only while working at River Woods. I know I look terrible, but I don't really care about things like appearances anymore. Why should I?

  "Sit down," he says gently, pulling out the chair for me like I'm a fine lady. "Tell me what's going on.,,

  And because he already knows part of my story, I pour out the second half of my sad, twisted tale. Then I wait for his reaction. But he's just sitting there with his hands folded and a quiet expression on his face, almost as if he's waiting for something.

  "And I even visited your church."

  "Was that you in the back last Sunday?" His brow creases with concern. "I noticed a stranger, but then she ... you left."

  "Yeah, I didn't really see the point."

  "The point?"

  "Of being there. I mean, what you were saying sounded nice, but it was a little unreal and out of touch."

  "Unreal and out of touch?"

  "You know, about how kindness, love, generosity-all that goodness changing the world."

  He just nods.

  "I mean, I'm sure those qualities exist for some people." I attempt a feeble laugh. "Probably the kind of people who don't really need anything in the first place. I'm sure that people with money and friends and homes - they're probably surrounded by love, kindness, and generosity."

  "But not you?"

  I just shake my head and hope I can keep from crying. I am so sick of tears.

  "Can I as
k you a question, Adele?"

  I shrug. "Sure. Go for it."

  "When life was going better for you, when you had more money and a place to live and wealthy friends . . . were you happy?"

  "Happy?" I try to wrap my mind around this.

  He points to his chest now. "You know, deep inside of you, were you happy, content, fulfilled? Did having those things bring you a sense of happiness?"

  "I'm sure I was a lot happier than I am now."

  He nods. "But try to remember, did you have a sense of peace inside of you?"

  I think about this, then shake my head. "No, I don't think I've ever had a sense of peace inside of me. I've spent most of my life just waiting for the other shoe to fall. Like even if life is good for a while, it won't last. It never does."

  He points to one side of the desk. "What if I put a big pile of hundred-dollar bills right here?" Now he points to his Bible. "And what if this represented God?"

  I frown. "Huh?"

  "And what if I told you to choose one of these, and it would be entirely yours. Which would you choose?"

  I try to imagine a really big stack of hundred-dollar bills it would probably be worth thousands. I know what I could do with money like that: rent an apartment, get some food and some clothes, go back to school. I'm pretty sure I'd choose the cash, but I have a feeling this is a trick question. "Well, because my biggest problem seems to be poverty, and because I don't even know God and I doubt that he cares much about me anyway, I'd probably go with the money."

  He nods. "Yes, that's what I thought. But what if I told you God is worth more than all the money in that pile, and more than all the money in the world? And what if I told you that God can not only provide for you, but he can give you something money can never buy?"

  "You mean happiness?"

  "Yes . . . and a lot more. If you truly believed that, would you still choose the money?"

  I think hard about this. "If what you're saying is true ... if God really could provide all that I need and give me happiness too ... well, I'd be a fool to choose the money. It would run out in time anyway."

  "Or be stolen like the cash in your flashlight?"

  I nod. "Yeah."

  "So, what if what I'm telling you is true, Adele?"

  "Can you prove it?"

  He smiles. "I can prove it by the results in my own life ... and by the lives of many, many others. But the real proof comes when you allow God to prove it to you himself. That's the only real way to understand what I'm telling you."

  "Meaning?" I frown at him.

  "Meaning, if you invite God into your life ... if you open your arms and receive all that he has to offer-his forgiveness and goodness and kindness and mercy-you will begin to understand this for yourself."

  I take in a deep breath. "I wish that were true."

  "It is true." He smiles. "I challenge you to find out for yourself that it really is true."

  "How?" I ask with a shaky voice. I'm still trying to hold back tears. "It sounds impossible ... and too good to be true."

  "For starters, how about if you trust someone to help you?"

  I frown. "Trust someone?"

  "Yes, I understand you have a hard time trusting, Adele. And I can't say that I blame you for it. The problem is that if you quit trusting everyone, you will always be unhappy."

  "But every time I trust someone" - my voice cracks - "they let me down."

  "Have I let you down?"

  I think about this. "Not yet."

  "But you might give up on me before I do let you down, just to make sure that it doesn't happen?"

  I just stare at him now. It's like he's reading my mind. "Maybe ..."

  "Help is a two-way street, Adele. Someone must be willing to give ... someone else must be willing to receive."

  I nod eagerly as I remember that fictional pile of money. "Hey, I'm totally willing to receive."

  "I'm not just talking about a handout-something you can pocket and take off with. I'm talking about relationships."

  "I don't think I understand."

  "From what you've told me, you're used to depending on yourself. You're a smart young woman, a hard worker, resourceful, but eventually all those things failed you, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "In a way, you let yourself down too."

  "I guess."

  "So maybe it's time to stop relying so much on yourself, Adele. Maybe it's time to rely on others ... and God, too."

  The truth is that actually sounds good to me. Unfortunately, it also sounds too good to be true. "But how? How is that even possible? What do I do?"

  "If you're willing to take a chance, I know a very lovely couple who would be happy to open their home to one of God's lost lambs."

  Okay, the tears are coming again. "Really?" I don't even feel offended that he called me a lost lamb. In fact, it sounded rather sweet.

  He nods. "And their home is within walking distance of your school."

  "Really?"

  "All you have to do is say yes."

  "Yes." I nod eagerly. "Yes!"

  With that he picks up the phone, and I listen as he briefly explains my situation. Less than thirty minutes later, a sweetfaced woman named Beth Edwards picks me up at the mission. She seems almost old enough to be my grandmother, yet she has a young look about her. And she chats easily with me as she drives through town.

  "I retired early from nursing," she tells me. "And my husband, Jim, has a small accounting firm. Our three children are grown and live away from us, and we have four grandchildren who sometimes come to visit in the summer. So we really do have room in our lives to help someone. And when Pastor Roland told me about you a couple of weeks ago, both Jim and I felt it was the right thing to do."

  "Pastor Roland told you about me a couple of weeks ago?"

  She pulls into the driveway of a modest but well-kept ranchstyle house not four blocks from the high school. "Yes. He was quite taken with you-and the fact that your name was the same as his deceased wife." She turns and smiles at me. "You see, his Adele was a good friend of mine, too."

  I'm sure that I'm in a state of shock as she shows me to a bedroom painted the color of a summer sky. "I think you'll like this room. It gets good morning light." Then she gives me the rest of the tour of the neat, comfortable house. "Feel free to use the laundry room to wash your things," she says after she's shown me the sunny yellow room. Finally she stops by a hallway bathroom. "And this will be mostly yours to use, Adele."

  I don't even know what to say. "I'm good at keeping things clean," I finally mutter.

  She pats me on the shoulder. "I'm sure you are."

  "I ... uh ... I don't know how to thank you for

  "You are most welcome, dear. And dinner is at six."

  "Can I help you?" I offer.

  "Not tonight. For now, I just want you to relax, take a bath or shower, do your laundry, have a nap. I'm sure you've been through a lot."

  I nod. "Yeah ... kind of." Then she goes her way, and although I'm still in a state of shock and wonder, I follow her suggestions to clean up and do laundry, but before I take a nap, I get down on my knees and thank God for giving me this chance.

  Several Months Later

  It took me about a week to get over the shock that I actually get to live with Beth and Jim. Pastor Roland was right-they are two of the sweetest people I have ever met. And yet they are not pushy or intrusive. It's like they understand that I still need a little independence, and they give me my space. Even when Beth insisted on taking me shopping for some clothes and things to replace what was stolen, she never tried to press her tastes or styles onto me. And when we finished, she told me I was one of the most sensible teenage shoppers she had ever been privileged to shop with. That was nice.

  With some help from Beth, who talked to a school counselor with me, I got back into school and have been able to make up my missed classes by doing extra credit and a few things. And I even admitted to Lindsey, who is now my best friend, that she hadn't be
en completely wrong about Cybil after all.

  "It might've just been pride on my part," I told Lindsey in art shortly after I was back in school. "But at the time I thought I was trying to help Cybil. Unfortunately, she didn't really want my help. It turned out pretty badly."

  Lindsey nodded. "I haven't seen Cybil for a couple of weeks. I think she might've moved or something."

  Or dropped out. But I wasn't too surprised. Really, that girl just wasn't thinking straight. Even so, I hope Cybil will be okay. And as badly as she wanted her "freedom," I have a feeling it's probably turned into her prison by now ... one way or another. Speaking of freedom, I admitted to Beth that I am underage. She didn't seem too concerned, and after a few weeks, she set up an appointment with a social worker friend of hers, who actually turned out to be trustworthy. Because my mom is still missing and because I turn eighteen in the spring, they decided no formal report needed to be filed. To say I was greatly relieved is an understatement.

  Another thing I was relieved about was Jayden. I honestly didn't think he'd ever speak to me again, but he still wanted to be friends. Or maybe he wanted more, but I told him that just being friends was about all I could handle for now, and he was okay with that.

  It took a few weeks, but shortly before Thanksgiving, I returned to River Woods and gave Ms. Michaels a formal apology-telling her the whole truth and nothing but the truth about why I left so abruptly. To my surprise, she seemed to already know all about it. And she told me that some of the residents, especially Mrs. Ashburn, had been asking for me. Then she offered me my job back, which I gladly accepted. But even before my first day back to work, I visited Mrs. Ashburn. Without going into all the details, I explained to her about my new housing situation, and she seemed very happy for me.

  It felt good to be working again, but this time I decided to put in fewer hours. Although I want to earn enough money to cover my personal expenses, as well as to save for college, I don't want my job to take up all my spare time like it did before.

  That's partly because I want to have a life, and also because I want some time for volunteering at the mission. I've been helping with the kids' program on Saturdays. It's one of the highlights of my week and something I refuse to give up. Nothing is sweeter than seeing those sad faces transformed into smiles as we play games, do crafts, sing songs, and go to the library for story hour. And the moms appreciate the break too.