Nick and I don’t respond—there’s nothing we can say.
“We need to figure out a plan for tomorrow,” Mom continues. “I work eight to five.”
“Abs, will you be okay with Amber until I get back from the kennel?” Nick asks.
My stomach churns. “I have the ACT tomorrow morning. Please—I can’t miss it.”
“Shit.” Nick pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and first finger. “What time?”
“Seven thirty. But I should get done by noon.”
He nods and the silence is thick while we wait for him to think through our options.
“Okay,” he finally says. “I think I have some flexibility at the kennel. Take your test in the morning, and I’ll stay with Amber until you get back. I’ll leave a message letting them know I won’t be in until after lunch.”
“Can you do that?” Mom asks.
Nick shrugs. “What other choice do I have?”
“And my paper route?” I ask. “What do we do about that?”
Nick’s shoulders fall. “I’m sorry, kiddo. We need you here. You’ll need to call them before your test in the morning—I don’t imagine they’d still be there tonight. Explain to them about today, and let them know why you can’t make it tomorrow. If we’re lucky, they’ll be understanding. When you’re done with your test tomorrow, head straight over to the Presbyterian Church and try to make it in time for the Community Kitchen. It might be all you get tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MY EYES BLUR AT THE TEST IN FRONT OF ME AND I SMOTHER A YAWN WITH MY FIST. WITH AS MUCH AS I slept yesterday, I’m surprised I’m still tired today. The clock ticks from above the door, its tick-tick-tick competing with the frantic scratches of pencils on paper as students complete the ACT in the otherwise silent classroom. It’s already 11:53 a.m. and I still have five remaining questions. I don’t have time to work them all out, so I fill in random ovals and hope for the best. I blow out a breath and close the booklet before handing it to the proxy on my way out the door. She smiles and nods, careful not to disrupt those still working through the remaining three minutes.
My feet trudge tiredly through the quiet school halls, and frigid air hits me the second I step outside. I wrap my arms around myself for warmth, but it doesn’t help much. The lining in my jacket is insufficient, and the cold wind blows straight through as though I’m not wearing a jacket at all. I shiver and increase my pace. I have to hurry—I can’t miss lunch.
Icy slush swallows my canvas shoes with what remains of last night’s four inches of snow. Cold, wet earth seeps through the fabric until my feet are blocks of ice and prickle with pain. But I can’t stop or even slow down. I pick up my pace and arrive at the church out of breath and sweating despite the cold in my bones. I race into the building then stumble to a stop as my eyes find the clock in the hallway: 12:37 p.m. My heart sinks. If lunch isn’t over, it will be soon. Can I still participate when arriving so late?
My stomach lets out a growl and I know I have to take a chance. Slower now, I follow the hallway past the kitchen and toward the dining hall.
“Abby?”
I stop and turn back toward Mrs. Cummings’s voice, finding her seated at a food preparation bar in the kitchen with two other women, each enjoying what remains of today’s meal. My heart sinks. If Mrs. Cummings has time to eat, they must’ve stopped serving. Tears sting my eyes and I swallow hard. “Hi, Mrs. Cummings.”
The elderly woman stands and walks toward me, her smile warm. “I thought that was you. Did you just get here?”
“Yes. I’m—I’m late.” Heat creeps into my cheeks.
Mrs. Cummings stretches her neck to see over my shoulder. “Where’s the rest of your family?”
“At home—well, actually, Amber and Nick are home. Amber’s sick today, and I had the ACT this morning, so Nick’s staying with her. Mom’s at work.” My shoulders fall. “I hurried to get here, but my test took longer than I expected. Can I still eat?”
“Of course!” She waves her hand in dismissal. “Our guests are almost done eating but let’s get you a plate.”
“You don’t mind? I’m really sorry I’m late.”
“Sounds like you had a good excuse.” Mrs. Cummings bustles around the kitchen, weaving between volunteers working on cleanup. “What will your parents and Amber do for dinner?”
“I—I’m not sure. Amber’s too sick to eat, though.”
“Well, she’s in luck. We had chicken noodle soup with lunch, and we have plenty left. We’ll make up four meals and you can take them back with you.”
More tears build and sneak out from the corners of my eyes. I swipe at them, hoping she won’t see. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Cummings tsk-tsks sympathetically as she fills a plate with food, then turns to a lady helping with cleanup. “Nancy, please make up four plates to go with this young lady. Make sure to add plenty of soup, and some extra rolls. If there’s any left, put some granola bars or snacks in a Ziploc baggie—anything that will keep well. We’ll be back.”
Mrs. Cummings takes my arm and hands me the plate piled high with food. Then, picking up the meal she abandoned, she leads me to a preschool room with tiny tables and chairs set up. She waves at a chair and sits. “Let’s you and I eat in here.”
I take a breath and paste on a smile before bringing my eyes to hers. She hands me a box of tissues.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
She nods and a comfortable silence settles over us as we eat our meals. When I finish, I meet her eyes and ask the question that’s been bothering me since the first time we met. “Why do you do this?”
“Feed people?” she asks.
“Yes. You’re here every week. Does anyone ever thank you?”
“You did,” she reminds me.
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean me. I meant everyone else. Does anyone else ever say thank you?”
She nods. “Occasionally. That’s not why I do it, though.”
“Why then?”
Mrs. Cummings shrugs. “Because I have to. I mean, I’m called to do it. So many people just need a helping hand, and I have a need to provide it—to give them the hand up when they’re down.”
“But why?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. I guess I feel so blessed for all I have; it’s my way of saying thank you for all I’ve been given. It could be any of us out there on the street. Poverty shows no prejudice.”
I ponder her words, remembering how much this one meal each week helps my outlook for the week ahead. It gives me hope. “I’m gonna do this,” I blurt out. “When I’m in a better place, I want to come back and help you.”
“I’d like that,” she says.
With our meals completed, we return to the kitchen where the volunteer has a grocery sack of food ready for me.
“There’s plenty in there for dinner tonight, and I threw in some extras for breakfast tomorrow,” she says, handing the bag to me.
“Thank you.” Then—without any forethought—I throw my arms around both ladies in a hug, saying once more, “Thank you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SUNLIGHT POURS THROUGH THE VAN’S WIN-DOWS, AND ANOTHER COLD NIGHT HAS PASSED. I OPEN MY eyes but my head feels like it’s splitting open with pain. I close them immediately. I don’t remember waking last night so I should be well-rested, but my body is heavy and craves more sleep. I swallow and it’s as if sharp razors slice the back of my throat. A soft hand feels my forehead and Mom clucks her tongue. “You have a fever, Abby.”
I nod. “My head and throat hurt, too.”
“I wish I had a thermometer—you’re burning up.”
I crack open my eyes. “How’s Amber?”
“Still sick, but her fever’s down some. I don’t think we should leave you girls alone today.”
“We’ll be ok
ay,” I croak. “We’ll sleep, anyway—there’s not much you can do.”
Mom looks at Nick and he shrugs. “I hate it, but she’s right.”
“But Abby can’t take care of herself, much less Amber,” Mom argues, her brow etched in indecision as though grappling with what she wants to do versus what she has to do.
Nick sighs. “I’ll check in on them. I thought I’d try panhandling at the turn-in to Walmart, so I can peek in every couple hours.”
Mom turns her attention back to me, her eyebrows scrunched together. She brushes the hair away from my face. “Sure you’ll be okay?”
I nod, but cringe as I swallow. “Yup. We need the money.”
Mom studies me then leans down and kisses my forehead. “I love you. Try to get some rest.”
Nick grabs a piece of cardboard with large black letters drawn on its surface, and opens the side door. I’m too groggy to read the words, but it isn’t necessary—I know what it is. Nick’s once-proud shoulders are stooped in defeat but he pulls his lips into a half smile and squeezes my foot twice as he jumps out of the van. “I’ll check in on you in an hour or so, okay?”
I don’t have the energy to respond. I’m so exhausted I don’t even hear the van door close behind him.
“ABS.” A HAND shakes me gently. “Abby, wake up.”
“I’m awake.” My head beats like a bass drum and I know better than to open my eyes again. “What time is it?”
“A little after two.”
“Two?” My mind is scrambled. I can’t understand how it was early morning only a few minutes ago.
“You’ve been sleeping all day,” Nick says. “You need some soup to warm you up.”
I pry open my eyes and find the sun less blinding this time. My head throbs, so I carefully pull myself to a sitting position. Beside me is Amber, already awake and sipping at a steaming cup. My brow wrinkles. “How—? I thought we ate all the soup last night.”
“A lady stopped and gave it to me. She’d stopped earlier and asked if I needed anything, and I mentioned having two sick daughters. She left, then returned with two containers of soup and a large cup of coffee from Panera.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Nick nods. “She didn’t even stick around to hear my thanks.”
“Why would she do that?”
Nick shrugs and sips at his coffee. The soup is still hot and it eases the rawness in my throat, but I can’t eat. I secure the lid and hand it back to him. “I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay, kiddo.”
Guilt washes over me at the waste. Now that I’ve eaten from it, Nick and Mom can’t or they’ll risk becoming sick themselves. My head swims. I crawl back under the covers and rest my heavy eyes. A moment passes and Nick’s strong hands tuck the blanket’s edges around me, trapping the heat. I’m so exhausted—I want to sleep, but shivers wrack my body and I’m cold everywhere.
I don’t hear Nick move, but a moment later the van starts and cold air blows through the vents. It won’t help, though. Even when it warms, the cold is coming from so deep inside me I know I’ll never be warm again. I lie there and drift in and out of consciousness until exhaustion finally wins.
“DADDY, I’M SO cold!” Amber’s voice comes to me through a long tunnel. I’m at that in-between stage of asleep and awake where I can hear everything around me, but I can’t make my eyes open.
“I know, baby,” he whispers.
“There’s got to be something we can do.” Mom’s voice is an angry whisper. “Can we try going back to the Dorothy Day House? If they’re not full, maybe they’ll let us stay.”
Nick sighs. “I’ve already tried. Their rules are strict—two weeks there, a month away, then we can return for two weeks.”
“What about the church?” she whispers. “Couldn’t we go there just for tonight? The girls are freezing. You’ve got the keys, and we’d be out before anyone arrives in the morning.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he says. “If we get caught, I’ll lose my job.”
“Dammit, Nick. What good is a job if we’re freezing and the girls are sick? If we don’t get them warmed up, it won’t matter if you still have a job because we won’t have the girls.”
“Shit!” Nick croaks out. “Just let me think, okay? I need a minute to think!”
Silence envelops us and I hear the unmistakable sniffle of someone crying.
“Sh…it’s okay, Nick,” Mom soothes.
My heart races. Nick is crying?
“Fuck!” Nick’s fist pounds the floorboard and, next to me, Amber cries.
“It’s okay, honey,” Mom says. “We’ll figure something out.”
“No, Claire. It’s not okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “This is not what I wanted for my family. What kind of life is this?”
“We’ll get through it. Let’s just focus on tonight. What can we do right this minute?”
He doesn’t answer for the longest time, then he blows out a breath. “The church is really large—big enough I think we could pull it off without getting caught, at least for one night. There’s a storage room in the basement adjacent to the gym. If we slept there, we’d be hidden from sight. There’re also two locker rooms with toilets and showers. We’d have to be out early in the morning, though. I don’t think the staff comes in before eight, but there’s a daycare on the other side of the basement and they probably open by seven, I’d think.”
“And the church office is upstairs?” Mom asks.
“Right. Everything should be locked up but, even if someone comes in, there’s no reason for them to come downstairs to the storage room—especially at night.”
“So what if we stay there tonight and leave early tomorrow morning before anyone gets there? Who would know?”
“It’s risky,” he warns.
“I know. But it’s too cold to stay in this van when we have other options. What if the girls get pneumonia, and we have to add another hospital visit to our list? Could you forgive yourself if something happened to them? I know I couldn’t!”
“Fine.” Nick’s voice is resigned. “But we have to be out early. I’ll park the van in the neighborhood behind the church so it doesn’t draw attention.”
Nick opens the sliding door on his side and pops into the driver’s seat. I doze as he drives to the church, only awakening when Mom nudges my shoulder.
“C’mere, my sweet girl,” she says to me, helping me sit up. “You’re too big for me to carry anymore, but lean on me and I’ll help you.”
Mom locks an arm around my waist, bearing the burden of my weight as she leads me into the building. Her body is so familiar and sturdy—I wish I could crawl into her lap like I did when I was Amber’s age.
Ahead of us, Nick carries Amber cradled in his arms. We follow him down a long hallway and descend a set of stairs before turning left through a set of double doors into the gymnasium. Another set of double doors is located along one wall and leads to a large storage room filled with daycare cots, chairs, tables and other items, all stacked high one atop the other. On an adjacent wall is a shelf holding about a dozen braided rugs. Nick reaches for a cot with one arm and sets it on the floor, then places Amber’s body gently atop it. Once she’s settled, he pulls a rug from the shelf, unrolls it onto a wide space on the floor, and places a blanket on top of it before nodding at Mom.
“Abby, honey,” Mom says. “Lie down on this pallet and get comfortable.”
I do as she instructs and curl into a tight ball. Seconds later, the weight of another blanket settles over me.
“What now?” Mom’s voice is distant, as though coming through a tunnel. I realize I’m slipping into sleep and defiantly pry my eyes open and watch them.
“I’m gonna move the van,” Nick answers. “You go ahead and find a comfortable spot—I’ll be back shortly.”
Mom puts her arms around Nick’s neck. “Thank you,” she says, touching her lips to his.
The kiss is short but elicits a smile from Nick. “I
won’t be long.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“ABBY, WAKE UP.” MOM’S VOICE ECHOES THROUGH MY SLEEP-MUDDLED BRAIN. “ABBY, HONEY. YOU need to wake up.”
I open my eyes and swallow the barbed wire in my throat. “I don’t feel good.”
“I know, sweetheart. But it’s five thirty and we need to get out. I thought you might want to take a shower first.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the van. The daycare people will be here soon.”
“No, Mom—please.” I choke on a sob. “Can’t we stay here? We’ll be so quiet they’ll never know we’re here. Don’t make us go!”
“Honey, we can’t. If we get caught, Nick’ll lose his job.” Mom runs the palm of her hand over my forehead and sighs. “Your fever is up again.”
I pull myself to standing and swipe at the tears leaking from my eyes. A wave of dizziness washes over me and my head pounds like a subwoofer. I can’t remember a time I’ve felt so awful.
“Mama, please don’t make me go back out there.” My words are nearly indistinguishable through my heavy sobs. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s everything, or maybe it’s nothing at all. The only thing I know is I hate this life and I want to go home. Not home to the van, but home to Omaha—back to a time before everything fell apart.
Mom pulls me into her arms and rocks me back and forth, making my vertigo worse. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. We don’t have another choice.”
I step out of Mom’s arms and rock back against a shelf for support. I try squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, but I don’t have the energy. “I’m not going back out there. I’ll go to school instead.”
“Sit down, Abby.” Nick’s voice is a command.
“No,” I croak.
“Please, Abs,” he says. “Sit down, okay?”
Deflated, I obey.
Nick squats next to me and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Sweetheart, you can’t go to school—they wouldn’t let you even if you tried.”
“Please, Nick.” I swipe at a tear with the sleeve of my shirt.
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