“So, Miss Sheila, what are you doing for Christmas? Going home to see your family?”
Sheila looked up to see Daniel smiling at her. She cleared her throat. “I’ll be go—excuse me, please.”
She left the table quickly, the lump in her throat rising. Going into the bathroom, she shut the door and swallowed hard, defying the tears that stung her eyes.
“No, you’re not going to cry, not here, not now.” Sheila looked at herself in the mirror and wiped the corners of her eyes with both hands. Lord, when will You heal me? And why am I too scared to even tell my best friend the truth?
She blew her nose, flushing the toilet to cover up the noise, and took a tentative step back toward the dining room, where the family waited for her. Not her family, Margaret’s family. Virtual strangers. And Sheila was expected to sit down in the midst of them and act like everything was all right.
Bitterness rose up into her throat, quenching whatever spirit of thanksgiving she might have been carrying before. If God was so good, why wasn’t she with her own family, laughing and talking and—
Selfish. She shook herself out of her bout of self-pity with the inward rebuke. She’d recently read a story about a homeless deaf man who was constantly mocked and beaten as he tried to give Gospel tracts to passersby. He was found one winter night, frozen to death, having given up his usual heat grate to a homeless woman and her two small children.
Sheila had nothing to complain about.
Still, as she took another step toward Margaret’s family, she knew she had to leave, or she was going to burst into tears, or say something she would regret. And the last thing she wanted was to ruin somebody else’s holiday.
She walked to the threshold of the dining room. “I didn’t realize the time,” she said. “I promised to get to the shelter early to help set up for the dinner.”
At least she wasn’t lying. She had volunteered to help serve Thanksgiving dinner at the homeless shelter downtown, and she did promise the director to come early. Not four hours early, but Margaret didn’t have to know that.
“You must be helping butcher and de-feather the turkeys.”
“Daniel,” Margaret elbowed her husband with a scowl. “I’m sure they’re going to need all the extra help they can get.”
Daniel smiled at Sheila mischievously. “Please excuse my wife,” he said. “Too many mashed potatoes make her lose her sense of humor.” He deflected another jab with his hand.
Sheila managed to return the smile, despite suddenly feeling like an outsider. No matter how close she and Margaret were, they weren’t family, not in the blood sense of the word, not in the sense of having seen each other at their very worst myriad times and still forgiving each other and being there for each other as if nothing bad had ever happened. The way it used to be between Sheila and her sisters. Before Sheila did the apparently unforgivable deed, anyway.
She gave Margaret a quick squeeze before rushing out the door as if she were already late, the stinging behind her eyes that usually accompanied thoughts about her family, absent. The last thing the people at the shelter needed was someone walking around in a cloud of gloom, so Sheila pushed the pain of the memory to the back of her mind, a feat she’d grown expert at doing over the last several years. Repression, it had been called in her psychology class in high school. An obstacle in relationships. A threat to physical as well as emotional well-being.
And the only way Sheila could face the stress of teaching—no, living—every day.
* * *
“You’re early,” Nelida Garza, the director of the homeless shelter, said to her when she walked into the shelter kitchen twenty-five minutes later. Sheila couldn’t tell whether Nelida was shocked at Sheila’s unexpected appearance, or just harried by the frantic activity going on around her.
Sheila shrugged. “Put me to work.”
Nelida did, and Sheila spent the next three hours chopping, stirring, and washing dishes. She was so tired that by the time dinner began she was afraid she would collapse face down into the mashed potatoes and candied yams she was serving.
“The line must be three blocks long,” commented another volunteer as the shelter doors were opened.
As the throng began to make its way past the long tables laden with Thanksgiving fare, Sheila felt reinvigorated. Something about serving needy people stirred up a deep compassion she rarely felt, and she found that her own looming problems shrunk to the size of a grain of sand when confronted with the harsh realities so clearly etched on the faces of those walking by.
She recognized some of them from the handful of other times she had helped feed the homeless with her church during the past year. There was Scott, the schizophrenic man who would be quite a looker if he would clean himself up. There was Maria, always effusing gratitude for everyone’s service and for the food. Sheila had heard that she was an illegal immigrant, working under minimum wage for a cheap motel. Then there was that tall, well-built African-American guy who never talked.
Most of the people who came in to eat this night, however, were unfamiliar. Of course, unlike the nightly feedings Sheila had been involved in, children participated in this feast. Sheila thought her heart would break when she realized that none of these kids had a place to call home. None.
She prayed that there would be room enough for them in the family shelters, that their parents would get back on their feet and be able to rent even a tiny one-bedroom apartment—
“Maestra?”
The plaintive voice to her left jarred Sheila out of the rumination. She glanced down, believing for a split second that she’d heard wrong, or that she wasn’t the one being addressed.
Then her blue eyes met a large, brown pair full of innocence and the joy of recognizing and being recognized.
Sheila swallowed. “Diana?” What is she doing here?
The Latino woman next to Diana turned pale underneath a heavy coat of makeup when Sheila caught her eye. Then she bent over, whispering furiously into the little girl’s ear. Diana’s only response was a nod, but it was enough to catapult the woman into action. She yanked Diana’s Styrofoam tray from her hand, stacked it onto hers, and pulled Diana out of the line with a firm grip on her hand. Diana cast a puzzled glance at Sheila, and tripped. Somehow the woman managed to pull Diana up while keeping the trays balanced in her other hand.
“Can you handle the potatoes for a couple minutes?” Sheila didn’t wait for Connie, who stood next to her heaping green beans onto the plates, to answer. She strained to follow Diana and the strange woman’s movements through the crowd as she half-walked, half-jogged, to the end of the serving line. But by the time she got out from behind the table, she had lost them.
A wave of panic began to rise up inside her, though she wasn’t sure why. The woman Diana was with was probably her aunt. Sheila had no fears about the girl being kidnapped. But why would the courts grant child custody to a homeless relative? Where had Diana been living since her father had been jailed? And why had the woman run away from her?
“Excuse me. Excuse me.” She pushed her way between a young couple kissing and an elderly man with a cane, ignoring the angry words that followed her, and scanned the large hall for Diana and her aunt.
No sign of them.
Sheila ran to the door to check outside, peering to the right and to the left. But the long line waiting to be fed obscured any view she might have had of the retreating figures.
The bathroom. Maybe they’d hid in the bathroom. Sheila whirled around and almost ran into Nelida.
“Sheila, are you all right?” She touched Sheila’s arm, her face lined with concern.
Taking a deep breath to hide her frantic emotion, Sheila forced a smile. “I—I’m fine. I just saw somebody I thought I knew. Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”
Winding around crowded tables, constantly scanning the hall for a glimpse of Diana or the lady, Sheila made her way to the women’s room and pushed the door open, moving aside for an elderly
woman coming out. There was no one outside the stalls. She glanced back to make sure no one had followed her in, then squatted down to look for feet under the stall doors. One was occupied by someone wearing high-heeled boots. Sheila turned to the sink, pretending to fix her hair.
A toilet flushed. She held her breath.
But the woman who came out was a blonde Caucasian woman wearing a baggy sweater. As Sheila stepped out of the bathroom, she gave the room one last frantic sweep. But Diana and the woman with her were nowhere to be seen.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Connie, returning to her post at the potato bowl. “And thanks.” For a moment, she considered telling her the truth, that she’d seen a student and feared for her safety. But would that be some sort of breach of confidentiality? Besides, Sheila was probably worried about nothing, and she didn’t want to dampen someone else’s holiday spirits with imaginary fears. Finally, she added, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
Connie showed no signs of being upset. “No sweat. I’m a mother of four, you know. I can feed one, help another with his homework, and paint a cathedral ceiling all at the same time.”
Sheila smiled. “I’m a Kindergarten teacher. Believe me, I understand.” She took the tray being handed to her and spooned on some potatoes. “God bless you, sir,” she said as she handed it back to its owner.
Stay focused. Keep your mind on the positive.
But even as she berated herself, her gaze slipped past the man in front of her, trying vainly to catch a glimpse of someone who was no longer there.
* * *
A voice penetrated Miguel’s subconscious, and he groaned as he rolled over on the hard cot.
“Hombre, me oiste? I said you have a visitor.”
A visitor? Miguel sat up, trying to shake off the sleep and ignore the stabbing pain in his right side. The last time he’d had a visitor was when a lawyer and his sister Rosa came to his cell asking for him to give Rosa temporary custody of Diana. That was over a week ago, and no one had bothered him since. Not even the guys he usually ran around with to clubs and bars.
Not that they should. Two of them, besides him, had been jailed before, and Miguel had found no problem in pretending they didn’t even exist those few weeks they served time. If someone was foolish enough to get themselves caught in illegal action, he believed, then they deserved to be left alone in a hellhole for a while.
He hadn’t changed his mind. He only wished he hadn’t been the foolish one this time around. He’d gotten fourteen days for a DWI, plus a $500 fine. He’d thought that was a little stiff for a first offense, but his friends had convinced him a long time ago that the county judges had something against the Mexican population, and this incident confirmed it.
Two weeks away from his daughter. In court, he had pleaded for lesser time, hoping that being a single parent would work in his favor. Maybe it had, his idiot lawyer had told him after Miguel was sentenced; maybe the judge would’ve given him a month or two if he’d been married or childless.
At least Rosa loved Diana like a daughter. He knew her lifestyle was far from perfect, but she’d promised not to have any overnight rendezvous as long as she had custody of Diana.
Overnight rendezvous. That was one thing he would never expose Diana to, her seeing him with another woman who was not her mother. At least, not spending the night in their apartment. Marcela’s death was still as fresh to him as if it had happened five hours ago instead of five years, and he was sure he would never love another woman. And despite the many opportunities in slinky dresses that approached him in the clubs he frequented, he would never use one, either. He would not betray his only true love in that way.
He walked to the cell door, still groggy, hoping beyond hope that it was Rosa and his daughter. Would they even let a five-year-old in to visit? Anyway, the guard had said visitor, as in one. If it was just Rosa, he would have her ask if Diana would be allowed inside.
Wait a minute. Are you crazy, man? He glanced around at the bleak and dingy surroundings. What kind of a father would want to expose his small child to this? Yes, he missed Diana, and he supposed she missed him, but if she entered the county jail, she might have nightmares for months.
The guard let him into the long, narrow visitor area. When he saw his buddy and co-worker Luis sitting across the bullet-proof glass and wire mesh, Miguel was taken aback. Luis was one of the two friends that Miguel had let languish in jail for over a month without giving it a second thought.
Something was up, so Miguel got straight to the point. “What are you doing here?” he asked in Mexican Spanish.
“Guess I just can’t get enough of this place.”
Ordinarily, Miguel would have laughed. But he sensed that Luis had something important to say, and didn’t appreciate the delay.
“Come on, man, talk to me,” Miguel prodded. “You need to say something, say it.”
Luis’ grin faded as he leaned forward, placing his hands on the countertop. He gave the guard standing in the corner a few feet a way a nervous glance. “She’s out on the street,” he said in a low voice. “With the little one. Entiendes?”
Miguel felt the blood drain from his face. Yes, he understood. Rosa got evicted. Diana was with her. Where were they now? Were they safe?
But he didn’t dare ask any questions. The guard was Columbian, and could understand anything they said in Spanish or English. The last thing Miguel wanted at that moment was for the police to get on Rosa’s tail, take Diana away from her, and put her into state custody. From what he’d heard, the streets were often safer than some of the state foster care families. Even if it would be for just a week.
So he had to be satisfied with staring at Luis, hoping he could read the questions in his eyes.
“That’s all I know, amigo, I’m sorry.” Luis sat back, frowning. “But Rosa knows how to take care of herself, and I’m sure everything’s all right.”
Miguel nodded, although not convinced. An awkward silence hung between them until Miguel said, “Thanks for coming. I know you didn’t have to do it.”
The grin returned to Luis’ face. “Oh, yes, I did. I drew the short straw, and if I didn’t come and tell you, I’d have to buy everyone a round of tequila.”
“Get out of here.” Miguel gave him a dismissing wave, accidentally banging his right knuckles against the counter.
Luis got up. “See you in a few days. Vaya con Dios.”
Miguel instinctively brought his bruised hand up to his mouth, watching his friend walk away and brushing his last comment aside. God was the last person Miguel wanted in his life, if He even existed.
He stood up as the guard sauntered over to him. His daughter was on the streets. Because he was in jail, his little five-year-old treasure was without a home. He was the king of fools, and in desperation, almost said a prayer for her.
But praying hadn’t worked before, and he doubted it would start working now. He plodded back to his cell, wondering if he could convince the guard to get him some Tylenol.
And wondering if his daughter had eaten that day.
CHAPTER 6
Sheila didn’t get much sleep that night, nor the next. Both nights she dreamed that Diana had been kidnapped by a strange man who intended her harm, and in both dreams Sheila witnessed the kidnapping, but stood paralyzed with fear while the man ran away with a screaming Diana thrown over his shoulder. She asked the Lord if it meant anything, and when she got no answer, decided that no news was good news.
Still, all day Saturday she walked around in a fog, fighting the temptation to worry about Diana. She spent most of the morning sitting and listening to the radio, stretching her legs occasionally by finding an odd chore to do. That afternoon, waiting in line at the library to check out some books, she felt as if she would fall asleep standing up, and when she got home, she did something she never did in the middle of the day and turned on the television.
If she’d had cable, she probably would have been able to find some channel play
ing It’s a Wonderful Life, but since she didn’t, she had to satisfy herself with a travel program on PBS. As the narrator rambled on about Venice, she did something else she never did in the middle of the day and fell asleep in her chair. She dozed just long enough to awaken with the feeling that she’d taken a heavy sedative, and to find a different program on.
“Shoot. Now I’m going to feel like crud the rest of the day,” she moaned. It was only four o’clock, but she knew from experience that she would be a walking zombie from then until she went to bed. Bored with the financial ramblings of the show’s host, she clicked off the television and pushed herself out of the chair. An hour and a half later, she would practice her weekly ritual of taking herself out for dinner. Until then, she had to find something to do to get her blood recirculating.
She ended up going for a brief walk, scrubbing down her kitchen counters and stovetop, and plunking at her cheap electronic keyboard for about thirty minutes. At 5:15, feeling somewhat refreshed, she got into her car and drove about a half a mile through tree-lined streets until she hit the nearby business district.
I should’ve walked, she thought as she pulled up to a TGI Fridays. The mere act of sitting in her car for five minutes had brought back the feeling of utter fatigue. When she stepped out of her car, however, she realized the air was turning cold. No, she was glad she had taken the car. On foot the trip would take a good twenty minutes, and she would have been chilled to the bone by the time she got home.
She was quickly seated at a table for two, and rattled off her order for chicken fajitas as soon as her waiter came to ask what she wanted to drink. While she waited for her food to arrive, she began reading the latest Francine Rivers novel, ignoring the fact, as she did every Saturday, that she was the only person in the place dining alone.
She only looked up when the young man serving her brought her the plate of sizzling meat and vegetables. “Thank—” she began, then froze.
Hank Johnson was headed straight toward her table. Looking right at her.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she repeated, smiling at the waiter then quickly diverting her eyes to her plate. Maybe she’d been mistaken. Maybe Hank hadn’t seen her, and wouldn’t see her if she could just keep her face out of his view.