TWENTY-TWO
Kiersten
The last thing I want to do is go to the WIC office. I know it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We all need help sometimes and I’ve paid into the system for years. Forty dollars in food a month for a couple of years won’t even make a dent in the taxes I’ve had taken out of my paychecks. I’m just not really in the emotional headspace to keep my chin up this morning. Getting only a couple of hours sleep isn’t helping either.
This appointment is not about me, though. It’s not about Paul or the one night we had together or the shitty way he talked to me this morning. It’s not even about the fact that I know I misunderstood what he was trying to say and let my own insecurities stop us from having an adult conversation. I’ll have to fix that later. But first, this appointment is about Carson and it would serve me well to keep that at the forefront of my mind for at least a little while.
Looking down at him as we walk along the sidewalk, I gently remind my son about how to behave at appointments like these. If my mother taught me anything of value, it’s that we want to be respectful of the fact that this is someone’s workplace.
“When we’re inside, I want you to be very quiet, Carson.” I put my finger over my lips to reiterate what I’m telling him.
“Be kiat?”
“Yep. No yelling. And stay with mommy the whole time.”
We walk in the non-descript front door into an equally non-descript room. It’s like any other government office I’ve ever been in—plain cream paint with posters about nutrition and breastfeeding on the walls, blue plastic chairs, a long desk separating the staff from those of us waiting. It does have one thing going for it though—a giant wooden toy block. I’m sure it’s sticky from years of little kids playing with it, but I don’t mind as long as Carson is entertained. And from the way his eyes light up when he sees it, I’m sure he’ll be happy for a while.
“I pay, mommy.”
“Go ahead, buddy,” I encourage since it’s just a few short feet from where I have to check-in.
I smile politely at the staff member I’m approaching. I’m sure working in community service is draining. There’s an element of customer service that goes with it, just like my job. I’d rather not be the customer that makes her day more difficult.
“Hi, I have an appointment.” She doesn’t look up from her computer, clicking away on the keys.
“Name?”
“Kiersten Willoughby.”
“Child’s name?”
“Carson. Same last name.”
It takes her only a few seconds to pull up my information and finally make eye contact, although she still appears really bored. I feel bad for her. It’s still morning and the workday isn’t even halfway over. Things are not going to go well if it’s already this draining on her mood.
“I need a utility bill, proof of income, and your child’s shot record,” she finally says and I hand over what I have, which isn’t much.
“Um, my boss couldn’t give me any paycheck stubs because he does it all online.” I hate that I can hear the embarrassment in my voice, but she’s not giving me good vibes. “Is there a way I can email them to you to print? I’m sorry,” I tack on quickly, feeling bad that I didn’t stop to think long enough during my conversation with Paul to get what I need at work.
She sighs and hands me a business card with the email address on it. “Have a seat and just come back up when you’re done.”
I thank her and sit down in the closest chair, making quick work of screenshotting my proof and emailing it to her, while she checks in someone else who actually brought the right paperwork. Getting back in line, I try to stop mentally berating myself for my lack of preparation but it’s hard. Very little sleep, a humiliating conversation, and humbling myself to get food for my son isn’t a good combination.
When I get back to the front of the line, I smile again. She gives me no reaction, except to look at her monitor. I wait patiently, hoping she’s looking for my email and not just ignoring me.
“You only have two paycheck stubs.”
I furrow my brow. “That’s all the paper said I needed.”
“It’s better to have three.”
“Do you need me to send you another one?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes as if I’m causing her tremendous grief. “We’ll make do.”
An idea hits me that will hopefully make this process easier. “Um, will last year’s tax return help?”
“Probably. Let’s see it.” I hand it over to her, grateful I had the foresight to have it with me, until she huffs her frustration again. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“What do you mean? That’s it.”
She holds it up to show me, like I don’t know what I just handed her. “This is just the first two pages.”
“That’s what the WIC paper said I needed to bring.”
“No. We need your adjusted gross income.”
“It’s right there.” I point out the line that is clearly labeled “adjusted gross income.”
“Well, that’s not what we need.”
Feeling frazzled and confused, I don’t want to argue with her, but this isn’t the first time I’ve done this. It’s also not the first time someone has tried to make me feel like shit for being here. “The first two pages is exactly what the office we used to go to has taken every year for the last two years.”
She turns to her co-worker who has obviously been listening but stayed silent for this whole exchange. “Can you pull up her previous account?” I wait quietly, biting my lip to keep the tears at bay. Standing behind the co-worker, she finally points at the monitor. “See that’s what we need. Open it up.” She suddenly looks confused. “Why don’t they have the rest of it? That’s just the first two pages. I hate when people don’t know what they’re doing.”
I blink a few times, trying hard not to cry. People are staring at me and she’s talking about my lack of income in front of all these people. I haven’t felt this humiliated since Spence’s mother paid me off to go away. Like we’re unimportant and not worth being treated like human beings.
She turns to another woman who I assume is a manager, although why she hasn’t gotten involved yet is a bit baffling. “Can you look at this? She’s saying this is all she needs but there should be more pages.”
On top of my humiliation, I’m starting to get angry as well. This isn’t right. I’ve followed all the instructions. I’ve brought everything they said they needed. They’re even looking in my previous account to prove I’m not trying to scam the system and she’s still treating me like I’m a criminal for forty dollars in food.
“Have a seat,” she says over her shoulder. “We’ll call you in a minute.”
I turn away quickly, fuming and shocked and ashamed to be in this situation. The worst part is I know it’s not my fault. I’m just trying to do what’s right for my child whose father died. But even knowing I have no reason to feel this way doesn’t make it better when someone is outright treating me like I’m garbage.