“Thank you.” Elise smiles.
I pull items off the pantry shelves and put them in the cart. Powdered milk, canned fruits and vegetables, sliced bread, peanut butter and jelly. Pasta and sauce, boxed macaroni and cheese, and some apple juice. Down another aisle I find cereal, oatmeal, and instant coffee.
“Is Benji potty-trained?” I ask Elise.
“Yes and no. He still wears a diaper at night.”
I turn down a new aisle and pull a pack of toddler-size diapers off the shelf. “Anything else you need from this aisle?”
Elise shakes her head.
“Is there anything special that you’d like today?”
“No, I don’t need anything,” Elise says. “Just the food is fine.”
I’d be very happy to write Elise a big fat check, but I don’t push. Pride and dignity are important to her, as they are to most. I help her bag her groceries, and then Skye and I pack them in the little red wagon she left outside the pantry.
“Do you live near here?” Skye asks.
“About twenty blocks away,” she says. “It’s a nice walk.”
“There’s a bus stop right there.” Skye nods. “Let me give you—”
“No, thank you,” Elise says. “Benji and I enjoy the walk. Thank you very much for the food.”
“You’re very welcome,” I say. “You come back anytime.”
Elise smiles and nods and then places Benji in the wagon among the bags of food and begins the walk home. Skye watches them for a moment. Benji pulls a loaf of bread out of the bag and squeezes it. I shift back in time once more, remembering my own Benji squeezing the day-old loaves we got at the food pantry. Mom admonished him every time. He promised never to do it again. Until the next time we got a loaf of bread. My little brother couldn’t resist.
Skye smiles. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“No need to thank me.”
She looks over my shoulder. Cheryl is leading another woman with a small girl hanging on her hand into the panty. Another volunteer takes a young man from the line.
“Why this place, Braden? You could volunteer anywhere.”
“Because,” I say, “my mother used to bring Ben and me here when we were little to get food.”
Skye’s mouth drops open.
“Apparently I’m full of surprises today,” I say.
She doesn’t know the truth of those words. She’s the first person I’ve said them to in a long time. But I’ve opened something up inside me, and now I want something in return.
Skye touches my arm lightly. “I think it’s wonderful that you volunteer here and also support the pantry financially.”
“It’s the least I can do. Never forget where you came from, Skye. It’s a part of you. Always.”
We head to the Mercedes where Christopher waits. I open the door for her.
I slide in next to Skye in the back seat. “I showed you a part of my past today. Now I’d like to know something about you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What do you want to know?” she asks.
“Something that had an impact on you. Helped define who you are.”
“Okay. But I want to say something first.” She drops her gaze a moment.
“Go ahead.”
She doesn’t look at me. “I didn’t know you ever went hungry.”
“Did you give it a second thought?” The words come out in monotone. I’m not trying to make her feel bad. I just know most people never give food a second thought because they’ve always had it.
“No, I didn’t,” she says, finally bringing her head up to meet my gaze. “I’ve never gone hungry, and I never realized how lucky I am. I’m going to try not to take things like that for granted anymore.”
I trail a finger over her cheek. “Good. You should never take anything for granted. It can all be gone in a minute.”
I’m happy Skye has never known hunger. I don’t wish for her to know anything that feels so hopeless. Hunger did do something very profound for me, though. It gave me drive. It gave me passion. It taught me to never turn my back on any opportunity, no matter how small.
And it taught me to never give up. To never lose the drive to be better. Because…it can all be gone in a minute.
I know.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “The thought of you going to bed hungry makes me so sad.”
“Don’t be sorry, and please don’t be sad. Everything in my past has contributed to what I’ve become. Just as it has for you. Maybe you don’t have one thing you can pinpoint. But tell me something about your past. Something that helped shape who you are today.”
“Do I really have to go into this?” She bites on her lower lip.
I’m so close to letting her off the hook, but I lob a softball at her. One I’m pretty sure she won’t resist. “No. I’ll never force you to tell me anything.”
“Thanks.”
Silence for a few minutes. Then she speaks.
“When I was seven, I was playing by myself in our cornfields.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, while I imagine a carefree little girl, long hair flying, amusing herself among the tall stalks.
“By yourself?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m an only child, and none of my friends lived close by. I saw them only at school until I got older. Anyway, I got lost.”
“In the cornfield?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Don’t look so surprised. Our cornfields are huge. We have more than two hundred acres. I was only allowed to play at the very edge of the field where someone could keep an eye on me. Anyway, I got caught up chasing a praying mantis.”
“Somehow, I never took you for an entomophile.”
“I was seven, Braden, with the attention span of a praying mantis myself. They’re green, as you know, and it was a challenge to see it as it hopped from one stalk to another. I followed it with my camera I’d gotten for my birthday. I wanted to take its picture.”
I smile. “You were having fun.”
“I was. There wasn’t much else to do.”
“Except outrun tornadoes.”
She gives me a good-natured smack on my upper arm. “I won’t deny taking shelter from a few in my day, but you can’t outrun a tornado. You shouldn’t try.”