19
Chase
The driver parks in front of a building that looks like it’s been in a war zone. To say it’s old doesn’t begin to describe this place. Sections of the stucco exterior may have been filled in with mud.
“This is where she asked to be dropped off?” I ask the driver.
“Yes, sir. I tried talking her out of it, but she said she should have come here to begin with.”
I didn’t think much of it when she said she’d been in worse places. But now that I’m here, I’m shocked. I’ve seen places like this on television but never set foot anywhere near one.
The words across the top of the building are faded. Even if they weren’t, they’re in Spanish so the only word I recognize is casa, home, from my favorite Mexican restaurant.
The driver glances up. “Casa de Misericordia, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.” He says in fluent Spanish then turns in his seat to face me. “Our Lady of Guadalupe, Home of Mercy.”
“Are these places always this rundown?” I ask, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole.
“I don’t know. The only one close to where I grew up was part of the church. I think this one’s actually a community center of some sort.” So likely no money coming in from the church to maintain the property. “They didn’t want to take her.”
Anger sparks in my belly. “You left her here in the middle of the night without a place to stay?”
“I made sure she was okay,” he says, getting defensive. “I was going to call my sister if I had to. She and her husband aren’t far. They moved back with his mom after he lost his job.”
“Sorry, man. I…”
He shakes his head, putting a hand up to stop me. “I get it.” The muscle at his jaw ticks. “She kept apologizing for making me drive so far in the middle of the night.”
“That sounds like Jasmine.” I should be grateful someone was looking out for her. Hell, she’s more resourceful than I am. I reach for the door. “Think you can wait?”
“Yes. But you may need to sign for me being here.” He shrugs. “My shift ended almost an hour ago, and I haven’t turned in the keys. I can’t afford to get canned.”
“I got you.” I close the door and head into the building. The front desk is unattended. Kids are laughing and screaming in a hallway to the right. The inner walls of the building appear as damaged as the outside. It’s controlled chaos as people shuffle through and kids cry out.
I’m ready to start opening doors when I catch the attention of a thin, older woman at the end of a hall. She cranes her neck out, eyeing me suspiciously. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.”
“Miss Abby,” the woman beside her insists. “what are we going to do about the washer?”
“One second, Lupe.” She raises a hand in my direction. “On my way.”
“But my clothes are in that one. I don’t have nothing else, and I have to go put in applications today,” she says in distress.
The woman raises a calming hand. “Just give me one minute, Lupe.”
Putting a hand to her chest, she jogs over, her white braid bouncing against her shoulder. “Sorry about that,” she says, out of breath. “I’m Abby. How can I help you?” She pushes up her dark-rimmed glasses.
“I’m trying to find—”
“You a probation officer?” She studies me with a critical eye.
“No.” I shake my head. What kind of place is this? “Her name is Jasmine Rocha. She came in last night.”
Abby straightens her back, her lips a grim line. “Are you family?”
“N-no.” I flounder, not having thought this through.
“Argh!” A boy not more than kindergarten age barrels through. “Miss Abby, save me!” He grabs her by the thigh, holding on for dear life.
Miss Abby reaches a hand down to absentmindedly pat the boy on the shoulder. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she says to me. “Our guests come seeking shelter or aid when they have nowhere else to go.”
“Miss Abby, there’s water coming out under the door,” the woman with the washer problem says from down the hall. She disappears into the room, and, without understanding the words, I know she’s cursing up a storm.
“It wasn’t anything like that, ma’am. I just want to straighten things out with her.”
“I can’t just give out information and possibly put someone in danger.” Miss Abby states, urging the boy to let her go. “If she is here, I’m sure she’ll call if she wants to talk to you. Now, I have to ask you to leave, young man.”
It’s the “if she wants to” that I’m worried about. I could start opening doors, but I’d likely end up arrested. Obviously, Miss Abby is the motherly type, so I doubt I’ll get anywhere with her. How she keeps sane with everyone at her heels is beyond me.
“Don’t make this into a problem,” she warns.
“I won’t.” The only way Jasmine has to reach me is through the university. But I don’t have access to that email since I’m not teaching this semester. I pull out my wallet and hand her a business card. “In case you see her, can you please give her this.”
Miss Abby reads the front. “Goodbye, Mr. Reynolds.”
“Miss Abby, I got a résumé,” a woman says, excited. “Is there somewhere we can print?”
I turn, wallet in hand, and look at an array of faces. Some curious, others, shifting their gaze away, and one or two who might be feeling sorry for me. A little girl in pigtails leans against her mother’s leg. She has an oatmeal cookie gripped tightly with both hands. Just as she’s about to take a bite she reaches out, offering to share.
My mind fills with the image of Jasmine, a pretty toddler with a silver dollar pancake in hand, taking little bites. Meanwhile, I’m the guy who was ready to toss out a million dollars to sleep with a woman then cut ties.
She was right. I’m the worst kind of asshole.
20
Jasmine
“Oh my God! Jasmine, come see.” Rebecca Cena waves me over from the doorway.
I take in the mess I have on the table. I’ve gutted some desktop computers to create another Frankenstein for the community center. “I can’t right now.”
Rebecca and I connected immediately. She’s one of the community members I’ve been able to help. Her situation’s similar to mine, unknown father and absentee mother. Her grandmother recently passed, so she’s having to start making her way in the world. Unfortunately, her only experience is as a caregiver.
“It’s like Christmas!” she says, bubbling over with excitement.
“Christmas?” I put down the taped-up screwdriver, curious about what could pull her from the funk she’d been in this morning.
“Come and see,” she says from the doorway.
While I wouldn’t be expecting anything, I’m more curious about what’s got her so excited. The passel of kids running around are all standing at the end of the hall, watching wide eyed. There’s a man bringing in a box on a dolly. The image on the side shows a washing machine. “That’s wonderful! Miss Abbie bought a washer.”