Taking the donut out of the bag, I wrap a napkin around it and back out of the parking lot, headed for Maryville. I savor the donut, only eating a bite every few miles, washing it down with hot coffee and letting it settle my soul as I enjoy the scenery.
It is a beautiful drive, and one I never tire of.
Half an hour later, I’m pulling up to what looks like a church but is now the Women’s Shelter of Maryville. It used to be a church, but has since been repurposed. I say they’re doing God’s work, so in theory, it kind of still is. I know it was a sanctuary for my mother and me all those years ago, as it’s been for many since.
Walking up to the side door, I drop my trash in the bin next to the sidewalk.
Once inside, I place my bag in my small office and make my way out to the main hall.
Helen is standing with her clipboard, all business-as-usual.
“Good morning,” I greet, looking past her to the people waiting. “How many do we have this morning?”
“You’re early,” she replies, looking at me with her own version of a smile. Helen and I are so much alike, it’s scary. If you didn’t know better, you might think she’s my mother. But unlike my mother, who still looks so young and has beautiful blonde, naturally wavy hair, Helen’s is darker, kind of like mine, with hints of grey. She wears hers in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Like I said, she’s all business.
She runs a tight ship around here. Everyone knows a well-run ship requires a stern captain to keep everyone in line, and that she does.
“Aren’t I always?” I muse, not fazed by her briskness.
Once we get started checking in the newcomers, Helen and I work like the well-oiled machine we are. She gets all the pertinent information and I start interviewing, checking them over briefly and basically putting them into categories: battered, not well, well. Those who come to us with visible injuries get first priority with me. I look them over and tend to what I can. If they need further attention, we set that up with the hospital, which I am the liaison for. Most are just a little bruised. Some need a bandage. Occasionally, I stitch a busted brow or cut.
Today, I end up with a mother and her daughter sitting in front of me. They’re no different than many other people I’ve checked out—and over—during my years of volunteering. Then again, they are, because they’re the exact age of me and my mother when we came here.
And something about them is giving me major flashbacks, but I try to clear my head.
“Hello,” I say, turning my attention to the little girl, giving her what I hope is a warm, comforting smile. Her dark hair is a bit matted, but even under the grime and grit that covers her ivory skin, she’s adorable. She’s clinging to a tattered teddy bear.
She tilts her chin up, enough to make eye contact but doesn’t hold it and looks back down at her stuffed friend, picking at its matted fur. “Hi.” Her response is meek and timid.
“She’s shy.”
Shifting my focus to the mother, I give her an understanding smile. “That’s okay. Aren’t we all from time to time?” I ask, looking back at the little girl and wishing I could give her a hug, which is alarming. I never feel like giving anyone a hug, especially people I just met and in a setting like this.
My policy is I never get attached.
Attachment leads to feelings and feelings lead to heartbreak.
I don’t know where that stems from, but it’s an understanding buried so deep inside me I can’t seem to shake it. But there’s something about this little girl that draws me to her.
After I get the little girl, Allie, settled with another volunteer who’s showing a few new kids the playground out back, I turn my attention back to her mother. Her obvious worry makes my heart ache. Again, that takes me back, and I let out a deep exhale, willing myself to do what I do best—compartmentalize.
“Can I take a look at that cut?” I ask, pointing to the broken skin above her left eyebrow. It doesn’t look fresh, and is probably too late for stitches, but it definitely needs to be cleaned and bandaged. When she still doesn’t look at me, I add, “She’s going to be fine.”
And I don’t just mean right now.
I want to tell her that I was her little girl once and I might not be the most open, loving person, but I’m not a horrible person either. I’m smart, capable, educated. I help people and contribute to society. There are things about me I wish I could change, but until I know all of the facts about myself, I’m not sure if that will ever happen. It’s hard to know how to fix something if you don’t know what’s broken, which is why, even after all these years, I still push to know the truth.
As ugly as it may be.
There’s an inscription on the side of the building we’re standing in, and it reads: the truth shall set you free. Sometimes, I’m not sure what I believe, but that simple quote has driven me for the last eighteen years.
Eventually, the mother, Lisa, follows me to the room we’ve designated for examinations. Fortunately today, she’s my only patient.
“Have a seat,” I tell her, trying to use my most soothing voice, knowing she’s probably scared and lost. “Do you have any other injuries I need to know about?”
She shakes her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears. But I can see the hard set of her jaw, and I believe her. There’s resolve there and a strength I’m not even sure she realizes she has, but it’s there, struggling to the surface. If I had to guess, it’s what got her and her little girl to this safe haven.
“You’re safe now,” I tell her. “Helen has top-notch security, cameras at every entrance, both inside and out. The staff’s top priority is keeping everyone safe.” Sometimes, all a newcomer needs are those bits of reassurance. No one is getting in here without going through Helen first, and she’s a force to be reckoned with.
As I go to clean the wound above her eye, she doesn’t flinch or wince and I wonder what other unseen scars lie beneath. Does she have one like mine?
After I’m finished, I lead her down the hall to the closet where we keep clothes and other personal items. It’s basically a place for the women to shop. Helen doesn’t like to assume what people will want; she gives them a choice. And sometimes, the women who come through here would never ask for anything, but when it feels more like a choice, they’ll take it.
Lisa picks out a clean shirt for herself and a pair of underwear. Then she takes some pants and shirt for Allie, along with a clean set of socks, underwear, and pajamas. It’s then I know I really like this woman. You can tell a lot about people by watching them. She could’ve chosen anything in this closet for herself, but she stuck to bare necessities. However, when it came to her daughter, there was no hesitation and she was thoughtful in every article she chose, obviously picking things she knew would bring a smile to Allie’s face.
A good mother always puts her child’s needs above her own.
“Let me show you to your room,” I tell her after she gathers soap and shampoo and toothbrushes. “There are clean sheets and a set of towels. While you’re here, it’s your job to keep everything inside these four walls clean. There’s a community laundry on the other side of the main hall. Meals are served at seven, noon, and six sharp. If you miss one for some reason, Helen has provisions in the pantry. You’ll have to see her to get them, but don’t hesitate.”