Page 92 of Sweet Surrender

You’re made of tougher stuff than this, Hendrix.

Just keep your heart out of this “business arrangement” and you will be absolutely fine.

You will not be a cliché, because you won’t allow yourself to be.

Easier said than done.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Gizmo

The shelter is busy.

I stand behind the serving counter, my baseball hat low over my eyes, my long sleeves hiding the tattoos snaking down my arms, and my hands sweating inside the cheap, plastic, serving gloves they give us to wear.

People stand quietly in line. Some have their heads down as they shuffle their feet when the line moves, others make a comment or two to their line neighbor, while others have various outbursts as their mental illnesses overshadow the ghost of who they used to be.

There’s no judgment here at the shelter, no requirements on appearances or grooming. They serve everyone and don’t ask questions.

I spoon the macaroni and cheese onto the plates that are held out to me. A few of the people make small talk with me as they move through the line. Many don’t. I smile and meet their eyes all while scanning every face that walks through the door.

And while I do this once a week when I’m in town, the director called me this morning to say she finally spotted her again. That she was here in the shelter for food.

That my mom was here.

I haven’t seen her in months.

And the need to lay eyes on her, to make sure the shell of the woman, who I still love very much, is okay? Absolute.

“Jase,” the director says from behind me. “Let me take the line. Why don’t you go take a plate over to the table near the door?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

My heart lodges firmly in my throat as I trek across the warehouse space toward the petite figure turned into herself at the far table. She’s in all dark colors except for a fuchsia scarf that’s wrapped around her head, holding her matted hair out of her face.

Her clothes are mismatched but her shoes don’t have holes in them. Healthy feet are especially important when you’re on the streets—or so I’ve learned over my endless hours here. Eyes that used to hold so much light look up to meet mine. They’re glassy and vacant but kindness still flickers in them along with the softened smile she gives me.

I force my own smile because seeing her like this is always the toughest part. “Hey, Maggie.” I don’t call her Mom. I learned that lesson the hard way years ago. Most days she doesn’t know who she is let alone the fact that she was a mother. Other times she knows it but not the specifics. Both are devastating to me. “I thought you might want some food.”

“Who told you that?” she barks at me, her eyes flickering around the space. Paranoia owns her most days.

“The director.” I motion across the room. “She knows you don’t like to stand in line with all the “smelly” men as she calls them, so she asked me to bring this to you.”

It’s brief but I see a flicker of relief in her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Do you mind if I sit for a minute?”

She grabs her bag to her chest and hugs it tightly as she eyes me like a thief wanting her goods. “Why?”

“Because my feet hurt and I thought you might want someone to talk to.”

“You can sit. But I don’t want to talk.” She stoops her head low and whispers, “The voices might hear if we do.”

The voices who took you from me.

I nod as I slowly take a seat, careful that any quick moves will put her on the defensive so that she might act out or run away.

It’s happened before.