So close

I could tell something was wrong, from the look in her eyes.
She looked haunted.  I remember the way that felt on the inside and my stomach crumpled in sympathy for her.
I went about my workday, ringing people up, being the cash register jockey in the bad part of town, but I was hyper-aware of her in the store.

While I was mopping, she sat there with her three girls and just cried.  One was an infant, maybe three months old.  When I walked by her, she asked me if she and her girls could stay until morning, just sitting in the booth.
She explained, tears making black tracks down her cheeks, that her husband had been drinking and it wasn't safe for them to go home.
She explained to me that she had enough money to get the city, but wouldn't be able to do so until the next morning.
I could feel her anguish, her worry for her kids, and my heart crumpled when I saw the tag on one of the girls' backpacks; the same tag that my own children had on their backpacks.  They went to my kid's school.

I called my husband, and though we really couldn't afford it, he agreed.  "Might as well make it an even hundred," he said. 

I had it all planned out so I could blindside her and she wouldn't be able to refuse. 

First, I called the cheapest motel in town.  I explained to the clerk the circumstances and was able to reserve a room for her and the girls.  That's definitely one benefit of a small town-- most folks have compassion, and when you appeal to their generosity, they try their hardest to accommodate.

Next, I called the local taxi service.  I lucked out on that one-- one of my regular customers was driving that night, so when I explained the circumstances to him, he was there.  Thank God for Gerald.

After I withdrew the cash from the ATM, I walked over to her, knelt down and told her that we had a room for her.  I gave her the phone number for the motel, the cash, and told her that her ride would be there shortly and that the fare was paid.

She just looked at me and wasn't really able to say much.

When I made it back to my register, my co-worker looked at me so long it made me uncomfortable.  Of course, he wanted to know why I did it, people always want to know the why of it.

Nothing I could've said would've made any difference.  But the why of it was this:  I had one of those moments of absolute clarity.  I looked at that mother and her children, and I saw the faces of my own children.  I saw what would happen if they went home.  It was so real, it shook me up for days after.

When I looked into her eyes, I knew that if no one helped her, that she'd go back.  Worse, her daughters would go back.  And I knew that her husband would probably kill all of them. 

When her ride arrived, I walked away from my register, and into the walk-in cooler.  I cried until I couldn't breathe.  Mostly, it was relief.  That doomed feeling left as soon as she and the children drove away. 

I think of them all the time.  I wish I had gotten her name, so I could check up on her.  I wish I knew if she was ok.  Ultimately, it's none of my business.  I just hope they're somewhere safe, I hope they're in a better situation.

--

Every once in awhile, I have a day like today, where I'm worried about money. 
My boss fired me a few weeks back.  I live in one of those backward states where you don't have to have a reason to get fired.  I suspect mine has something to do with the fact I was there long enough to qualify for a raise.
I haven't found anything yet, and Christmas keeps getting closer.
Our rent and bills are covered, but I have no fucking clue how I'm going to buy Christmas for the kids, so I constantly feel like a piece of shit.
I've applied everywhere; fast food isn't above me, but so far, nothing.

My husband caught me crying in the kitchen today.  Being the angel he is, he reminded me of that woman and her children.  "God put you there for a reason," he said.  From the way he tells it, you'd think I was some kind of wonderful.  Bless his delusional heart.

I know I'm blessed to have the family that I do.  We have food and a roof over our heads.  We have love in our hearts.  The ugly part of me, the self-critical part insists this isn't enough.

I'm just so close.  So close to graduating, so close to making a great life for the kids.  So close to being that person that my family deserves.

So close.
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