Hunger. That’s what I remember the most about my childhood and adolescence. This unfulfilled hunger for food, love, a family, real understanding has created this emptiness inside me. I know I exist but I am a vacant room. I am a house without furniture nor decoration, an abandoned cabin in the woods.
That sounds less cruel than what people used to call me at school. I still remember. It’s a fact that will never cease to be true. They never called my name. They always said the orphan, when addressing to me. There were other nicknames for others: the fat, the four-eyed, the skinny, the nerd, the snitch, the ass-licker. However, these all were things caused by the same people. The fat one ate too much, the skinny too little; the four-eyed kid mentioned he used to watch TV too closely to the screen, the nerd studied a lot to keep his reputation, the snitch always told on people as well as the ass-licker. But what had I done to become, to be an orphan?
The nuns said it was my mother’s mistake —one she’d regret the rest of her life— , but I couldn’t help thinking that somehow I had brought this to myself. Did I cry too much as a baby? Was I difficult to deal with? Was I too helpless? I used to be hungry for those answers, not anymore. I don’t care about my mother’s fictional regret —more and more, I am aware she might have never been for instance—. Now, I feel desperate to fill the vacuum in my soul.
The hunger remains though. Not as harshly as in the past, or probably because I’m used to it by now. One can learn to survive in the harshest of conditions. It’s a hunger for love I currently experience, though as when I was a child, I used to wonder if I’d ever have it all completely or just a few scraps, the leftovers.
Sister Joan once told me I was found in an abandoned house, a haunted house. How fitting to my story. Some neighbors called the police because of the endless noise of a crying baby. It was a ruthless winter night, the nun used to say. You would have died if the incident hadn’t been reported. This was supposed to be some sort of confort, but I found it a condemnation. I was alive, yes, to suffer.
The police officers brought me to a station where they cared for me as much as they could. Fortunately, there was a woman there, Eleanor, one of the very few that dared to work in the force, and as a woman, she felt the obligation to care for me. I remember her visits to the orphanage.
You were so little and fragile, she said as she gave me half a hot-dog she hadn’t finished.
Even though she only visited the orphanage in Christmas, New Years Eve and Epiphany, she was the closest I’ve ever had to a mother.
My little bother died when he was swimming, she explained one day, you all remind me a bit of him.
During her visits, Eleanor brought some candies. One for each of us. Secretly, she would sneak a hot-dog to me, but only from time to time. She explained this wasn’t only a treat to us but to herself. She saved money all year to give us something.
Whenever I feel really down, I buy a hot-dog with mustard, as she liked it best.
I work in a dinner. The owner lets me stay in the stockroom in an iron bed with a single matress, behind me are the boxes full of bread, in front of me, the refrigerator with the meats; in the opposite wall are the bottles of beer, empty or full; to the right is the sink with the clean plates drying. From my rustic bed, I can see the door leading to the kitchen that leads to the establishment. The night is as dark as when you close the eyes in here. There is no window.
Frank, the owner, has made very clear: if I steal a single bun, bring a man here or if I try to steal a dollar from the register; I am out. No questions asked, no responses allowed. He has asked me to keep my things in a bag all the time, in case I have to leave because of disobedience. You’ve only one chance, he said with the sour smell of tobacco coming out of his mouth.
It’s not the first time I’m given this warning.
They never told us when people were coming to watch us, to consider adopting us. As I grew older, Sister Winifred explained me the reasons. If we warned you in advance, then you would behave differently. Some of you have better clothes, others are prettier; but this isn’t a beauty contest and I think it’s fair everyone has the same chances.
This made things even harder unlike what she believed, or so it appeared to me, given I knew all about it. I was too conscious people were watching over us, like people looking through a glass in the zoo checking how wild or tame we were. I thought of sharing this knowledge with someone close to me, Tiffany or Samuel, but I knew better than to betray the trust of the Sisters. They were the closest I had to family, or friends. Without them, I would be even more alone.
I watched the ladies in their funny coats, the jewels hanging from their ears or necks, the outlandish colors of their dresses, nothing compared to our grey tinge rags closer to penitentiary garments if anything else. Sometimes they would come to the playground. This when I was still around seven or eight years old. I didn’t know what a family was precisely, but I understood it involved the warmth of a bed, food and heat. I was awfully shy and silent around them, years later I was too talkative, and in the years before my eighteenth birthday, I had reverted to my silence. No one ever tried to adopt me, if you were wondering.
Frank says no one can small talk like I do. The reason is I don’t find this kind of talk very small, for me it provides some meaning to my life. I like asking people how their days are, how they like their breakfast, if they enjoy the pie we have started to acquire from a different bakery, how much time they are staying in town, how long they have lived here, what their hobbies are. I have discovered that only by asking them this, they can ask about me, even if it’s only for education that they enquire me.
I delight in smiling because here it doesn’t feel like a performance. I am not wondering if people will like me, if they are willing to bring me to their home, if they find me worthy. I no longer care, or not as much as I used to do.
The plates are washed on time, people are served in an acceptable time-frame excepting at rush hour, but customers understand; the tables are cleaned as soon as they are emptied, cups refilled with coffee for their breakfast. I cook, clean, and wash. The things I hated most at the orphanage and I swore I would never do once I were out.
The Holidays approached. Dates of anxiety and fear, mostly. These were the dates when more ladies in funny clothes would appear, this time bringing their husbands with their neat jackets only distinguishable from the color of their ties. This was a happy time for me because I would get to see Eleanor at last, and for around two weeks and a row.
I needn’t satisfy with the tasteless rice pudding, the colorless eggs without any vegetable, the sour coffee and the stale buns, donation of the local bakery. She would bring some candies, chocolates if she had saved enough for this year, and a hot-dog. I was aiming for three, one for each festivity, but as an orphan I had learnt to be satisfied with very little, and most importantly, to have no hopes, but this is almost impossible as we are children. We need hope to survive unlike in adulthood where hope becomes poison.
This was one of the best Christmas, when I was twelve years old. Some of the strange looking ladies brought some dresses from the daughters that no longer needed them because they had outgrown them or because they had died, and all the girls in the orphanage were delighted. I put on my dress and surprised Eleanor when she arrived at Christmas Eve.
You look like a little princess, she said as she squeezed my hand and smuggled a chocolate. She winked when I looked at her intently.
Thank you very much miss, I replied as the nuns had instructed us to do. We might look shaggy but we were not to behave like it. I spun around to show her how the tulle of the dress rose into the air.
I wore the same dress the times Eleanor arrived. I remember the look in her eyes, I thought it was true fondness for me. I believed she wanted me as a daughter and I almost summoned enough courage to ask her, but I was petrified with the idea of her leaving me or abandoning me eventually by her inability to react to my deplorable request. The three days, she brought hot-dogs she shared only with me.
On Epiphany, I was almost strong enough to do it, I was almost sure her watery eyes meant something, I was confident her long hugs as she left were a signal I had to interpret for her. Those candies had to mean something. Those hot-dogs surely had a hidden message for me to figure out. I believed in the charm children are supposed to have.
This is one of the holidays I remember most for many reasons. One of the feelings I experience now and I didn’t identify those days was the shame. As soon as Eleanor left, I was positive Eleanor had just felt pity for me.
I shouldn’t rely on kindness or I shouldn’t hope for too much. But sometimes it can’t be helped though I should have learnt my lesson after Eleanor and Tiffany. Kindness can’t be trusted. It’s ruthless.
Yet I am here in my bed, unable to sleep which is uncommon after such a consuming day, thinking about the man that came today to the diner who seated in one of the boots for four people, who smiled at me, who gave me a conversation, more than the usual small talk, or so I believe. Or so my heart longs to believe.
The day began as any other day. I take a bath in the bathroom for the employees. I stand in the little square designated to wash the mop, next to the sink with the stainless steel pot, water that comes from the sink where the container is standing. In front of the sink there are two stalls. I shouldn’t be doing this taking this improvised shower, anyone can open the door, it doesn’t have a lock. However, the influence of the nuns is undeniable, not for the want to perform but to avoid people labeling me for my pitiful look. I’ve never had any privacy so it’s no surprise, resorting to this.
I don’t wash my hair in the morning. I do it in the sink at night, making sure no hairs will clog the drain.
The wet clothes go behind th refrigerator, that until Frank arrives at noon. Then, I have to put it behind the door. Beside my two uniforms, I only possess four bloomers, one has a hole; three blouses, two jeans, two bras, a pair of sandals and a pair of shoes which I have recently repaired with super glue. One of the blouses is for me to sleep at night. I wash it every three days. I have no necklaces, no rings, no jewels, even made of fantasy. The only bracelets I used to have were made of fabric, given by Tiffany or Samuel, once we taught him how to do it. They got too dirty after some time and I was too ashamed to be seen wearing them. I threw them away. Sometimes I regret it.
After my short bath, I put on some deodorant, not too little nor too much, I will sweat a lot, specially at rush hour. I put on my dress, comb my hair putting the black net on it, and check the expiration date for the products. I prepare the broom and the mop to clean. Once I finish, I take out a towel to clean the boots, another one for the windows, also the chairs —sometimes the children stand up on them when the parents can’t control them.
I do some brief exercices before starting the day, it helps me have some extra energy. The Devil finds work for idle hands, the bishop used to say. So it’s really a custom, staying active. He would also have something positive about this tiresome job, blessed are the poor for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Frank came, he gave me the usual tasks to perform: to watch the customers tables, to clean them up if there were too many people, to pay attention to the orders, not to make mistakes. It was a very quiet day, so it’s possible it’s the reason why this man is so memorable. We began with the usual small talk, he was mentioning the coffee was delicious and I suggested a piece of cake to accompany it. He asked for two pieces and said.because I gave company to the coffee for your recommendation, you have to make me company to eat it. I explained it wasn’t possible for me to stay with him, I was still working. He didn’t ask me for my exit hour. He asked for a bag, I supposed to carry it with him, but he gave it to me.
What’s your name? He asked, not something many people inquire.
Cordelia, I said shyly.
It’s yours, he pushed the bag forward and he left. As he left the place, still visible from the outside because of the windows, he raised a hand to reaffirm his goodbye.
So, I’m here, sleepless, having eaten a dessert today. We usually have a piece of this cake once in a month, the cook and I. Frank says we should be thankful. I am also grateful with this mysterious man. His name still resonating in my head, Alex. That’s what he said as he stood up.
Two days before the Christmas party, I took out the dress I kept carefully locked away in the storeroom, in one of the highest shelves so no one could reach it, washed it and checked the damage. The moths had been to it so I had to remove some of the tulle as well as unraveling the seams of the dress since it was sort of short for my size. I was taller but still very skinny with prominent bones.
At that time, I was more aware of my appearances so I took a long shower very early on Christmas’ Eve even though the water was freezing cold, as usual. Eleanor was bound to arrive in the afternoon, after the snack, insipid Christmas cookies because there was not too much sugar to spare, they gave us two hours after lunch. I didn’t play with Tiffany or Samuel all day, or any of the others, Gale, Gillian, Henry, Jake, Omar, Patricia, Susan or Wilfred. I helped the nuns with the chores that didn’t involve the possibility of getting dirty: passing the ingredients for the Christmas chicken stew and the kitchen utensils.
The time passed and I was very anxious. The surprise came earlier than expected, in a different form that I had envisioned as well. All the police officers were here, or so it appeared, I saw many man with Santa Claus hats and red plastic bags containing boxes. These boxes were supposed to be gifts which the men had clumsily wrapped. I was very excited about this, as the others were, surrounding the officers so they could give them a box. I didn’t do this. I looked for Eleanor but couldn’t find her. I even went outside where the patrols were parked. There was no parking space left, so I was concerned for Eleanor.
A very tall officer was speaking to Mother Superior, next to her Sister Winifred was covering her mouth with her hand, holding a scream. She saw me seeing her and put the hand down. She came close to me and hugged me tightly.
There is no space for Eleanor’s car, I said.
She won’t be coming this year. I am so sorry. For her tone, the same she used when she told us there wasn’t any leftovers left, when we said we still were hungry, indicated she really couldn’t do anything to prevent this.
I stayed in bed all night while the fireworks were cracking and people were laughing. I had been looking forward to the chicken stew, but not any more, despite being one of the few times in the year we ate meat, more than a mouthful. The officers had brought cake.
Sister Joan reprimanded. She was one of the oldest and the meanest. She came to my bed and told me I was an ungrateful child. The officers were doing this to honor Eleanor. They knew she loved those in need, those who were to be pitied, the orphans. I overheard them as I went to my bed, the second one next to the bed. I didn’t cry because the children who cried there were despised, but I had nowhere else to go, so I stayed immobile while Sister Joan said all this to me.
While she was speaking. There was another Christmas party happening in my mind, in Eleanor’s house. We would be making cookies with enough chocolate chips or sugar so they would have the right taste, if sweeter the better. The decorations would be hung, the tree would be so lit up that it would seem it was about to set on fire. I wouldn’t go close to my room this day because we would be busy doing so much in the kitchen that there wouldn’t be any need to leave her side. I wouldn’t even touch my bed until dawn would break, until I could open up the gift or gifts Eleanor would give me.
She would touch my cheek and say, Merry Christmas, my dear Cordelia.
It was also possible we wouldn’t be doing this, fate being what it is: heartless, but we would have spent other holidays together. I would have some memory of happiness and not only the desire for it.
But instead of Eleanor’s touch, of Eleanor’s yearly candies, I only felt Sister Joan’s hand caressing my face as I left one tear roll on my cheek which she gathered with her veiny hands. I am sorry, my dear.
The dream goes on. He is back again at the diner and this time he hasn’t taken a boot, he says there is too much empty space. He says it’s a shame I can’t sit with him to share lunch with him. I don’t even try to convince Frank to let me do it. An old man offered this once, because he said I looked exactly like his granddaughter but he wouldn’t allow it.
She could get the wrong ideas, he said, believing I was out of earshot, and people might get the wrong idea why she is here. I don’t want rumors about my business. Frank cares about what others say. I understand that.
I pay attention to all the tables, as much as I can; but I can feel his laser-ray gaze penetrating my body. I can’t help but look at him from time to time. It hasn’t happened lately but I confuse some orders. I take a look at both, Alex and Frank, who is reading his paper and hasn’t heard about the incident.
Alex asks for another cup of coffee and a cupcake. He tries to keep the conversation going and I can’t leave him alone. I laugh too loudly at one of his comments about how pretty I look in my dress.
We value your business, sir; but, there are other customers waiting, Cordelia, Frank explains pointing at the tables with his chin. The conversation stops, but the hopes goes on and on.
Growing up was the worst as hurtful as hope. We all knew babies and very young children were preferible for parents willing to adopt. We had been warned about this when we were children by the older orphans whom to my knowledge, weren’t adopted. Though I’d seen the tendency, I still believe that despite having almost fourteen years old, someone will come to adopt me. Someone will see possibilities in me, someone won’t doubt of the happiness I could bring to his or her house.
I was getting more and more tired by the minute for the orphanage, for the whinny orphans, the crappy food and the unavoidable despair I couldn’t shake out from me after Eleanor’s death.
As I was helping clean out the roof, so the leafs wouldn’t get stuck in the gutter in winter, I wondered if Eleanor was really looking down from the sky to me, an orphan she had barely exchanged a few sentences. I used to idealize her, but after her death I pondered different scenarios. Possibly she washed her hands after shaking mine, she didn’t even think about me after giving me a hot-dog, she came home to a dog she gave expensive food to not thinking she could use that money to give me something to preserve from her. Most likely it was difficult from her to tell me apart from the orphans. It was plausible she didn’t even like me.
This was a difficult age for me. After losing her, which meant not losing something that was truly mine, I started to realize how futile were many things I supposed had made me survive: faith, hope, custom. It was then the hatred for the orphanage began, I thought of projects outside of it, not involving it all. I was already planning on forgetting everything.
Be careful with the ladder, Samuel said, but I was too absorbed in my thoughts, in the lost hopes.
I don’t know if it was truly me, or if he misplaced his foot, but suddenly the ladder fell to the ground breaking in two, then Tiffany and Samuel came with it.
At the orphanage, we were always very clean. We also made sure not to be injured. People wouldn’t want to adopt children with scraped knees, bruises on the arms, stained clothing or broken fingers. We would be more of a liability, it would tell a lot about our behavior: those defects would be a cause of our bad behavior, our recklessness. We’d be even more damaged goods. We could break delicate vases, destroy everything in our path.
So, it wasn’t a surprise I felt extremely guilty after Sam and Anny’s accident. I had always wanted to be able to shine on my own but never considering the possibility of extinguishing others’ lights.
Some days later, some strange-looking ladies showed up and the nuns were tiptoeing around. Those women might have been very important. Sister Winifred and Sister Joan served us the food with shame, not the usual regret. I remember it clearly. I saw the colorless scrambled eggs with some onion in it. I put the onion aside to give it to Sam later. Not only because he liked it, but also because the nuns frowned upon the waste of food. Think of the homeless, they’d say which I found ironically unfitting. They were supposed to mean people without a shelter, not even a roof, without a steady place to live, but it stroke me they hadn’t considered that we, the orphans, were fatherless, motherless; therefore, homeless.
The nuns gave sour coffee to the ladies who pretended to like it, but from time to time, I checked up on them. They would gulp it very quickly or made funny faces as they gave tiny sips. However, not even one dared to leave anything on the cup, and only one of them, their leader, dared to ask for a second cup.
I ate quickly and went to the playground. Samuel and Tiffany appeared later on. I felt badly as soon as I saw them. I hated this newly found feeling of guilt. When Tiffany appeared she smiled exposing her chirped teeth, but it was worse seeing Samuel limping towards me. We played hide and seek. But I always chose an obvious place when Sam was supposed to seek. I didn’t want him making too much of an effort.
We were playing tag as the fashionable ladies, as I had already nicknamed them, appeared. We felt their gaze but ignored them, we were used to being seen this way, as circus animals. All of a sudden, Sister Joan called for us, the three of us. The ladies smiled uncomfortably, ashamed of their own opulence, touching their necklaces not to expose them but to cover these jewels, except one of them. She was assessing us and I understood she was the one willing to adopt. I felt terribly for Sam and Anny, wrongly assuming neither of them would be chosen for their evident flaws. I didn’t even smile until they asked us to and Annie showed them her broken teeth. They made us some questions, gave some comforting words about the Lord protecting us from helplessness and disgrace, about how we’d find a loving family. Having heard this before, I knew it was a lie though once I did believe or wanted to. At the moment, I had accumulated too many unpleasant experiences to hold to these beliefs.
They left to Mother Superior’s office. One of them gave me two quarters, another one a whole wheat cookie, and another one kissed me on the cheek leaving a red imprint with a scent of strawberry.
We continued playing. Later, Mother Superior called one of us. It wasn’t Sam or me they had chosen.
Hope is dangerous, it can poison our hearts beyond repair. That’s the conclusion I arrived to last night. It’s not the first time this idea has crossed my mind, but I must remind myself of these little things before they get to me.
This is new the attitude with the one my day begins as I take my short bath, prepare the diner and get to my everyday duties. I know I am in danger as soon as I constantly check the front door, I can’t help but turn around when the little bell on top makes a noise. I want the next person to be him. I also know I shouldn’t harbor these illusions.
My day goes smoothly as any other, the usual children who spills the soda on the floor, the customer who complains about the food, the old man that never leaves the boot alone despite the place being full, Frank and his sour mood. Then, he comes in as I explain the order to the cook. Alex doesn’t say hello, he only asks. What time do you leave?
I never leave. That’s the answer I should have given him because it’s the true. This place, this diner in the daytime, the stockroom at night are my house, the closest to a home I’ve gotten thanks to an accountant that had pity for me and got me this job as I was losing the last one.
On the weekend, Frank gives me part of the day off. But what do I do with this time? I didn’t continue my studies. At the orphanage, we were taught the necessary skills. The nuns home schooled us, we got the middle school degree. That’s all I’ve gotten. I barely passed the test, and I wasn’t very interested in studies. I know I should have or should. But when the interest should have appeared I was in a very dark time, now I don’t feel like it, and I don’t have the strength. People usually say they want to be professionals to be someone and I am too aware I am nobody.
Sunday afternoon, my partial day off, I go to the supermarket for some cheap cookies, my treat after the usual sandwich the cook gives me. Sometimes I buy a chocolate bar that will last the week, the last piece usually very soft. Those are the luxuries I can afford. Then, I have to buy the essentials: toothpaste, soap, deodorant, oranges and lemons, for my nightly lemonade. Every two months, I buy apples or grapes, also some medicine for the pain which is not unusual with such stressful and tiresome job. Twice a year, I buy new underwear, two blouses and pants. Once a year, I buy a pair of shoes. That’s where all my savings go. The money I have accumulated until now is to be of use for this stuff, nothing else.
How was I supposed to tell this man the only moment I am free is when I go to the supermarket in less than 2 hours even though it takes me half an hour to arrive by foot? I felt ashamed and numb. How can I tell him I have nothing but the things that I have on me, the mended clothes, the fixed appliances, the torn pants, the patched blouses, the repaired shoes?
Why? It was all I could ask myself. But what came of my mouth was very late. I recognized the insolence in my response. However, I preferred that to the shame of telling him how broke and penniless I am. That I can’t even afford a fucking muffin from the very place I work for.
It had been months since Tiffany had left the orphanage. I despised myself for underestimating her charm, for lowering mine believing the woman who adopted her wouldn’t pay any attention to her because of her flaws. I was very bitter and started to hate the place I had grown up. More than ever, I complained about the food; the penury of the place, the dirt, the limitations. I loathed my birth though I didn’t express this as much.
However, what I hated the most was Tiffany coming to visit us. I hated her new found opulence, her new dresses, her neatness, her evolution to something I would never become: someone’s daughter. I wished she had forgotten us as I tried to do it every time after she visited. I would cry bitterly, in silence, under the covers. I have never known any privacy.
She came with news about the world that had been banned to us. Everybody hated her as much as I did, but only I had to conceal it and pretended. She still believed she was one of us because of our past experiences, but she had stopped belonging. We were wild animals, she was a tame one. We were fighting for the scraps, she would get food in a bowl. Our skin was hide, hers was lightening. But I had the curse of having been her friend.
You are a sister to me, she would say in her visits and I detested her even more because it seemed a mockery to me, like eating a lobster in front of a homeless person.
Tiffany brought chocolates with mint, I found them disgusting. But these were a luxury in the orphanage so I ate them secretly as the hatred grew stronger.
We played and she pretended to enjoy it. I noticed her fear of getting her clothes dirty, I oversaw the times her nose would wrinkle when she entered to the dorms where she had lived not so long ago and that now disgusted her. I saw how she always came after breakfast or lunch, so she wouldn’t have to try such horripilant food once again. And she could do all these things I had been doing, but unlike her, I saw no escape and never did.
The chef leaves the diner and wishes me a good night. I wipe a coffee stain on the counter, the keys fall from my pocket and resound on the floor. The doorbell makes a sound and I think it’s the chef who forgot something, but it’s not.
Alex, I find myself saying, and the image I see in front of me: the darkened city, the dimming street lights and the suffocating clarity in the diner are not a part of any of the fantasies I’ve had lately. I had imagined running into him at the park when I run to the grocery store, in a dream he came from behind touching my shoulder, in another one I went to touch his. In a wilder fancy, we run into each other, crashing our bodies because of our distraction.
Cordelia, he says, and I know immediately, as he approaches, the fantasy is all wrong.
He is staggering, he mutters my name and walks unsteadily towards me. I stay frozen until his face is in front of mine, just centimeters of difference.
You are so pretty, he says and puts a hand on my breast.
I should take it away as when flies get close to me, or when bats have entered the stockroom but this is so uncommon, to be desired, to be wanted. It’s hard to process. He starts kissing my neck and touching voluptuously. If Frank comes, I am out of here, I think immediately as I see some teens crossing the street and taking a look at us. I am still as a stone and his hands go through me as if he were desperate to catch me, as if I were falling.
His breath smells of alcohol, he smells of sweat and I notice my smell to grease. He starts unbuttoning my dress and then I stop him.
I can’t do this, I mean here, at my workplace, in front of the windows.
What do you mean? You haven’t complained while I was touching you, he appears to be offended by this brief refusal.
I’m sorry, I say buttoning the dress. I notice his coldness clearer than mine. This is not at all what I had expected but hey, not the first time deception is part of my life.
You’re like all the sluts pretending to be a prude but in reality you wish I could pin you to the floor, you bitch.
We’re already closed. Come back tomorrow. My face is perfectly still, as a marble statue. This man is a dick and I thought he could be my true love. How mistaken I was.
Fuck you, tacky piece of shit. Frigid worthless bitch. He yells and stumbles with a column as he leaves.
This is so sudden I don’t realize it’s happened until it’s over. I close the door, I take the mop and the wiping towels with me. I wash my head and the mirror projects the messiness in my hair, I close the door leading to the kitchen. I go to the creaking bed, uncomfortable as my life’s been all along. I’ve never had any privacy. I’ve never known any softness. I’ve never have any other life. That’s what I am aware of once again as some tears I thought long lost come back to me, to make me company in this hopelessness I’ve refused to accept as my life. But whether things are accepted or not, they continue to be real.
We were around fifteen years old then. Sam got interested in what the boys did and I lost interesting in anything altogether. I would help the nuns in their endless chores. I was particularly grateful when they took a vow of silence, so I didn’t have to talk to them though they knew my bitterness and resentment towards their compassion, so they avoided talking to me altogether which I was most grateful for.
I was beyond being damaged goods, rotten. I was condemned to the orphanage. Before, I dreamed of leaving with a family, then I just longed for clear air, for something beside the church, the park and the four damned walls. I felt trapped, like the princesses in the fairy tales, but there wouldn’t be a godmother, a happy ending, anything; no transformation, no change, the same pointless existence.
No one was going to adopt me at this age. I didn’t care doing the usual performances when people came to see us. I came to despise them for their power over us. I never felt so powerless and unloved, or since.
Where’s your smile? Sister Winifred would ask, trying to summon the best of me. The only one still courageous enough to try to change me.
I don’t need it anymore, I told her, not for the purpose of the past to please others. I didn’t need my smile because I didn’t have to pretend to be filled with gratitude. I abhorred my reality. I hated my mother for discarding me as if I were trash. I despised her lack of courage, not for keeping me but for not having aborted me.
Worthless. That is the word that remains with me after the incident with Alex, it’s a label, my birthday certificate. He hasn’t defined me by it. I’ve been cognizant of it as I take my bath in the enclosed space fearing to get caught as if I were a thief, as Frank says if anything is missing from the stockroom he will throw me to the streets, as I remember no one gave me the possibility to just try to be a daughter. I am directionless, helpless, and I know I am worthless of any effort.
My tasks are performed automatically. My mind isn’t there, it’s just my body doing what it’s done best all along: surviving. I take notes on the orders just by seeing customers’ lips as I notice them pointing to something in the menu. I deliver the orders with my feet as my only compass. I have no memory of being anything.
The bell on the door rings and rings, it’s a busy day, but I don’t notice any noise, the smell to grease doesn’t bother me at all, the sweat on my skin is just another layer of me, the customer’s irritability doesn’t get to me.
I notice his presence when I go to his booth, but he is not alone as the other days when he offered me a muffin or when he wanted to know me. His face is hard. My mind was empty and now it feels my heart plummets to my feet as I see the blond woman with him, on the opposite side, but their hands are linked.
What can I get you? I can hear my voice as if this weren’t real. As if it were a nightmare.
The coffee here is terrible, he says to the woman. Hey, there is a stain on the table, would you mind wiping it? We don’t want to eat in a pigsty. He retorts and mechanically, I take out the towel and clean. I notice the woman: her luscious smile, impeccable taste and mostly I can’t take my eyes from her enormous belly.
Don’t pay attention to him, sweetie. She says and I notice red lipstick on her teeth. I am almost tempted to warn her about it.
Anything worth it in here? He looks at the menu though he knows it by heart. He used to mention things and calculated exactly the bill. I understand his insinuation.
You can check your options and I will come back for your order, I say defiantly. Luckily it’s not time Frank is here and I tend to other tables as I see his resentment for my defense. It’s the least I can do to save myself. If there’s anything, I’ve learned from being utterly alone is to count on myself.
Tifanny Fortenberry comes back every once in a while, not only the End of Year Holidays unlike Eleanor who has been taking lots of my thoughts. I remember her clearly and wish I could join her, her and not my mother. In Heaven, as the sisters said, we are pure, but I wanted to be next to the only pure person I knew though I’d come to consider Eleanor might have had a life of her own, therefore some sins under her sleeve.
Although she is dead and Tiffany is alive, I prefer to consecrate my thoughts to her. Whenever Tiffany was close to me, I could’t help feeling so voided of hope, of resignation. I felt a victim of a terrible injustice for things I hadn’t done or had no idea of. I had been dumped in an orphanage to fend for myself with a bunch of strangers I couldn’t tolerate anymore.
How are things going? Tiffany would ask even though she had lived her whole life trapped in this four walls, with the stinky bathrooms and the faded clothes. If I didn’t know she was asking with the best of intentions, I would have been really pissed and might have slapped her, but I also knew deep down she was the last thing I had because she was the only one still holding on to me despite my smooth rejection.
She didn’t dare to tell me of her new way of living and I didn’t have enough humility to ask her. I was going to be enraged if she would list the appliances she had at home, if she mentioned the fancy restaurant where she ate, if she listed the clothes she had already bought since she was gone, if she gave names of new and normal friends with families and a home.
Nothing new really. I replied to her, sometimes there would be an authentic smile as I explained this timeless truth. Then something new did happen thanks to her.
Would you like to come to work at the house? Mrs. Fortenberry says she needs someone for some basic chores, nothing heave really. She eyed me furtively, fearing the question would be too bold, too full of different meanings, usually hurting my pride or undermining my worth.
Sure, I replied not doubting once that any change would be better than the same monotony that unfortunately didn’t get to kill me.
Tiffany didn’t enjoy the luxuries I had imagined. In fact, the most surprising thing in the house was they owned two cars. There was no chandelier, lots of servants, in fact it was only me and the other maid; no marble sculpture, no bedrooms with delicate silk duvets, no refined art. The Fortenberry were middle class people, and I always suspected they hired me due to Tiffany’s influence.
I worked there on the weekends. The first time, I went in the subway with Mrs. Fortenberry and Tiffany, next time they gave me the money to go by myself. It was a real thrill to me to explore the city by myself. I lied to Sister Joan about the location, telling her it would take me around an hour and a half to get there when it actually only took me half an hour. However, since the Sisters were so keen on punctuality, they didn’t complain, they made me company to the train station. They were worried but they needn’t.
That hour felt like a minute for me, I would walk around the city looking behind the glasses at coffee shops, supermarkets, beauty parlors, clothing boutiques, shoes stores, antiquity’s, bakeries. I usually walked 4 blocks before coming back to the train station. My eyes filled with the possibilities, my nose smelling all the luscious food and delights, my hands pickling with the desire to buy, my mouth salivating. With the money Mrs. Fortenberry gave me, I bought a little something for me: a piece of cake, a chocolate muffin, a tart and once every two months a tart.
I’d be back at the train station before the train appeared and would hide in the bathroom until the train came to appear magically behind Tiffany. She recovered my appreciation back for helping me climb from the abyss where I was helplessly falling. I didn’t mention her those little excursions for fear of her pity, I already got enough of that at the orphanage.
I went to the Fortenberry’s the days the maid was not available, and I suspected I didn’t do all the chores she was supposed to do during the week. I was supposed to wash the clothes —strangely, only one basket would be full, disproportionate to the amount they would use during the weekdays—, wipe the windows, tend to the garden which only consisted of some daisies, put the clothes on the dryer machine, fold it, very rarely iron it, but only Mr. Fortenberry’s, Tiffany and her adoptive mother didn’t have clothes that required ironing. I worked less than 7 hours and had an hour break to have lunch.
We would sit on the table, Tiffany, Mrs. And Mr. Fortenberry and I, sometimes I dwelt in the illusion we were indeed a family; in an alternate universe maybe we would all be tied by blood and not only compassion, mysery and abandonment. We ate and chatted though very little. The food was delicious, unlike the insipid and graceless food at the orphanage, maybe because it wasn’t eaten with mysery. There was love or consideration, no shame or helplessness.
I looked forward to going to the Fortenberrys and I had saved some money , finally something that was mine. Probably enough to buy a blender or a pan but it was satisfying to know I owned something and not only I owed my life to the Sisters to whom I gave them half the money, they didn’t accept it but I felt obliged to repay during the Mass and I would deposit the money when the little bag was passed before the communion rite.
That made me think of the that were actually a possession to me, and I only had some dollars and memories I only wished to forget one day. A great idea occurred to me since it would be only months before I left the orphanage: I needed to know more about Eleanor, the closest I’ve ever had to a mother.
There was a tacit agreement between Tiffany and me. We didn’t speak ill of the orphanage. We didn’t mention the hunger we experienced everyday, every meal; the desire to go out more often, the longing for some privacy, better conditions, at least a black and white TV. The nuns said it would rot our brain. But we didn’t mention any of this to Mrs. Fortenberry, the one who usually asked those questions at the table. We didn’t mention the nuns hit us with rulers if we didn’t learn by heart the Bible verses or that they didn’t ask boys to do any of the chores only us girls.
I have a roof above me, food on my plate, a bed where to sleep. I repeated as the nuns often did, part of their script. I was almost sure they didn’t like that life, living on scraps and leftovers. Or so I hoped, that one doesn’t get used to such misery.
The nuns were good to us, but they didn’t show us love. Their devotion and dedication were aimed elsewhere. Several times, they told us not to rely on people since it was a sin. Only God and he alone would satisfy our needs, emotional, physical and spiritual. They needed to believe that, so did I, but my soul wasn’t strong enough to play the make-believe game they had mastered.
Everything is fine. I said, but the food wasn’t right. Sometimes we ate stale bread, partially sour milk. The beds were uncomfortable, the covers smelled weird. My life was falling apart since it had started. However, being there, at the Fortenberry’s, gave me some sort of hope things truly were going to be, in fact, fine, one day. The best of it: not so far from then on.
Of course, the money I earned with them wasn’t enough. I was hopeful but not an idiot. But it was a start, leaving the orphanage at least two out of seven days, I finally was familiar with the city, I wasn’t a caged animal. I checked up the help wanted signs, many required a specific education but I was confident I could find a place in this puzzle where I could finally belong.
Things were going well, too well in fact. However, one weekend, none in specific, an average weekend with the usual routine: me leaving before the actual time Tiffany and Mrs. Fortenberry arrived to the station, me walking down the streets absorbing the images as a sponge, five months before leaving the orphanage, as I had plans of asking Mrs. Fortenberry for help to get a job with a neighbor, anything; as I was almost unafraid enough to ask her, as we walked to the station, Tiffany said to me as the train stopped, as I was ready to go back to the orphanage and going back the next day.
I am sorry, Cordelia, but you are not supposed to come here tomorrow, her head was lowered and she also was fighting off tears.
Ok, see you next week, then. I replied not noticing her discomfort, too distracted with the people filling the train.
You won’t work with us. We don’t need you anymore. Now board on the train. She pushed me slightly.
For reasons still unknown to me, I did as she said. I didn’t stay and asked her for explanations, I didn’t fight or said goodbye to her, or thanked her, or anything. I let myself be pushed by the last people getting on the train, mechanically. I even took a seat and looked outside, but Tiffany was nowhere to be seen.
I was unable to forgive her because she didn’t come back or called or anything. She left without explanations. I lost everything I had, not because I loved her or because I considered her a family. With her, all my hopes were extinguished.
Frank comes to the diner, but he doesn’t bother me as such, despite his sourness and open rudeness towards me. In spite of remembering the nice words he once told me, the kindness he showed. What bothers me is what he represents: failed hope. It isn’t the first time it has happened to me, so this is a reminder of the things I can never get, just as I lost the imagined future I envisioned when I worked for the Fortenberrys.
Some customers that have come here all their lives tell me I look different, some say I look thinner, the children say I am not as funny as I used to be and their parents scold them, some old people have said I’m losing my light, unbeknownst to them, I have never had any. They say I smile less. I say I’m not feeling very well. It’s a lie. I feel very well I am losing any feelings I have left. Hope is abandoning me, not like it did before, suddenly and without any explanation, but as a tumor removed from me, part of my body that is killing me.
I do things as blind people do them, touching the edges, moving through familiar places, doing exactly what I have done with no change in the routine. I don’t even buy my usual luxuries when I go to the supermarket. I just stay with the basics. I forget my past and also the idea of a future. I live in the present expecting it doesn’t last so long.
Unexpectedly, as any horrible thing happens, as I am well aware of for my experiences of the past, Frank stays late, almost until it’s time to close. It’s not something very unusual, so I am not that shocked, also it’s not an emotion I can show very often.
I wipe the counter, he is sitting on one of the boots counting the money from the register. He calls me and I go.
Sit down. He says and I do so, my feet can finally rest. You may not notice but business isn’t really great nowadays.
I haven’t noticed. I haven’t noticed anything to be fair to him.
Cordelia, I will have to dismiss you. I am sorry. This is the worst and the best he’s ever said to me.
I look at him and I see pity in his eyes, the worst I can get from anyone, but from him, in this specific moment of despair, as I lose everything once again, something breaks inside me. Possibly my heart or whatever stays well inside me. The tears come to me, I can’t help it even though Frank will despise them. I can’t stop them, and I can’t prevent me from sobbing, from recovering all the feelings I had buried deep inside me, for experiencing the helplessness, the hopelessness, the worthlessness.
Don’t worry. I’ll give you a week to leave. He says as a comfort of some sort. In this cruel world, it’s a lot to get.
The suitcase were packed, but despite all the unhappiness I had experienced, I felt a hollow in my chest just with the idea of leaving the place that had been the closest to a home to me. I took a bath in the communal shower, with the rusted shower handles, no privacy and ice cold water. We only had two minutes to get ourselves clean, but that day I woke earlier and stayed longer. If someone noticed I took around ten minutes, no one said a thing. It was my last day after all.
I ate breakfast alone in the wooden table. It was sour coffee, without sugar because we had run out of it, and a piece of bread that at least wasn’t stale though it wasn’t particularly soft. I made my chores as I did them in the assigned slots. It was a Tuesday. I had to clean the kitchen, mop the floors and after lunch, I was supposed to sort the clothes for charity, the ones we weren’t going to use. I wasn’t going to use anymore. I started the day early so I could finish all the tasks before lunch, time after which I would be leaving the place forever.
After the incident with Tiffany, I doubted about leaving the orphanage. I knew the cook and some nuns had lived there all her life, out of gratitude or out of fear of the unknown, I never got to discover it. However, I wasn’t strong enough to stay any longer and I would make some unforgivable mistake like stealing something or taking my life. So varying my options were. I didn’t want that life forever because I felt underwater. Anymore of it and I would drown.
No money was available for me. I only had some of the money I had saved and I regretted every piece of cake and luxury I bought while working at the Fortenberry’s. I damned poverty once again, as it was custom of mine.
As I was checking the clothes, as I took two blouses from the box that was supposed to go to the charity, a little boy started helping me. He was around eleven years old and looked ,e straight in the eye. His were watery.
Do you think I will have a family? He didn’t mean to hurt me with his question. He was as honest as children and miserable people are. The knife did go straight to the heart but I was strong enough to take it and surprisingly, I didn’t tell him the truth: that most likely he would stay here forever, that hope would only poison him more strongly, that he would never stop hating himself for being born. I lied with the lie I was almost presented with.
Someday you’ll have a family and you will eat at the table with two people that care about you more than anything in the world. I should have cried then because that’s what I really wanted to do and to tell him all I had said was bullshit and that he should stop dreaming of happy endings because there are only endings and they are definite, not happy. But I wiped his tears instead of mine, I comforted his heart while mine broke into million pieces, I felt his pain because mine was too old and weary to be tried once again.
Sam didn’t say goodbye too me and I didn’t look for him. We barely spoke during my last months at the orphanage. In fact, I barely spoke to anyone at all. He was going to leave in three more months. I didn’t solace him or offer to get together once in the outside world.
We knew we would be bad luck to one another. Misery loves company.
I cried as I left the orphanage, as the nuns said goodbye as I boarded the train, as I waved them goodbye forever. We all knew we wouldn’t see each other anymore. I was being ungrateful, but I also wanted to go on to forget all the misery I had endured.
All my belongings were in a black plastic bag, all I’d accomplished and gotten could be put in there and still there was space for something more, but I couldn’t afford those additional things I wished would have been here.
The first day, I slept in a park bench, but then a police officer told me I couldn’t do it again. I went to the train station and slept in a bathroom that wasn’t being used.
I got a job in a house the next day, I was to be the cleaning lady and I was supposed to leave at night, but I would pretend to leave and hide in the bushes, then as the lights went out, I tiptoed inside the house whose passages I had to learn the very first day and I hid in the cellar where they kept discarded toys from the children and old furniture. I saw little mice and some roaches but didn’t mind. Surely those at the orphanage were bigger and hungrier than me.
After some time, I had the impression I could be fired at any moment for what I was doing, so I got a job at a hospital as a janitor. There were designated rooms for patients that I would use to sleep; otherwise, I would sleep in a chair in the supply room. They fired me after three months, one month before I had gotten the lease of a room which I had to leave the day they discarded me.
Then, I was a waitress, but they disposed of me after one month saying I wasn’t friendly enough to the customers and they served to high profiles, or so they said. I then took care of a baby and slept in the house. However, the mother of the baby once touched my leg as we were talking and I had to leave.
Finally, I found a job in a textile factory, as a seamstress.
I take a look at all I’ve achieved in these three years: a plastic bag full of clothes I have bought. That’s all I can say about my accomplishments. I say to myself at least these don’t come from the charity bags that arrived to the orphanage. I check the address on the paper. I have come to the place, to the people I said I would never resort to, but with this desolate life, we never know what bottom really is, there is always a lower level for us.
I enter to the apartment complex and feel envy though the place is beyond dingy with naked children running and mothers screaming for them, but it’s a place, a place of one’s own is better than none. I find apartment number fifteen and the door opens. He doesn’t know what to say, but I have rehearsed my lines already.
Samuel, thank you for helping me. I go in as he indicates.
We go into the living room, take a seat in the old damaged light blue sofa I’m sure once was Oxford blue. He stays silent and I put the bag in the floor and I realize this is where I will be sleeping.
It was a surprise you called. He says finally, scraping his neck, I noticed then his raggedy clothes.
I needed some help. I hope I don’t bother you too much. It will be only today or a couple of days. I explain without as much shame as I expected to experience.
You can stay here one week. He says and my heart plummets again to my feet. I will be evicted in seven days, we will be evicted in seven days. We are both holding to the same board. He stole everything from me. I didn’t have much, but he took everything.
He explains who he is, carefully at first, saying he was his roommate, then he says he was his partner and finally he explains he was his boyfriend. He says they used to fight and I notice the bruises in his arms as he speaks, the scraping in the knees and elbows. I feel as seeing him through a microscope and I notice a scar on his lip, and he is missing two fingers. He explains all of this casually as he limps to the kitchen to get some water from me, water with a strange smell to it, or is it the vase? I gulp it and come back to his history which is as miserable as mine.
He appeared to love me, you know? Or so I wanted to believe. And despite the fights, he was all I had. His eyes are water now.
I am sorry I left without saying a thing. I say and I mean it. I wouldn’t have felt so alone if at least I had had him. We both wanted to forget the misery, yes, but also we had shared knowledge of it. We would have survived its aftermath better.
I understood when Tiffany left, but you were everything I had there. But I understand your need to forget, but it seems the orphanage never leaves you. And it has occurred to me we have something that tells on us and that’s why people treat us the way they do.
We are damaged goods. I say and a tear rolls on my cheek. Then, he hugs me tightly.
I’ve missed you so much, sister.
After some tears, apologies and promises not to leave each other alone again, we ponder on our precarious situation. We have to get a job as soon as possible.
When I came to his house, I felt tired, as if I had run a marathon, as if I had worked all day long. But I find myself talking with him at midnight, catching up with what has happened as I tell him what happened to mine. For once, I don’t feel so alone but understood and seen as a whole, not as a maid or a servant, but as Cordelia. A burden has been lifted from my shoulder, from the very people I considered a liability on my spirit.
We could ask Tiffany for help. He says and looks me carefully in the eye.
I haven’t talked to her since... well, before I left the orphanage. I admit ashamed, as if she wanted to get away from me just for being an orphan unlike her who wasn’t anymore.
I thought she had helped you, that’s why I was so sad. I believed you had reunited and done a new life without me. He sips from his cup of coffee and looks at me again, he’s done the same mistake I have: believing the worst of others.
No, she threw me out of her house suddenly and I haven’t talked to her ever since. I say.
I think she could help us. He insists.
Have you talked to her? I ask.
I have seen her. She has a nice house unlike mine and I think she lives alone. I believe he has spied on her and hated himself for not being her, for having been born with the fate that was assigned to him. But I won’t tell him what I suspect. She can help us, we need help, we could try.
I don’t know.
Look, pride hasn’t brought us very far, has it? Also, what could we lose?
I don’t want to confirm why she left me high and dry. I finally admit and my cheeks feel hot.
We never know. Look what happened with you and me.
I want to tell him this is one of the rarest exceptions of life, this isn’t a pattern, this isn’t how life works. There is much more cruelty than we can imagine and much less love than we long for.
The work at the textile factory was killer. I ended up my shift with my feet pulsing and my hands hurting from working on the machines all day long, and I needed this job desperately, so I worked harder than anyone and even took overtime despite of my aching body.
It wasn’t only the money why I did the overtime. I also took advantage of the situation to stay at the factory once everyone was gone. I would eat a sandwich from the cafeteria as I hid in the room where all the boxes were put together, behind some rolls of fabric. I didn’t feel as pathetic with all the color surrounding me, unlike what I had experienced in the hospital and the cellar where I once concealed at night.
Of course, it wasn’t long until someone discovered my hiding place. A timid man came to the room and looked me straight in the eye. I was as scared as a animal about to be trapped and skinned alive. He must have sensed it. I didn’t want to lose this job. I couldn’t afford it. It was the most stable thing I had found.
My name is Henri. He said. I didn’t mean to scare you, but I saw a light and... are you okay? There was true concern with his expression.
No, but this is everything I had. I told him choking with embarrassment. Surely, rock bottom was a place I was getting more and more familiar with.
I won’t tell on you. He said and he kept his promise.
Days later, Henri came while I was working as an animal. I must have become livid because all my coworkers looked at me strangely. I went with him to his office. I was sure he had exposed me. But my boss wasn’t there or the manager.
I found you a different job. There’s no much overtime, as much as there is here, but you can sleep in and you will have your three meals and a bed where to sleep, no need to hide, and I think it isn’t as harsh as it is being here though you won’t be precisely in paradise, the boss is kind of moody but I am sure you can handle it. He explained nervously.
I was tired, but after listening to his words, it felt as if my body had been filled with cotton candy. It was how I came to work for Frank.
As we walk to Tiffany’s house, as I remember what happened with Henri, something swells inside my chest. I feel the danger of it but also its pleasantness. It’s hope all along. It’s something that feels like the satisfaction of the bodily needs, but it’s just an illusion, a game inside our head.
I looked at Sam, he is also nervous. We both fear Tiffany will disown us as she once did, as I did to him. But surely what has happened between us seems like the light at the end of the tunnel, we hope Tiffany is this light and not just one more complication on our path. Our feet are already tired.
We get to the house. We hope she isn’t looking through the windows. We hope she doesn’t ignore us. We hope she at least has pity of us. Sam and I stay on the porch. I knock the door before I regret being here, before I escape as I did once with the orphanage.
The feet approach, the door creaks and she is there, in front of us, with better clothes, a better smell, the life we always dreamed of, where we wouldn’t stink, we wouldn’t feel hungry after each meal, where we would have four walls for us. She is thunderstruck. Sam is speechless. It’s up to me now.
Tiffany, would you let us in, please?
She moves and lets us in without uttering a word. She’s her hand on her mouth suppressing a scream. We wait on the living room and she’s composed herself and points to the sofa where we seat, humiliated we will leave a stink on it or we will stain it with our clothes in shreds.
What are we supposed to say now? We can’t talk about our present immediately without appearing opportunists. We can’t talk about the past because that’s what we hoped the others would become.
How have you been? She asks which would seem offensive in her condition, by far better condition than ours. However, we’ve known each other for so long, that we don’t feel attacked or denigrated.
You know, shit happens. I say confirming to her why she left so suddenly: because I was so vulgar I would never belong in her world.
We really don’t mean to bother you, Tiff. Sam explains without lifting his face. We could use your help. We thought you could help us get a job. Of course, you don’t have to say yes. His face is red. This is hard for him.
It will be only this time and I promise we will leave you alone. I explain with unwanted tears in my eyes.
And who the fuck would like to be left alone? She says and starts crying and weeping, covering her face to hide her breakdown. It’s a sad spectacle. I stand up and hug her. I am sorry. She whispers and she is remorseful. She’s been as alone as we have been, believing our loneliness apart from one another would somehow heal us when it was just easier to reunite our despair to make things more bearable. I ask Sam to come and we all hug.
Tiffany asks us to stay for dinner and she orders some pizza. It’s a luxury I’ve rarely had along with eating with people I know. This is the closest to the picture of a family I have in my head. We are reunited in the living room. Sam and I make sure not to leave stains on anything but it shows how dirty we are as we receive the white plates, white as snow on our hands with some slices of pizza on it. Tiffany notices it but pretends she doesn’t.
As we finished eating, as we look at one another with new possibilities, as we aren’t as uncomfortable as the beginning, Tiffany says all of a sudden.
I didn’t mean for you to stop working for mom, but I didn’t want you to stay there because of Mr. Fortenberry. She summons all her strength to explain this.
There is nothing to explain. I understand it wasn’t possible at the time.
She looks at us, one at a time, uncomfortable, her eyes watery again. She licks her lips and sighs before going on. She fidgets with her hands.
He left me this house after she died. I loved her so much and will be forever grateful for giving me a home at least for some brief time. If I could have brought you with me, I would have done it at first, but I would have regretted. I feel uncomfortable for where this is going. He didn’t do anything the first days, but as I started growing breasts and having my period, he got closer to me, and he told me I shouldn’t disappoint mom by telling him lies, that he could bring me back to the orphanage, that he could kill me or her or all of us, and... he face is covered in tears. He wanted you to come work to the house for longer, and I knew what he wanted. That is why I didn’t let you come back. I never intended to leave the only family I had. I am so sorry.
I am in tears, Sam too. This isn’t a story that can be shared to anyone, only true family. Her truth mends my heart once again and I hope I can mend hers and his. There is still love. There is still hope. I still have and have always had a family of my own.
It’s strange that such different people live under the same roof. Tiffany is not very well organized. Sam is a perfectionist. I am always in the middle, not being in the extremes, not on the edges as before.
We schedule our tasks as we used to do at the orphanage, but we never complain when the other one doesn’t do what was expected. However, we rarely forget our tasks.
We don’t eat as much as we could. We put all our salary in a box and only take what is necessary. We ask for permission before buying something expensive such as shoes or new clothes, or better said, second hand clothes. We economize as much as possible. But we eat pizza once a month, as a celebration of our encounter.
Sam is working as a mechanic in the textile factory where I once used to work, I asked Henri for help who still remembered me. Tiffany works as the assistant for an accountant and she got me a job as a delivery woman in a law firm. We always find time to eat dinner together, but most importantly, we always get into agreement twice a month for a free day at work.
On that day, we use some of the money we have saved, we buy chocolates, the cheap but good ones, candies, hotdogs, per my suggestion; we buy vegetables, two cartons of eggs, toys, disinfectant for the floor, notebooks, soap, shampoo, etc.
We go to the orphanage and we visit ourselves, the children that have been forgotten, and we hope to be a beacon of hope, to remind them that we, in our hopelessness and despair, are a family.
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