I Meant What I Said

CONTENT WARNING: themes of drug use, addiction, and domestic violence.

The first time I saw her, her eyes were haunted, her scars fresh. She came through the line in the soup kitchen, pointing at what she wanted but never uttering a sound. If I had to guess, I would say she was nineteen or twenty. That was New Year’s Eve, three years ago.

Two years ago, I volunteered on New Year’s Eve again, and saw her again. The haunted look in her eyes was pushed down, hiding under despair and dark circles. Her scars, the result of some horrendous fire, were still visible, but the color almost matched her medium-tan skin.

She was wearing a sticker on her jacket, probably from a twelve-step meeting somewhere. It said, “Hello, my name is Anita.” Once again, she uttered no sounds, but pointed out what she wanted. She seemed thinner, frailer. She seemed to have aged several years.

“Hi, Anita,” I said, “I’m Tim. Have you got a place to stay warm?” I made sure to include the card for the women’s shelter on her tray.

She looked up at me, for just a second, before walking away with her food. I watched her sit across from another woman, grey hair, missing most of her teeth, with the leathery skin of someone who has lived rough for years. They signed to each other between bites. The older woman cackled at something, but Anita didn’t seem amused.

By last New Year’s Eve, I had learned enough sign language to be almost conversational. I was able to talk to the older woman, who I found out was Maribeth, once a beauty pageant winner, fifty-four years old, and homeless for the last seventeen years. Maribeth had a crank habit, and claimed she’d been kicked out of shelters and rehab programs all up and down the west coast.

I asked about Anita, and she grew angry. She was signing too fast for me to keep up, but I caught the gist. They’d had a falling out. Maribeth’s signing slowed for emphasis as she told me, “That bitch thinks she’s too good for my meth. I tried to share but she said no. I bet she’s working for the government.”

Not wanting to aggravate her further, or get drawn into her delusions, I told Maribeth that she should eat before her food gets cold…and that she was holding up the line.

I didn’t see Anita until after Maribeth left. The despair in her eyes had turned to resignation but the haunt was still buried there. The cold outside made her scars stand out pink against her throat and hands.

She removed her heavy parka, four sizes too large. Where she had been thin the previous year, she was positively gaunt, and needle tracks marked her arm. She looked closer to forty than twenty-five.

As she approached, I signed, “Hello, Anita. Do you have somewhere warm to sleep tonight?”

She looked up at me and signed back, “Who cares? And I can hear.”

“Good to know,” I said. I grabbed one of the cards for the women’s shelter and was about to put it on her tray. Instead, I turned it over, wrote my name and number on the back, and handed it to her.

Anita looked at the card like it was poisoned. “I don’t want anything from you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just worried about you. If you go to the shelter, talk to Julia Marquez, she taught me sign, she can help. If you need someone to talk to, you can text me at this number, any time.”

“Not my hero,” she signed with an angry huff, but I noticed that she put the card in her jacket pocket.

“Not even close to a hero,” I said. “I just care.”

As she ate, I noticed she was watching me like a hawk. Every interaction I had with the others as they came through the line. “Do you have someplace warm to sleep tonight? No? Here’s a card for a men’s shelter over on Second.”

There was a slight delay as a woman holding an infant and trailing a toddler came in. The left side of her face was swollen and purple, the eye almost swollen shut. Dried blood from her nose and lip mingled with the tracks of tears. When I made a move to help her, she cowered from me, so I backed off. “Sister Kathleen,” I called, “we could use your help.”

The sister came over at once and bundled the three of them into one of the side rooms that connected with the main body of the chapel. I stared at the door that had closed behind them far too long, trying to calm the reflexive part of me that wanted to find the monster that had done that to her and pay them back in kind.

I took a deep breath to calm myself, wiped the tears of anger that had started to form, and turned back around and went back to serving. My phone chimed, and I finished helping the man who was so intoxicated as to be reeling on his feet to a table before checking it.

It was an unknown number. The text message said, “Do u mean it?”

“Mean what?” I texted back.

“U care - any time - that shit.”

I looked at Anita, who was staring holes through me. I walked to her table and said, “Yes, I meant everything I said. I care, and I’m available any time.”

“What was her name?” she signed.

“Julia Marquez.” I texted it to her as I said it. “She’s the real deal.”

Anita rose to leave, and I thought I saw something different in her eyes…a faint glimmer of hope. Sometimes, that’s all one can ask for.

She didn’t text me at all after that. All I could do was hope for the best. As New Year’s Eve rolled around again, I volunteered for the fourth year running. Aside from some of the sisters, it seemed that the volunteers were new each year more than the people we were feeding.

I was about to introduce myself to the new volunteers when my phone chimed. I looked at it; a new text from Anita. “Behind you,” it said.

I turned around, and there she was. She’d gained some weight and shed the extra years, looking more her age. Her clothes, while casual, were neat and clean, in her size, her hair styled, and best of all, she wore a smile. The circles under her eyes were gone, and there was true happiness in them. She held her arms out, and I copied her.

Anita stepped close and gave me a big hug. As I hugged her back, she began to sob. I looked around for help, but Sister Kathleen just grinned at me.

“I—is something wrong?” I asked.

She shook her head no and clung on. After a minute or so she stepped back. “Nothing’s wrong,” she signed. “I’m just so glad you’re here.”

I noticed that she was wearing a volunteer pin. “I’m so glad that you’re here, on this side of the line.”

“I thought I was done,” she signed, “but you told me you cared, and I thought, if the dork at the soup kitchen can care enough to learn sign for me, I should be able to care enough to ask for help. So I did.”

I was about to ask her for more details, but she pulled something out of her pocket. It was a keychain from Narcotics Anonymous that said, “9 Months.” The pride in her smile was unmistakable.

“They say we can change lives doing things like this. Want to see if it’s true?” I asked.

She signed at me, “You dork, of course it’s true. I’m working next to you so you can translate.”

“Not if you’re calling people names,” I said.

“Never,” she signed, “at least not here. I work for the church as a janitor and I do this every month now, you should join me.”

“I think I will,” I said. As always, I meant exactly what I said.