I smile as brightly as I can. It’s the same old routine we do every time we arrive in a new place.
I go out and look for work...Momsaysshe’s going to look for work. Unfortunately, she slowly sinks into her habit of lying around on the couch, seemingly trapped by her fear and the past.
I’m not sure what to do anymore. I’m not sure how to help her out of this stagnant, terrifying hole.
“Whatever you want to do, Mom. I’ll support you.”
She grins before her smile falters, then she looks down at her toast and butter knife like she can’t remember what she’s doing.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
We eat quietly for the rest of the time.
At least our apartment is quiet. All around us, music plays. Somebody yells. Outside, something crashes, and a man swears loudly. Maybe he’s dropped something.
It’s the same most places we go, motels or cheap apartment buildings that take cash. People always feel like they’re on edge like they’re ready to snap when they’ve simply had enough.
I wonder if anybody else sees giant wolves.
After breakfast, I take my folder and head for the door.
My resume is patchy, with two months of restaurant work here and three months as a cleaner there. But luckily, all my employers understood about me and the need to move if Mom felt we were in danger. They all agreed to give me references. It’s something, a place to start.
I take the bus into the city and start looking for potential options. One of the things I’ve learned when looking for this kind of work is that sometimes employers appreciate it when a candidate shows up in person. It saves them time. It makes their life easier, instead of having to sort through an online application system.
My belly churns as I walk toward the dry cleaner, my first stop.
No matter how many times I do this – and no matter how many times I’ve successfully got work this way – it always makes me ache.
My thoughts flurry with all the things they could say, the vicious jabs they could take, criticizing my size or something else about me. It’s only happened twice, argumentative exchanges with potential employers, but each time it stung.
The lady at the dry cleaner takes my resume with a disinterested shrug. It’s the same at the next seven businesses I visit. On the eighth, it seems like the money I spent at the library printing all these resumes might not have been wasted after all.
The man brightens up; he’s around seventy with bushy eyebrows and a gentle smile. His eyes light up, and he waves a hand around the convenience store.
“Maybe, girl. Maybe. I’ll need to check with the wife. But it’s a definitemaybe.”
I beam, thinking about a steady paycheck and being able to put food on the table for Mom and me. Sure, there’s part of me that hates this whole thing, which finds it ridiculous and unfair that I even have to do this.
Part of me hisses,You should be in nursing school. None of this should be happening. It’s been two years, and look how you’re living.
I push the voice far back, ignoring it. “Thank you very much. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
The man smiles and nods, waving a hand.
Outside the store, I stop, thinking maybe I’ll wave to him.
He might remember me better then. He might be more likely to hire me.
The man bunches my resume into a ball, tosses it at the waste bin, then turns back to his crossword.
My hand begins to tremble, causing my remaining resumes to shake in my hand. I try to laugh it off, but tears are pricking my eyes. It’s just one freaking thing after another.
I walk past the next five businesses, even if they could be decent options. The tears won’t leave my eyes.
I think about Mom, about Master Pete, and all the lies he told us. I’m thinking about Dad’s smile and how safe it made me feel before he died, and it was just Mom and me.
How long am I going to have to do this for?