“Are you sure?”
“Yes….” I give her a reassuring smile. “It is fine.” She nods at her son and looks at me from the corner of her eye. If I move too fast, she’ll bolt. “Has someone come out to greet you?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t push the button.”
“I see.” It’s not unusual for a potential guest to have one foot in the door and one foot out. “Why don’t you let the kids play in the next room, and we can sit down and chat.”
“Can we?” The older child, a girl, who’s probably five years of age, stands at the doorway of the playroom. The doll house and kitchenette are newer and filled with all the accessories a child would need to role-play.
“Yes, that’s fine.” Her shoulders are slumped, and her voice is filled with exhaustion as the kids run into the adjacent room. The little girl’s face lights up as she picks up a plastic teakettle.
“Let’s sit over here.” I walk toward the two modern yellow velvet upholstered chairs stationed around a small circular table. The space looks more like a library or a café than a women’s shelter.
Over the years, the owner has spent a lot of time and energy trying to make the environment more inviting. Everything in the room is bright and cheery. The people who come to the shelter have had enough desolateness in their lives.
Melissa Edwards, one of my co-workers, walks into the room from the office. “I thought I heard someone.” She smiles while fidgeting with the lanyard hanging from her neck. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, go ahead and keep working. I’ll explain the services we have to offer to…” I turn my attention to the woman and raise my eyebrows.
“Ruth.” Her hands are clutched together in her lap as she takes up as little space as possible. Everything, from jumping when I spoke to her – even though the bells above the door chimed my arrival – and her curled inward shoulders, shouts a history of verbal if not physical abuse.
“Thank you.” Melissa shakes her head. “I wish you’d reconsider working here full-time. Two or three days a week is not enough.”
“Melissa,” I sigh. “We’ve been over this before. I can’t afford to spend more time here a week.” Even if it’s the only bright spot in my week. The café is okay. School is a means to an end. But the shelter brings me joy. As long as I don’t neglect my studies and I’m able to get a few hours of sleep, I’m golden.
And my father doesn’t find out I’m volunteering behind his back.
“You could if you applied for the program director’s position. None of us have the qualifications, and you know the program inside and out.”
“Melissa.” I give her a warning look.
“Fine.” She tosses her hands into the air. “But you keep forgetting you have a degree in social work and could step into a full-time job tomorrow. I could send the information to headquarters tonight.”
She spins on her heel and disappears. The previous program director took a new job three months ago, and she’s been on my case since to apply for the opening.
If I didn’t already have my future planned, I would try to get the job. I love the shelter and everything it stands for. And the owner and his sister, who oversees all the shelters, are amazing people. But it’s not in the cards.
“I’m sorry.” I return my attention to Ruth, who’s been watching us with interest while keeping an eye on her children. They’re playing quietly in front of the kitchenette.
“It’s fine.” She picks at the lint on the knee of her pants.
“Let me tell you about the shelter and our programs.”
Fifteen minutes later, she relaxes into her seat and yawns. “I’m so sorry.” She straightens her back until she’s sitting on the edge of the chair.
“It’s fine.” I lean forward but not intrusively. Even though she’s calmed down somewhat, she’s still at risk of leaving rather than staying in the safety of the shelter. “Do you want to share anything about your needs?”
“Well….” She gnaws on her bottom lip. “My husband didn’t want me to work, so I don’t have any money. He’s run a company for several years but had to shut it down due to the recession. He’s angry, depressed, and won’t get out and do anything but drink and feel sorry for himself.” She shrugs. “I don’t know where else to go. I don’t care if he yells at me, but last night, he got drunk and berated Emery over a glass left out in the living room.”
Emery’s back bristles, letting me know she’s listening to everything we say. Not that the reality is a secret. Some kids needshelter from the crap that goes on in life, and others need to know someone is there to snatch them out of hell. That’s where we come in.
“We have three different stay durations–30 days, 90 days, and 6 months. Of course, the time between these lengths is fluid. If you don’t have a place to live at 90 days, but you have one at 91 days, then you’re free to move out at that time. Here at the main shelter, there’re daycare services to assist you in finding and keeping employment with the hope that you’ll be able to save money for discharge. Again, there are services to assist with housing, furnishing, and food upon finding your own place. We also have multiple homes away from the main shelter where people can live.”
“That sounds fantastic.” Tears swim in her eyes. “This was the last thing I ever wanted to do. I hate asking for a handout, but I’ll do anything for my children. I honestly thought until last night that a home with two parents, even when one of them was bitter and depressed, was better than living in a shelter, but it’s not. At least not for my kids. I can’t leave them in that kind of environment.”
I pat her hand. “Your kids will thrive in this environment. I’ve seen it happen repeatedly. When they feel comfortable and process some of their fears, they’ll flourish.”
“Thank you.” One tear, followed by another, runs down her cheek.