Right behind him, I see another little girl accompanied by what must be her social worker hustling into the room. Her eyes dart around like a cornered mouse, their color near translucent. Like the crystal clear shallow water of a tropical shore, I want to look away, but I’m mesmerized. Her hair falls to her waist in a tangle of silk the color of antique porcelain. She is as close to a living, breathing china doll as there could ever be.
My eyelids burn when she turns toward me. Her ivory cheek is decorated with an angry purple and red circle. I notice how she crinkles her nose when she looks up at the woman by her side, hoping she will be the one to save her. Because I can see she needs saving. Then for just a moment, our eyes meet.
This broken, little soul with white hair and skin to match digs her sheer blue eyes into mine so deep, I feel her fear. My heart shatters inside my chest as I see the pain in her eyes and the way she moves so softly, gliding instead of walking. Her arms around her waist, holding onto herself, hoping for protection that she seems to know will never come.
Someone else was born inside of me that day. Someone that knew she was part of me.
Promise
{Present day}
Mrs. Selburn is telling me for the five-hundred and sixty-second time since I’ve worked here that she’s just arrived and will only be staying a short time.
Her son is out of town, you know, she always says, but he’ll be here to pick her up in a day or so.
I enjoy the five or so minutes of silence that follow as I pick up each little bunny and kitten figurine on her dresser and dust around and under them.
“I’ve just arrived, you know.” Mrs. Selburn’s voice says from behind me, and I grin. “I will only be staying a short time. My son is an attorney, very important, and he will come for me in a day or so.”
I turn to see her milky eyes staring at today’s newspaper. It’s upside down.
I don’t mind the repetition. It’s comforting not having to hear something new every day.
Most people would feel sorry for her, but not me. She doesn’t have to remember. Doesn’t have to think about the future. She lives only in this one moment, over and over. I can think of worse moments to be stuck inside.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer softly. I don’t usually connect with people, but I find her pleasant enough. “I know. I’ll just finish cleaning, so it looks nice for when your son gets here.”
“You are sweet. What’s your name, dear?”
“Promise, Mrs. Selburn.”
“Promise? That’s an unusual name. You must be new here.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m new.”
Mrs. Selburn has lived here for six years, and I’ve worked here for two.
“You look just like a china doll I had when I was a little girl. Ivory hair and your eyes—my dear . . . they are like opals. I’ve never seen eyes that color in all my years. My doll’s name was Caroline.” She rocks back in her chair.
I smile, and she smiles back. She raises the upside down paper again, holding it closer to her face than before, and I think about flipping it over for her. But, she looks content, and I envy her blissful ignorance.
Her son is an attorney. She remembers that correctly.
An asshole attorney who doesn’t give a shit about her.
I’ve seen him here twice this year. He struts in like he’s king of the douchebags. He spends maybe five minutes with her, annoyed and correcting her the entire time. He’s back on his cell phone before he hits the door on his way out, driving off in his Bentley while she’s here in a Medicaid placement bed.
It’s better for her this way. Some things are better forgotten.
“Are you new here?” Mrs. Selburn smiles at me.
Groundhog day every five minutes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are you from, dear? From around here?”
I want to tell her I’m from some exotic, wonderful place where flowers bloom year-round, and you wake to ocean breezes and pick fruit from the trees in your backyard.
Then how the heck did you end up in Cleveland, dear?
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve lived here my whole life. Around here.” I shrug as I put down the little porcelain rabbit with the chipped ear.
“Hum.” She nods, then she’s gone again in her upside down paper.
I’m from nowhere; that’s what I should have said. I’ve moved as many times as the years I’ve been alive. Twenty-one. I keep track.
Twenty-one moves all within the city limits of Cleveland, Ohio. One of these days, I will crack the state line and see the backside of this city.
The radio on my belt chirps, and I hear Selma, one of the floor supervisors, through the static.
“Promise, you on two?” Selma’s voice crackles.