“I need a couple minutes. Can you cover me?”
Judy hummed. “Absolutely, sweetheart.”
The door jingled as I led Mom outside. I made a mental note to rip the metal bell off the frame the instant I returned.
“Mom, what are you doing?” I kept my voice low. “We don’t need food from the pantry.”
“The house is empty, Honor.” She sighed. “I’m not used to having two mouths to feed.”
I silently calculated the amount in my bank account, subtracted gas and my cell phone bill, and hated the number that returned. But I’d make it work. If I lived on Ramen last semester, I could certainly make a better meal with a real kitchen instead of an illegal hotplate.
“I’ll go shopping after this shift, okay?” I said. “I’ll bring us home dinner too.”
“Don’t be silly. That’s why the pantry is here. The women at the church told me to come by, and here I am.”
“You have to be pre-qualified.”
“And we are. Times are tough, but you knew that.”
“No,” I said. “I’m working. I can afford groceries. This food is for—”
“Those who need it.”
“And that’s not us. It’s young families. Women who left abusive husbands. The elderly who had nothing for retirement. Disabled veterans. But I can make ends meet, Mom.”
“And you are, baby.” Mom brushed my cheek. “But you’re working so hard. You’ve taken on so many responsibilities in the church. If I had half the ambition that you did…a lot of things would be different now. No drugs. No booze. No jail. But this is the reality. Your father is gone, God be with him, and we fell on harder times.”
I wouldn’t let the bitterness eat through me. “You’re not taking food from the pantry.”
“We’re not. You mean, we’re not taking food, right?”
It wasn’t often Mom’s newfound optimism faded, and a harder edge shadowed her voice. But the program and steps made it clear that she was to accept herself and others and be grateful for life. No resentment, no anger, no sorrow anymore—not when she was alive and free from the addictions.
“I know this is hard,” Mom said. “Your father worked long hours to avoid charity—”
“Dad put in fifty or sixty hours a week until…”
“Until he died.”
No. Until she had needed his help. Until he had to reduce his hours and sacrifice his ability to support the family to enable Mom as she drank herself almost to death.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Mom’s lips pressed thin, and she folded her hands.
“Honor…I lost the appeal for the SNAP program because of the drug conviction.”
I wish she’d kept her voice down.
I smiled politely at Mr. and Mrs. Popp as they headed into the pantry. The entire congregation would spread this gossip by the end of the day.
“We’ve survived without it before,” I said. “I can pay for groceries.”
“For now…” Mom took my hand. “Honor, baby, I didn’t want to burden you with all this. It’s just been so nice having you home again. I missed you growing up, even though you were right there the whole time. Now I hoped we could reconnect and…really become a family again.”
A family without Dad.
“But there’s a problem,” Mom said. “The diocese was kind enough to give me a little money every month for rent. However, it was only temporary. It runs out next month.”
My stomach curdled, and any hope I had of staying even a part-time student vanished.
We needed more money?
I’d have to cut back on the volunteering. Get a full-time job. I had no idea if I could find anything good without a degree.
“We might be able to renew the program,” she said. “But we need a letter on our behalf.”
“A letter?” I liked that spark of hope. “From who? The charity’s manager?”
“No, from someone in the church.” She gave me a sheepish glance. “Father Raphael would be perfect. And you seem to have a good rapport with him. If you could convince him to write a letter to the diocese—”
“You want me to ask Father Rafe for charity?”
“I want you to ask him for help.”
I could reveal my innermost fantasies to him.
Kiss him.
Arch as his aggressive and gentle and fierce and confident hands gripped my hips.
But this? Asking anyone for help was mortifying, let alone wishing for a favor from the man who explored such terrible and wonderful feelings with me.
I’d been humiliated by my desires, but still had my pride. I’d survived childhood and adolescence without charity.