I dove into the one thing that always made my mind focus—the law.
As promised I used my lunch break to check in with Garret. My call went to his voicemail. He hadn’t bothered to set up a message.
“Hey, it’s your sister. Mom is worried about you. Call her, please.”
I hung up and regretted not saying something about how I was worried too. That it mattered to me where he was. I started scrolling through all the social media sites I knew he used. When things were going well for him he liked to post pictures. He’d check in at a park, or upload a shot of a sunset. I didn’t see anything recent on his accounts. I tried not to let that worry me. It had happened before.
I called my mother to let her know I didn’t have anything to report.
The phone rang a few times before she answered. “Hey, honey.” She sounded calmer than before, casual.
“Have you heard anything?” I asked. I was going to suggest she check with his friend Chris. He might have better luck locating him.
“Oh, yes. He’s here. I just fixed him a sandwich.” I could hear the smile in her voice.
“You what?” I felt the irritation crawl over my skin. “Garret’s there? Eating a sandwich?”
“Mmmhmm. You were right. He was out for a walk. Nothing to worry about.”
“Mom, you should have texted me or left me a voicemail,” I lectured. I felt the heat in my neck.
She sighed. “I didn’t think about it I guess. And he needs lunch. He was hungry after all that exercise.”
I gritted my teeth. “He’s not hungry. He’s bi-polar. He needs help, not food.”
My mom hated the word. She hated the diagnosis. Dad wouldn’t even mention it. He pretended it wasn’t true.
“Emily,” she whispered, probably so my brother wouldn’t hear her scold me.
“I’m glad he’s ok. I have to get back to clinic.” I couldn’t stomach it.
“Okay, hon. Thanks for checking with us.”
I didn’t have the patience to ask for any more details or bother talking to my brother. He was twenty-eight. At some point our mother had to stop treating him like a small child. He had to take responsibility for his life. I hadn’t been able to convince anyone of that yet.
“Bye, Mom.”
I hung up and shoved my phone in my bag. What was wrong with them? Why couldn’t they deal with it on their own? Why bring me into something that was a nothing?
I decided to skip the rest of my lunch hour. I had lost my appetite. I turned for the clinic building and smiled at Meg when I walked toward her desk.
The waiting room was full.
“I’m back.” I nodded at her.
From my brief introduction with the clerk I knew she was studying human rights law and was trying to get as many hours at the clinic as she could this semester.
She had round glasses and a bob haircut that I wished I could pull off.
“You cut your lunch short,” she observed.
“Too many people here need me,” I answered. “Who’s next?”
“I’ll send someone in.”
“Good.” I walked into my shared office.
The space was cramped. My officemate was still at lunch so it was a good time to try to see as many people as I could. Next week it would be even harder to work in here when we were assigned students to mentor.
Her name was Addie Brownley, and she seemed nice enough. We didn’t have much time to trade backgrounds or war stories. As soon as she walked in she had a client and I was wrapping up with mine. I hoped she was someone I would enjoy working with.
I opened my laptop. I had to forget about Garrett. I had to forget about the insane conversation I’d just had with my mother.
I needed to focus on how I could help the women who were here with legitimate challenges in their lives.
People came here seeking help. They were trying to make changes in their lives, or fight for justice. They were willing to do something about it. To take a stand. To challenge what was wrong.
They needed me. And they were willing to listen to what I had to say. They took my advice. They heard what I said.
The three women I had seen this morning had come here because there was nowhere else for them to go. One was being sexually harassed at work. Another was fighting for custody of her children, and the third client was fighting a wrongful eviction.
I could make a difference here—something I hadn’t been able to do at home.
I looked up from my computer when my first afternoon appointment walked in. She dabbed a tissue at the corner of her eyes before balling it into her fist.
“Hi, I’m Emily Charles. Please take a seat.”
She shuffled into the chair. It squeaked as the legs slid along the hardwood floor.