Vacant(8)

~

“Ethan, go wash your hands please. Dinner is ready.”

It never fails. The girl can literally watch me walk from the bathroom, knowing I’ve just scrubbed up, but she will still tell me to wash again, and I will. I know that she’s tied to the routine, not really the cleanliness factor. Many who have been in a homeless situation will cling to routines for the comfort and solace they bring.

We sit and eat in silence for the first few minutes of the meal. It’s always balanced, particularly since she’s taking a health class this semester and preaches the benefits of healthy eating habits and exercise. Sometimes it makes me laugh because she sounds just like one of those infomercials she occasionally watches in the middle of the night after she’s had a bad dream. There are times I think it’s more than just nightmares, though, when she wakes at night. She carries a lot of guilt around with her given our situation. Emily feels like she should contribute to the household with money. I feel like she needs to be in school, getting an education. Even though legally she could drop out, I’m constantly reiterating that school is her job, and there will be plenty of time for her to contribute in the future when she’s a full-fledged taxpayer.

“Hey, Ethan?” Emily asks cautiously, while pushing her cube steak around on the plate. I’m a bit nervous since she says it with hesitance. She hardly asks for anything, and when she does, she makes it seem like she’s about to ask for a million dollars, but it’s usually something small and relatively insignificant. This time, though, the accompanying look on her face indicates this isn’t simple. I put my fork down and look up, giving her my full attention.

“So, Christmas is coming.”

I inwardly groan, not because she’s brought it up, but because I participate in as little of the Holiday Cheer as possible. It’s been awhile since I’ve celebrated the birth of Christ, mainly because I don’t believe in God. Realistically, I see the holiday as an opportunity to earn extra money as I work all the shifts so everyone else can spend time with their families. I try to dislodge my anxiety about the topic but it doesn’t work. The holidays are about commercialism and consumerism. Plus, I can’t afford to buy gifts.

“Yeah, I usually work Christmas. I get double time.” My dinner still sits heavy in the pit of my stomach. I know I should give her a special day.

“Oh.”

Now I feel like a jerk who’s robbed her of the magic of Christmas. “Like all day or just part?”

“The store is open from seven until two, then closing early.” I know why she’s asking, but it doesn’t keep me from playing stupid. “Why? What’s up?”

Emily finally stops pushing her battered piece of meat around on the plate and looks up. “I was thinking…and you don’t have to…it’s just something that…I mean, you can, but if it makes you uncomfortable…” I finally stop her rambling by touching her hand. My hope is that she will refocus her thoughts with my unexpected gesture.

I’m successful. Emily sits up a little straighter, squares her shoulders, and wipes her mouth with her paper towel-slash-napkin.

“I want to spend Christmas at the shelter. You know…it’s the last place I was with my mom.”





~Tradition~


For the second time since she came into my life, Emily and I walk away from the Gale Street Shelter. After making the trip with her last year, which was her first Christmas without her mom, I know how important “giving back” really is especially where Emily is concerned. I can’t help but glance over at her as we make the journey home. This girl—woman—has been part of my life for 487 days, give or take a few hours. As I look back now, I realize I’m keeping track because the day I met Emily was the day I began to live, a rebirth in the form of a brunette angel who’s never asked for anything, yet I can’t help giving her everything I can.

The past year has been filled with much patience and restraint on my part. As I realize Emily is still a child in the eyes of the law, I struggle to keep my mind on a virtuous path. Sometimes I swear she’s torturing me. This morning she decided to get a drink of orange juice after taking a shower but before getting dressed. She says she likes the taste of orange juice while the mint of the toothpaste lingers. I walked out of the bedroom, and there’s Emily... bending over... reaching for juice...in a towel. And because I’m frugal, our towels are cheap and on the small side.

I think she knows she’s torturing me when she stands there, flexing her leg. I leave the house without my lunch or coat in haste to escape. I don’t want to continue down this path with my thoughts. I’ve made a vow to myself that my relationship with Emily will remain chaste, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have to redirect my thoughts on a consistent basis.