Time for Grace

I'm not sure when it first hit me that she was no stranger to me, and it took several weeks longer to realize the entire disturbing truth.

But why am I awake and why did I wake to this thought? I don't think I was dreaming anything about this. Or was I? I do remember something like this in a dream, but was that just now or last week? Get a grip, girl. Either snap awake or drift back off into sleep. Angel has buried her furry little muff into my neck. She's tickling me with her whiskers, which is going to make it very hard for me to get back to sleep.

But it wasn't Angel who woke me up. I'm clear on that. It was the sound of a car sliding on the street outside. The snow must be accumulating on the street surfaces now. It's going to be a rough night—and even rougher commute for people tomorrow. I don't want to think about having to go out in that tomorrow morning.

I burrow down under the comforter and Angel goes underneath as well and stretches along my legs and kneads the flesh of my thigh, demanding attention. I should be blissfully comfortable. But I'm not. It isn't just the cat or the car sliding on the street outside that has me awake. I'm wondering where Grace is and if she's found someplace to keep warm and dry. I can feel Angel's heart racing. Cats must be able to sense the change in the weather—and its effect on people. She must know that the temperature is dropping outside and snow is falling and that this somehow makes the night more dangerous. But maybe that'smy heart that's racing. I turn to the other side and pull the covers up, but Angel moves with me and moves up my body digs in under my chin.

I'm going to have to stop thinking about Grace if I'm going to get any sleep tonight. But why did hearing a car skid remind me of Grace? Ah, yes, it was seeing that car being towed in the lane beside me as I came home from shopping for Christmas presents this evening. It looked just like Grace's car. But I don't want to think about Grace. It's the Christmas season. I want to think about that—my favorite holiday season.

Let's see. What has to be done at the office first thing in the morning? The thought is interrupted by the sound of another car skidding, this time the sound ending in a metallic thud—but it just sounds like a hit on the curb at the curve up the street. The sound is echoed by a whimper from Angel. I sure hope that Grace has found shelter. I wonder if she will have gone far from where I left her off this afternoon—beside her car. It was unbelievable what she had crammed into that car. I don't see how anyone can actually live out of a small car like that.

Was the first time I realized it was her when I was strolling down Main Street on my way to having a coffee and reading the paper at the Paper Moon café? I turned the corner onto Main, and there she was, shuffling along behind a grocery cart filled with bits and pieces of this and that. It wasn't so much that she was dirty, but that she looked so like a rag muffin in those mismatched, out-of-season clothes and the straggly hair that hadn't seen a perm in I don't know how long. I wouldn't even have noticed her if she hadn't given me that shy, little smile. She was actually making eye contact. It wouldn't have happened at all if I'd had time to see her coming. I could have avoided it all, if I hadn't been surprised and made eye contact.

How do I feel about that? What if I hadn't ever made that eye contact the first time I'd seen her? As it was, my trip to the café was ruined. I'd had to duck into the needle shop after I'd made eye contact with Grace on the pretense that that was where I was headed in the first place. And then I couldn't very well have gone on to the open-air café; she might still have been shuffling around out on the street. I don't know if I'd slipped and given a look of horror when we'd made eye contact—or if she'd seen me do it. But the embarrassment of being caught off guard like that . . . . It just made meso uncomfortable. We'd been talking about the homeless in Sunday School just the week before, and I'd been so self-assured about my attitudes about these people.

I close my eyes tight and try to clear my mind of all thoughts. This has just got to work.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because time seems to have passed before I am jolted awake. I have no idea what woke me this time. Angel is gone now. Who knows where she must have found more security. I must have failed her somehow as her refuge. Yeah, I'm good at that. Now, I wonder what made me think of that? I turn over again, and then I sit straight up in bed and fluff the pillows.

No, that wasn't the first time. The first time was a few days before at the grocery store. She was sitting on the bench near the front entrance with her shopping cart. That must have been where she got the shopping cart. I wonder whether people steal a lot of their carts and what the store does about that.

I flop back down on the bed in disgust and pull the covers over my head. Who the heck cares? Oh, why can't I get to sleep. There'sso much I have to do tomorrow. And I'd promised to take Grace back to the free clinic for her results during my lunch—but only because I also was taking Mrs. Wilkins to check her blood again. I'm not sure how I managed to get myself roped into transporting Grace; working with Mrs. Wilkins should be enough. And there's so little time for this at Christmas.

Did I see any sort of shelter around where I left Grace off this afternoon? The snow is going to be drifting by tonight. The TV news tonight said a freeze had been declared until tomorrow morning, that the snow might turn to freezing rain. I wonder if Grace's car will be shelter enough for her. But then, if that car I saw being towed last evening was hers—

As if on cue, there's a strong gust of wind outside that sends the trees rustling, and the first drops that sound much heavier than just snow hit the window. They sound like they're big—and cold. I turn on the light on my nightstand to check the time, and just then the electricity chooses to go out. A great silence, except for the tinkling sound of ice crystals hitting the window. Oh, great, the alarm's going to be off. I reach over for the flashlight on my nightstand, and, of course, it falls into the narrow crevice between nightstand and wall. I fish it out, open the drawer, feel around for my travel alarm, and set it in the wavering light of the flashlight. I'll have to change the batteries in the flashlight in the morning. In fact, I wonder how fresh the batteries in the travel alarm are? I wonder where I've stashed fresh batteries. I wonder if Grace has a flashlight in that grocery cart of hers. O-h-h, I moan, and flop back onto the bed and pull the covers up. Shutting my eyes tight again and trying to purge my mind of all thoughts. It had worked before; it's going to have to work again.

Does Grace have anything warm enough and waterproof to wear tonight?

"Oh, it's no use," I yell to the empty apartment. "OK, just bring it on." With that permission, the thoughts of Grace flood into my mind. What was she wearing on her feet when I last saw her. Would I have become involved at all if I hadn't substituted for Brenda at the church soup kitchen Thanksgiving Day and Grace had actually spoken to me as I filled her plate, trying my best not to make eye contact, knowing then that I'd seen her before and unwillingly exchanged smiles. She talked to me; she talked directly to me. Would she have dared do that if I hadn't been surprised into making that first eye contact and being tricked into returning that first shy smile? What am I thinking? Why shouldn't she smile at me when we pass on the street and thank me when I've filled her dinner plate? What's wrong with me? We had been friends; why wouldn't she have the right to speak to me?

The wind comes up and the branches of the oak hit against the window next to my bed. I give up, flounce out of bed, wrap myself tightly in my warm, quilted robe, and pad down the hall to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I turn on the light in the kitchen and nothing happens. Naturally; the electricity's off, dummy. That means no coffee, either. Not even any coffee, I whine in my mind. I'm beginning to really feel sorry for myself. Well, guess what, there's no hot coffee for Grace, either. So, just stop your selfish whimpering.

Yes, my friend. Well, more an acquaintance, really. But not just another stranger on the street. That was the real shock. And I'll bet Grace knew back there on Main Street when she smiled. She probably even knew it when she saw me avert my eyes and scoot by her at the grocery store. It didn't hit me until I saw her in the free clinic the other day when it was my turn to take old Mrs. Wilkins in for her blood test. She'd been there, sitting patiently in the waiting room. We exchanged looks a couple of times while Mrs. Wilkins was back getting her blood drawn, and finally Grace worked up the courage to voice a tentative, "Celeste? Youare Celeste Murray, aren't you?" And then it all flooded back to me. Of course this woman was familiar; we'd worked in the same office for nearly four months. We'd gone to lunch together on more than one occasion. This was Grace what's her name, Grace Jordon.

I must have been in shock, because I didn't respond immediately, upon which Grace seemed to shrink back into her chair. She probably didn't know why she had taken that last swing at the social barrier that had been carefully built between us. I certainly didn't know; at that moment, it was a revelation that I'd ever had contact with anyone on the other side of the bar, let alone a past friendship, even if only a short office acquaintanceship. In that brief, awkward moment, it had all flooded back to me. We'd thought of Grace as the bad news girl. Everything seemed to go wrong around her in the office, and she seemed to be in a daze much of the time. Sometimes she reacted in strange ways, and sometimes she didn't respond at all. I know some of the rest of us thought she was a drinker. And there was a rumor that she was living out of her car. She certainly dressed and smelt like she did. And then one day she just didn't show up at all. When I finally got up the courage to ask, I was told simply that they'd had to let her go. They didn't give a reason, and I didn't ask for a reason. I hadn't even cared enough to ask for a reason. And now, there she was, in the waiting room of the free clinic. And I was here too, trapped until Mrs. Wilkins came back from her blood test.

All of this must have flashed through my mind in less than a second—and I must have said something back to Grace, because the receptionist was coming over.

"Oh, do you know Grace?"

"Umm, yes," I responded quietly through a weak smile. "Yes, yes, we've met."

"Well, do you think you could take her back to Grant Avenue, just down from the library, when you leave then? She's been sitting here for some time and says she doesn't think she can get over there without a ride. We did do some tests, and she probably is still a little weak from that."

What could I say? "Yes, certainly, I could do that. Mrs. Wilkins lives over in that area too." And that had led to further rides, both ways, the last two weeks, as they did test after test, trying to find out what problems Grace had that they actually could help solve. I felt trapped. I had so much to do to prepare for Christmas; I didn't have time for Grace and these trips to the doctor's. And as trip built on trip, I saw flashes of the old Grace I had once known, and I couldn't, for the life of me, think why I had cared so little about why she was fired from our office and what had happened to her afterward.

The snow isn't letting up a bit; if anything it has become thicker and is building. Normally this is perfect sleeping weather, and just now, just as I am about to return to bed, the lights come back on. I'd forgotten to turn the Christmas tree light off, and there it is, framed in the doorway to the living room, Twinkling its multicolored lights at me.

My mind isn't really on the tree, though. All that I can think of is that cup of coffee; I need that cup of coffee. No, that's not the only thing I am thinking of. I'm thinking that I'm going to be having a nice, hot cup of coffee and Grace isn't. Where's Grace? It that park where I left her on Grant this afternoon have anything in the way of a shelter? I can't remember. And was that her car I'd seen being towed this evening? If so, she likely didn't have any shelter at all. I kept telling myself that this was her choice—a choice she had made and had every right to make. But I was just kidding myself. I hadn't ever asked her that question—whether she lived that way by choice or by chance. I'd spent no real time on Grace at all, despite those trips back and forth to the doctor's office. I didn't even know what her malady was and whether she was getting better. She certainly had a hacking cough earlier today.

I fill the basket of the two-cup coffeemaker with grounds, and then I hear the meow. I turn around, and there's Angel. I call her to me, and she just gives me a disgusted look and strolls back down the hall to who knows where. I don't know why, but that just makes all of the strength go out of my arm and I drop the coffeemaker basket on the kitchen counter and sink down on a kitchen stool. I'm close to tears. But then Angel returns to the kitchen, walks over and weaves through my legs, and then plops down on her cushion in the corner of the room.

I look up and there are those twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. I am mesmerized by the lights. I pull myself out of my stupor and shove the small coffeemaker to the back of the counter, open the cabinet below, and drag out the twelve-cup coffeemaker and a thermos jug.

A half hour later, I'm pulling up to the curb at Grant Avenue. There she is, over by that big tree, huddled behind a dripping grocery cart, burrowed into the snow, covered by a tarp slick from the freezing rain and with a film of white rising half way up its surface from the ground.

"Grace? Grace, I brought you some coffee."

"What? Who? Celeste, is that you?" She emerges from her improvised cocoon and sits there, looking dumbly at my thermos of coffee. I look at the thermos as well. What a dumb idea. She's sitting there, soaked by freezing rain, and all I've brought is coffee.

"Yes, it's me. Come on get up. We're going home. The shopping cart should fit in the back of van."

"What? I don't understand. Home?

"I don't understand either, Grace, but we'll work it out. We'll work something out. Come on, you're frozen nearly stiff. You'd said earlier today you wished you could see the Christmas tree I'd talked about putting up. Well, I want someone other than me and the cat to enjoy it too. Climb aboard."