I wonder how long I can live like this.
Sleeping in my car.
Playing guitar on the streets for money.
Eating all my meals at the Sanctuary.
Getting to know Elaine as if it's the easiest thing in the world.
I wonder how long until it all falls apart.
Shivering against the cold as it begins to creep in through the thin walls of my Honda, I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. Twenty dollars. That's all I have left. I try to conceive of all the ways I might possibly make this last little bit of money stretch, but find no solution next to selling my own blood.
Shame burns my cheeks as I realize that, too, is impossible. No one would take the blood of a homeless drunk and addict.
I shift in my seat, tossing my wallet on the dash of the car. The seat belt buckle digs into the side of my hip and I wince at the pain coming from the small bruise that's formed there after endless nights spent like this. Unable to sleep, I stare out the windshield at the street. Streetlights cast a pale glow on the snow-dusted road and the skyline is dotted with orange lights coming from innumerable windows. And if I squint they look almost like stars.
Say what you will about small towns, but if there's one thing I miss (besides my family and my home) it's the lack of light pollution. When I'm standing in the middle of Chicago, even on the darkest day at the darkest time, I can barely make out the stars that hang above the sleeping city. In Summit, though, they were crisp, bright, and clear. No force on earth could possibly dim the light of a billion endless suns as they stood watch over the people of Summit. An ocean of stars draped across the rugged mountain range. In the fondness of my memory at least, Summit is a place where heaven met earth. And sleeping in the cold core of this iron jungle, I miss that.
But there's nothing I can do. There's no way I can go back. My pride wouldn't allow it and neither would my shame.
So I open my eyes wide so that the skyscraper windows are windows again instead of stars. And I watch as the midnight chill slowly clouds the glass. Before it finishes its work, I'm fast asleep.
The sound of glass shattering startles me awake and I jump in my seat. Blinking to adjust my eyes, I turn to the passenger seat just in time to see a big, burly man reaching in through my broken passenger window. He sees me awake and, with a growl, snatches my wallet from the dash before racing away.
"Hey!" I cry, struggling to open my door. I roll out of my seat and slip on the icy street, falling on my face. Recovering, I grind my teeth and race after the thief.
He rounds a corner, but my high school football instincts kick in and I'm hot on his tail. I chase him down an alley that I quickly realize is a dead-end.
The thief spins around to face me, eyes wide and wild.
"Look, man. I don't want a fight. I just want my wallet," I say, holding out a hand. He's tall and gruff-looking and a fight would be pretty evenly matched. But I realize instantly that he has the advantage because I'm pretty sure he's insane.
The thief ignores me and, muttering to himself, spins around at the end of the alley.
I step toward him and he lets out a howl loud enough to make me grimace. His voice is raspy and shrill, but terrifying all the more for it.
"Please," I try again. "Just give me back my wallet."
As if realizing he has nowhere to go, his head snaps toward me and he snarls, baring his teeth like an animal. He plants his feet in the slush and buries my wallet in his pocket. He knots his hands into fists and charges for me.
I brace myself for the impact, searching the alley for a stick or a bar or anything hard to help me fight this guy off. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two more strangers step from the light of the street and into the shadows of the alley. I realize the other guy's howling must have been someone sort of call for help.
I swallow.
The first guy – the thief – rams into me and I'm able to get a few punches in before he slams me to the ground. But then the other two guys are on me and this fight is no longer evenly matched.
I curl up in the ice and hold my arms in front of my face as the three strangers rail against me. I feel my skin breaking, bleeding, bruising. My ears ring, louder than the grunts and growls of my attackers. My vision starts to go black and faintly I hear myself let out a cry.
And then it stops.
I stay like this for a long while, curled up on the icy ground, trembling.
Breaking, bleeding, bruising.
When I finally work up the courage to open my eyes, I see that I'm alone and let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. Wincing as I stand, I can feel every place where my skin and bones have cracked. With a deep breath, I stagger out of the alley and onto the sidewalk.
The way back to my car is long and painful and when I finally get there, my heart – or what's left of it – plummets to the bottom of my stomach.
I didn't lock my car when I went chasing after the thief.
All of the windows are broken now. And my belongings – or what's left of them – are strewn out onto the sidewalk and road.
Panicked, I limp as fast I can toward my car and collapse to the ground when I get there.
My eyes swim with tears – the angry kind.
Almost everything I owned is gone except for some clothes, my half-finished painting and...
My guitar.
There, at the back of my car, hanging over the curb is my guitar broken in two. I let out a pained cry and limp over to it, pulling it to me. I remember all the hours spent teaching Liam how to play. All the songs we wrote together. All the history written on these strings.
And now it's all gone. All of it.
Like teeth, the cold of night bites into every wound on my body and I force myself to gather what's left of my belongings and throw them in the back seat of my car. Then I realize that I can't sleep here – not without windows to keep me warm. So I climb into the driver's seat and turn the key. The little car roars to life and I press the gas pedal and steer into the streets, making my way to the only place that I have left.
The Sanctuary.
Halfway there, I start to wonder if it'll even be open or if anyone will even be there. But I have to try. There's nowhere else for me to go.
When I get there, I'm relieved to see a faint light glowing from the front window. I gather the last of my belongings into my arm and, with the broken neck of my guitar dragging sadly on the ground behind me, limp my way to the front door.
At the door, I press my forehead against it and knock as hard as I can.
No answer.
I try again.
A shuffle on the other side of the door. I stand back and wait. The door swings open and the light under the stoop shines down on Elaine's face, lighting her up like the angel she is.
I smile, lips cracked and bleeding.
Eyes wide, she curses and brings a hand to her mouth. "Ezra! What happened?"
"I'm sorry to, uh, bother you so late. I didn't know where else to go." I say, trying not to let the pain show. But I'm pretty sure I fail because the look of alarm on Elaine's face only grows deeper.
"Come in!" she says, stepping aside and swinging the door wide enough to let me through. Her eyes fall to the mess of things in my arms, then to the beat up car behind me that I've clearly been living out of. My face burns with knowing that I've been caught in a lie. and I turn from her and limp over to one of the tables in the lunchroom.
She rushes to my side and pulls out the chair across from me. "Let me see," she says.
"I'm fine. Really. It's nothing a good night's sleep can't cure."
She frowns at me, eyes narrowed. "Let. Me. See."
With a sigh and a great deal of pain, I slip off my hoodie, stains of my own blood scattered all over the dark gray fabric. I stare at her as her eyes scan my body, the lines in her forehead growing deeper.
"The shirt too."
I blink at her and she rolls her eyes.
"Oh, come on. Don't be such a prude. I just want to see the damage."
I let out a laugh at the thought of me being a prude, but it turns to coughing. When I can breathe again, I slip my white tee over my head, exposing my bare chest in front of this beautiful, strange girl for the first time in years.
Her lips pursed, she takes me in, eyes tracing my frame. She nods, stands, and disappears somewhere in the back of the facility. When she returns, she's carrying a big, white first aid box. She places it on the table beside us and opens it.
"Scoot closer," she says, motioning with her fingers.
I obey and scoot my chair toward her.
Using a wet washcloth, she begins to gently stroke each wound – starting with my neck and working her way down. Last, she does my face. For this, she leans in close.
In the dark of the lunchroom, with the only light coming through the front window from the street lamps outside, my eyes study every detail of her face. Every crease and curve. Every fleck of gold that dances in her eyes. I memorize the laugh lines and the curve of her lips and it's all I can do not to kiss her here and now.
But I remember who I am and why I'm here. I realize, too, that there's no more hiding who I am from her. My secret's out. So how could a girl like her ever fall for a guy like me? What am I worth to her?
"You lied to me," she says, matter-of-fact.
"What?" I mutter, wincing as the cloth burns my wounds with every dab and stroke.
"I'm not stupid. I can see that you've been living out of your car."
"I didn't lie," I say.
She frowns. "You let me believe something that wasn't true. That's a lie of omission."
With a sigh, "I'm sorry."
She shrugs. "It's fine, I guess. But you didn't have to lie, you know. I wouldn't have cared if you told me the truth." I shift in my seat and she pulls her hand away for a second, eyes catching mine, then resumes her work.
My eyes dart around the room, for table to table, wall to wall, light to light. Finally, they rest again on her and don't look away. "I was afraid of what you would think if I told you the truth. Mostly, I was afraid of how I would feel once you knew.
"How's that?"
"Like I was something that needed to be fixed."
She nods.
"If no one knew the truth, then at least I could control how people saw me. I don't want people to look at me and see someone who's broken."
"Well, are you?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I pause. "I guess I'm still figuring it out."
The tips of her fingers brush my cheekbone and send a bolt of warmth down my body.
"We're all broken," she says. "You have to stop treating yourself like a special case. You may be broken in different places, but it's damage all the same." She pauses. "Besides, you have to give me more credit. When I look at people, I don't see their wounds. I see their scars. Because scars mean healing."
I just sit there in silence, thinking on her words, trying to find it within me to believe what she says. My eyes never stop watching her and I don't even fully realize it.
She leans back in her chair. "What?"
"Huh?"
"You're staring at me."
"Well, you were really close. What else was I supposed to stare at?"
She smiles. "You're blushing."
My eyes widen slightly. I clear my throat. "What? No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
I shift awkwardly in my seat and reach for my shirt, suddenly aware of my own vulnerability.
"Wait. I'm not finished. I've got to bandage you up."
I set my shirt down again and let her resume.
"You must work out a lot, huh?"
"I used to."
"Hmm... Let me guess... you were a football jock in high school."
I smile, remembering high school fondly. I was one of the lucky ones back then – one of the ones who found a place to belong. I hope Liam has too. "Yep. I was real good too."
"I'll bet you were." She pauses and points to the half-finished canvas on the table beside us. "From what I remember, you were a real good artist too."
"Sort of. Not really."
"Come on. Don't say that. I've seen what you can do."
"Yeah, but... I'm kind of... blocked right now – have been for a long time. Every time I try to paint, I come up empty."
"Ah. Gotcha. Okay, you can put your shirt back on."
Clothed now, I feel more comfortable and my body relaxes a little. This time, I look up to find Elaine staring at me. "What?"
"I can't figure you out."
I shrug. "What's there to figure out?"
She laughs and it fills the half-dark room like the sound of a thousand-person orchestra. "You were a jock in high school and now you're an art school dropout living on the streets of Chicago. I'm just curious how you go from A to Z like that."
"Growing up, art was just a secret passion of mine. But I guess it was a poorly kept secret." I look down at the floor, at my boots only inches from her bare feet. "My mom died right before I left for college. But she knew how much I loved art and before she passed, she asked me one question that I haven't been able to answer since: if you could paint just one picture to save your life, what would it be?"
"Wow," she says. "I'm sorry about your mom."
I just smile faintly.
"Why are you having such a hard time finding the right picture to paint?"
"I don't know. I guess I just don't want to let her down again and end up painting the wrong picture. It has to be right. And now there's this art competition coming up in a couple of months and if I win, things could finally start to turn around for me. But I can't even paint. I can't even do the one thing I'm supposed to be perfect at. Mom believed in me, and I let her down. Again."
"What do you mean? How did you let her down?"
I sigh, chewing on the inside of my cheek. "The last few months before she passed, I wasn't the best son. My parents were pastors – my dad still is – and there was some pretty bad stuff going on at our church back then. And it made me just so... angry. I didn't stop believing in God or anything, but I just... I ran, you know? I put as much distance between me and them as I could because I was just so tired."
"So why do you think that means you let her down? Don't you think your mom loved you enough to see past all that?"
"Yeah, I know she did. She was amazing. It's just that... everything that's happened from the moment she was diagnosed with cancer just feels so..."
"Wrong?"
My eyes flash to hers and we linger there for a minute. "Yeah... How'd you know?"
"Because that's how I felt after my dad was killed. It's like everything after that moment didn't feel like the real world. Honestly, it still feels that way sometimes. As if when he died I somehow woke up in an alternate dimension where everything was just off somehow."
"Yeah, that's exactly it," I say, the surprise evident in my voice. "And I guess for these past six years I've been running from that. Almost like I've been trying to find my way out of this dream world and back into the real one – where everything is right again."
"Like you're trying to wake up," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah."
The silence lingers between us as we rest in the kinship I hope we both now feel.
"Maybe that's what you'll paint."
"What?"
"The waking up."
I nod slowly. "Yeah. Maybe."
Elaine packs away the first aid kit and stands. "You can sleep here."
I stand to meet her. "Really? Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." She smiles. "Ezra, one thing you'll learn real quick is that you never question a black woman."
I laugh. "I'll keep that in mind."
"We keep some pillows and blankets in the back. I'll go get you some."
"Wow. Thanks."
"Oh, and one more thing." She reaches for a backpack on the countertop that I didn't know was there before. Digging inside, she produces a small, folded piece of paper. "Here. I want you to have this."
I take it and look it over. "What is it?"
"It's an origami astronaut. When I was a kid, my dad taught me how to do origami. I still do it all the time. It reminds me of him."
"You should keep it, then," I say, holding it out to her.
She shakes her head. "No. It's yours now. Maybe it will remind you of better things too."
Searching her eyes, "Thanks, Elaine."
She smiles and disappears again to retrieve a blanket and pillow. I'm left standing alone under the warm glow of the streetlights that filters in through the window. Between my fingers, I balance the paper astronaut as if it were a priceless jewel or an ancient artifact.
Or maybe as if it were a key to something secret.