Today I met my namesake.  Our paths crossed in a fitting room at a department store.  She was trying on bras in the stall next to mine, and she requested my assistance.  Being body-conscious to the point of conservative, I was shocked at her shamelessness as she asked for my help with her bra clasp.  Neither of the bras fit and her eyes showed an emotion somewhere between panic and defeat.  I hesitated, standing in the open doorway of this woman’s fitting room.  She apologetically explained that she had only five dollars with which to purchase a bra and a pair of underwear.  She was beside herself, knowing that she could not succeed under that budget.  I mumbled an apology, and then walked back to my fitting room.  About to close the door on her, on her situation, on the outside world, I doubled back and offered to buy her a bra.  She looked at me and then started crying.  “Is that okay?” I asked, thinking I had offended her.  She responded that she was so embarrassed, but I reassured her as best I could. 

We made quite a pair, traipsing through the store together.  She didn’t know any of her sizes so we guessed and then it was back to the fitting room.  This time I got a good look at her.  I would guess she was only a few years older than me, but exhaustion showed through the bags under her eyes.  She was skinny – a few inches taller than me but we weighed about the same.  She had the body type that I had always longed for with a tiny waist and long legs.  Her jeans were covered in vomit, and she explained that someone had puked on her at the warming shelter the night before.  (She would end up with a new pair of jeans from the clearance rack before our store excursion was over.)  Her galoshes were in good shape, lined with a gray wool fabric.  I had seen quite a few pairs like that in the last week and envied their fashion and functionality in light of recent snowstorms.  Under her jeans were tattered thermals, and while she had no qualms about undressing in front of me, she was clearly ashamed by the dollar coin sized holes that peppered those undergarments.  She explained that a man had given the thermals to her on a cold night.  She had a tattoo of a heart with an initial in it.  I was curious about it, but dared not ask for fear that it would be a memory that would set her over the edge.  Her mental condition was fragile at best.

I did not ask many questions of her.  When I asked too many questions about sizes or preferences, she tended to get overwhelmed and start crying.  In retrospect, she made a lot of inquiries of me.  She wanted to know if I was Christian.  I responded in the negative.  She wanted to know if I believed in karma.  I said that I did.  She wanted to know if I thought x size bra would fit.  I answered in the affirmative.  She wanted to know if I could afford to buy her these items.  I simply said that I could.  She asked if she should go hit up people on the street for money and then come back to buy everything.  I told her that would not be necessary.  Of the barrage of questions being thrown at me, the only one that rattled me was, “Nothing is free.  Why are you doing this?”  

A question like that deserves deeper consideration.  She had a point – nothing is free.  Everything I have cost money.  The only difference is that it’s not always me doing the paying.  So for the purposes of this conversation, for me, a lot of things are free.  But with no one paying your way or lavishing gifts upon you, life is expensive.  It requires more cash than a recovering opiate addict generally has at their disposal.  How could I explain to her that actually, lots of things are free for me and since I was using a gift card I received from a family member, this too was free?  What an awful sentiment to relay to someone with nothing.  In the end, I told her to call it a Christmas gift and pay it forward at a later date.  

I didn’t find out much about her until we were in line to check out.  I finally thought to ask her name, and when she told me, I felt a sense of connection.  A very brief biography let me know that she had been clean for three days, which explained why she looked as though she might be ill at any moment.  She walked slowly because of the frostbite on her feet, and when I touched her shoulder as a sign of goodwill, she flinched because all of her skin hurt.  She was trying to visit her mother, but wasn’t sure she could get a bus back by 5pm, the time at which she needed to report to the shelter supervisor.  After checking out, I left her standing by the door of the department store with a bag of new clothes in her hand.  As I walked away, she yelled at me, imploring me with hand motions to return.  A part of me wanted to leave, to cut all ties quickly, but the curious part won over.  I returned and, in what would be one of the few signs of clarity and comprehension during our entire hour together, she hugged me.  It was the closure we both needed after the intimacy of picking out her lingerie.  And somehow, it made the experience less surreal.  

Samantha, should you ever come across this, I wish you the best of luck on your journey to your mother’s house and your long-term goal of sobriety.