An Opportunity to Help

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.