I needed to focus on how I could help the women who were here with legitimate challenges in their lives.
People came here seeking help. They were trying to make changes in their lives, or fight for justice. They were willing to do something about it. To take a stand. To challenge what was wrong.
They needed me. And they were willing to listen to what I had to say. They took my advice. They heard what I said.
The three women I had seen this morning had come here because there was nowhere else for them to go. One was being sexually harassed at work. Another was fighting for custody of her children, and the third client was fighting a wrongful eviction.
I could make a difference here—something I hadn’t been able to do at home.
I looked up from my computer when my first afternoon appointment walked in. She dabbed a tissue at the corner of her eyes before balling it into her fist.
“Hi, I’m Emily Charles. Please take a seat.”
She shuffled into the chair. It squeaked as the legs slid along the hardwood floor.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” I offered.
She looked around the cramped office. “I don’t know if I should have come.”
I had a gut reaction to her presence. To know what it felt like to think asking for help was a mistake. To question having vulnerability.
I tried to reassure her with a smile. “Maybe you could talk me through your situation a little bit. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
Her eyes misted again and I looked around for a tissue to offer her.
“I-I’ve never done anything like this.”
“It’s hard sometimes to ask for help.” I paused. “I don’t know what to tell you since I don’t know why you’re here, but I can’t help if you don’t at least share your story.”
“My story?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Everyone has a story that brings them through those doors. I’ll do my best to help you. To fight for you. But you have to take that next step. Otherwise, I need to help one of those other women sitting out there.” I looked over her shoulder to the waiting area.
“I understand,” she whispered.
I thought she was going to stand to leave, but instead she cleared her throat and
started her story from the beginning.
My second night after work the stairs to the rooftop apartment didn’t seem so treacherous. I credited the Keds.
I turned the key in the lock and let myself in. It was quiet inside. It seemed unlikely Greer would be home early two nights in a row.
I grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, a glass, and walked onto the patio. It was nice out here. Greer had hung a few strands of lights overhead. I bent to plug them in, and noticed a radio splattered with paint in the back corner. It was under a small overhang. I turned it on and smiled when I heard the song.
From what she’d told me, this apartment never officially went on the market. Greer found out from one of her analyst friends that it was available. That was how things worked in D.C. There was an unspoken real estate market where houses and apartments were traded among friends and co-workers.
I sat under the twinkle of the lights and watched the sun set over Adams Morgan while I sipped my chilled glass of wine. I kicked one ankle over the other and relaxed into the chaise lounge.
I was two sips in when my phone started to ring. I winced thinking it could be my mother again with another false emergency, or worse, my brother calling to rant about what happened today.
I didn’t recognize the number and then I realized who it was. Vaughn. I had never added his name to my contacts.
“Hello?”
“Is this the pretty girl I met last night?” The deep timbre in his voice made me smile.
“Depends on how many girls you met, I guess.”