Left Behind

The large, old, city bus stops directly in front of Long Beach City Hall. Half the bus gets off with me. It’s just before nine and people are rushing into work at the row of office buildings that line the street. I stand staring at the building, trying to decide whether I should go in or not.

My legs tremble, I’m doubtful I can even make the few steps to the front door. I wish Zack had answered. Right about now, I’m thinking waiting for him would’ve been a better idea, but I wasn’t thinking when I answered the call. About to walk into school, I took out my phone to turn it off just as it rang. I nearly dropped the phone when the social worker told me my records had arrived and I could make an appointment to see them.

“When is the next appointment?” I asked.

“I have Tuesday the twenty-eighth at eleven.” Two weeks, I thought. I won’t sleep for that long knowing the answers are so close.

“You don’t have anything sooner?”

“We’re booked solid. Unless you can get here in a half hour. We had a cancellation this morning at nine.”

So here I am. Alone. Possibly about to find out about my sister— on our birthday. The day I’ve been anxiously anticipating for months, yet now that it’s finally here, I’m tempted to put it off. Will I view my life the same way when I walk back out today?

I almost turn around and run twice before I finally reach the door. I enter the slow moving glass revolving door, nearly forgetting to exit as it circles into the building lobby. The large gray atrium looks a lot like the many government offices I’ve entered during the last eighteen years. A few vases of plastic flowers are the only decoration to warm the bland industrial feel.

It seems like a lifetime ago I sat in the worn green pleather chairs inside the Texas government offices waiting hours for Mom to be called to reapply for food stamps or our housing vouchers. Mom always received public assistance to help raise me because of her poor health— both mental and physical. Life was hard. I understand that more now than when I lived it. But I guess that’s always the case, somehow it’s easier to look back than to see what’s right before your eyes.

I walk toward the reception desk, thinking about how much my life has changed in the last nine months. I feel guilty realizing life has changed for the better. If only it had changed like this when Mom was still here.

The receptionist is busy talking on the phone and not at all interested in looking up to greet me as I reach the desk. She knows I’m here. I saw her eyes look up just enough to spot me and ignore me just as quickly. She continues on her personal call for several more minutes leaving me standing here contemplating turning around and walking out.

Nerves keep me glued in place, I’m unable to turn and leave, yet I’m also terrified to stay. Finally, the cranky receptionist hangs up the phone and turns her eyes upon me. “Can I help you?” she says in a tone that tells me she doesn’t exactly love her job.

“I have an appointment,” I respond in a voice that is barely audible. Fear has set in.

“You and everybody else, honey. Look around. You ain’t the only one. What department?” she barks.

“Social Work. I’m here to look at some records,” I explain as if she might be listening.

She’s not. “Social Work. Sign the book and sit in the area with the orange chairs,” She points to the far right corner of the atrium.

Turning to follow her finger, I find that, while there are a dozen people sitting in the green chair area, the orange seats are bodiless. Lucky me, I guess. I head to the putrid seats and sit down. At least I’m sitting in a new color these days.

Looking around the room, the green chairs are mostly full of women with small children. The bored toddlers hang on their mothers or roll around on the floor at their sides. It must be the area to wait for public assistance, an area I know well. My heart aches for the children sitting there, their moms probably have it rough. I instantly feel six years old again.

Before my mind can drift too deeply back to sadder times, a woman calls out, “Nicole. Nicole Fallon.” I almost miss my name because nobody calls me Nicole. I didn’t even sign in as Nicole.

My legs are weak with fear as I stand to approach the young woman calling my name. I raise my hand to motion I’m here, because at the moment words fail me. She greets me halfway.

“Hi Nicole. I’m Valerie Hawkins. We spoke on the phone this morning.” I spot a file in her hand labeled Nicole Fallon. My heart races wondering if that folder contains the name of my sister.

“Yes, I remember. Thank you for seeing me Ms. Hawkins. I’m a little nervous,” I confide in her. Something I’m sure she spots without being told.

“I understand. People usually are. It’s normal. Let’s go to my office.” Ms. Hawkins leads the way down a narrow hall. The walls are not the cold sterile gray of the atrium but an ugly, depressing hospital pale blue. No pictures attempt to dress up the walls, which are stained and chipped from many people who have leaned against them. The décor matches the mood of the occupants— both the visitors and most of the employees.

Ms. Hawkins opens a wood door at the end of the hall with an old gold doorplate that reads, Long Beach Department of Social Work. The office is crammed with cubicles full of workers. I hope Ms. Hawkins has a private office somewhere, but quickly find out otherwise as she ushers me into a cubicle not far from the entrance door.

“Have a seat, Nicole.” She pulls out a chair holding a pile of files and looks around for a place to put them, but every surface is already stacked high with bulging files. Setting the heap down on the floor, she positions the empty chair next to her desk so I can sit facing her.