Chapter 8 - The Line at the Pantry
The church was on a corner where the wind cut straight through my coat. It wasn't tall like the Waldorf. It was brick, with a sign that said St. Bartholomew and a parking lot in front that was half ice and half puddles. Mrs. Whitmore's driver pulled the black car up to the curb and I could see the line already.
There were maybe twenty people standing along the side of the building. They had shopping carts and backpacks and they kept their hands in their pockets. The pantry door wasn't open yet. A paper sign taped inside the glass said 8 AM. The clock on the dashboard said 7:42.
I got out before Mrs. Whitmore did. My boots slipped a little on the salt. She'd changed out of the teal gown into a wool coat, but she still had the same earrings, and she walked slower out here, like she wasn't sure where to put her feet.
"You don't have to wait in the line," she said to me. "We'll go to the office."
I didn't answer. I was looking at the donation bin by the pantry door. It was one of those big blue plastic bins where people drop clothes. The lid was open and someone had already put jackets in it. And on top, half tucked under a gray sweater, was Mom's tote.
I knew it right away. It was faded blue canvas with the words GRAND UNION stretched out and a frayed strap she'd knotted twice. I had seen her fold it and unfold it a hundred times. I walked over and pulled it out before anyone could tell me not to.
It was light. Empty. I turned it over. The bottom was stained where her thermos had leaked once. Inside there was a receipt from a gas station and a hair tie. But not Mom.
"Mom?" I said, not loud. I looked down the line. I checked every face. She wasn't there.
Mrs. Whitmore came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. Her fingers were cold.
The volunteer who unlocked the pantry door was a woman in a puffy vest with a clipboard. She had short gray hair and she smiled at me first, then saw Mrs. Whitmore and kind of paused.
"We're looking for my daughter," Mrs. Whitmore said. "Sarah Whitmore. Sarah... Sarah might have used another name. She's twenty-nine. Dark hair."
The volunteer looked at the tote in my hands. "Are you Sarah's girl?"
My chest did something funny and I nodded.
"She was here," the volunteer said. "She slept in the fellowship hall last night. We had cots because of the cold. She left early."
"How early?" Mrs. Whitmore asked.
"She signed out at six. Said she was going to try the day-labor board at Port Authority. She wanted to get something before the weekend." The volunteer looked at me again, softer. "She left that tote. Said she'd be back for it. She didn't want to carry it on the bus."
I held the tote tighter. It smelled like the church basement, not like Mom's shampoo anymore.
Mrs. Whitmore's voice got quiet. "Can we see where she stayed?"
The volunteer led us around to a side door and into a low room with folding tables and a linoleum floor. There were cots lined up, most of them still with blankets. A radiator hissed in the corner. On a small table by the intake desk there was a stack of forms.
The volunteer picked one up. "She filled this out last night. We need it for overnight stays."
She handed it to Mrs. Whitmore, not to me.
I stood on my tiptoes to see. The paper was white with blue lines and Mom's handwriting was hurried, the letters leaning to the right the way they did when she was tired.
At the top it said NAME: Sarah Whitmore. Under that ADDRESS: No fixed address. And then EMERGENCY CONTACT: and she had written my name, and Mrs. Alvarez's phone number next to it in case.
My eyes moved down. There was a line that said NEXT OF KIN and Mom had written Evelyn Whitmore - 740 Park Avenue, Apt 12A, New York, NY. In parentheses she had written (mother) and then crossed it out lightly and written (mom) again, but left both.
Mrs. Whitmore didn't say anything for a long second. She just stared at that address. Her own address, from twelve years ago. Her hand started to shake a little, so the paper made a small sound.
"She still put me down," she whispered. More to herself than to anyone.
The volunteer folded her arms. "She talked about you, you know. Last night while we were making tea. She said her mom had a place with a doorman and she didn't want to bother her. That's why she didn't call."
Mrs. Whitmore folded the form carefully, like it was something that could tear. She slipped it into her purse and then took the tote from my hands. She didn't ask. She just held it, and the blue canvas looked so small against her wool coat.
"We just missed her," she said to me. Her eyes were wet but she wasn't crying. "Port Authority is twenty minutes. If we leave now -"
I nodded. I didn't want to stand in that room anymore with the empty cots.
May you like
Outside, the line had started moving. The volunteer held the door for us and said, "If she comes back, I'll tell her you were here. I'll tell her you came together."
Mrs. Whitmore thanked her. She put her hand on my back and guided me toward the car, with Mom's tote in her other hand and the intake form safe in her purse. The wind was still blowing hard across the parking lot, and I kept looking back at the church doors, half expecting Mom to be there, breathless, at 7:47 in the morning.
