A Sparrow for Job

Chapter 1-2

“Has your father ever attacked you before?” Officer Hale speaks up.

“Not with a knife,” I say. “He’s hit me before.”

“Did you tell anyone?” Officer Hale asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

I shrug.

“Are you still in school?” Officer Cutter asks.

“No. I graduated last May. I work at Walmart stocking shelves at night. Tonight was one of my nights off.”

“Do you have a place to stay?” Officer Hale asks.

“Yeah,” I lie. Not sure why. I have absolutely no place to stay. I have no friends, or at least none left in town. While I was in school, I had two close friends, but they’re off at college now. It was hard to get close with anyone at school and also try to keep my home life a secret. So, instead, I just kept to myself.

“We will be in touch with you as soon as we have him in custody,” Officer Cutter says as he hands me his card. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” I see no pity in his eyes, only empathy, for which I am glad.

I shrug. “It’s over now.”

The officers leave, and I’m left in the room by myself. I can hear the beeping of machines, the chattering of nurses and staff, and the occasional overhead call on the intercom. All and all, it’s not an entirely restful place. But then, it was certainly more restful, not to mention safer, than sleeping on a park bench or under a bridge.

Sometime later, Suzy returns. She comes breezing in, her light floral scent a welcome change to the chemical clean smell of everything else around me.

“The doctor will be by in the morning to check the wounds and make sure there are no signs of infection. If everything is good, you will be released tomorrow.”

“So, I can stay here tonight?” I ask. Did I sound a tad too eager? Probably. Was I suddenly hoping my salmonella infection would kick in so I could stay a few more days and have food and a place to sleep? Absolutely. And, yes, I realize my obsession with salmonella poisoning might be getting a bit unhealthy, but it’s better than having an obsession with licking ketchup packets or something disgusting like that. Silver lining folks, silver lining.

She nods. “I’m on break. I was just about to run to the cafeteria to grab a snack. Would you like something?”

My mouth waters. I’ve not eaten since before dear old dad had taken the kitchen knife to me. “Yes, please.”

“What would you like?”

“Anything is fine. I’m not picky.” I almost add, ‘except ketchup packets’ because now I’m thinking about licking them and wondering if one of the workers touched raw chicken and then touched the ketchup packets. Okay, now I’m beginning to worry about my mental stability. Maybe I could get admitted to the psych ward. That would give me a place to stay until I can figure something out. Once I do, then I can convince them I’m sane so they’ll release me. I mentally chuckle, as if anyone who got a glimpse into my mind would ever believe that I’m sane. And how would I find an apartment while I was locked up in the nuthouse? Nope, if I got sent to the psych ward, I’d be there until I was pushing up daisies. Best I keep my weird thoughts to myself.

“Alright. Be back in a jiffy,” Suzy says with a small wave.

Exhaustion begins to overtake me. The presence of the police had momentarily given me a shot of adrenaline, but now it was gone. I close my eyes and try to will away the memories, but I keep seeing my father’s enraged face and the knife coming at me. The pain of the knife wounds paled in comparison to the pain caused by the last words he spoke to me.

“You weren’t wanted eighteen years ago, and you sure as hell aren’t wanted now.”

Those wounds couldn’t be sewn back together. They shouldn’t matter, coming from the likes of him. He’s never been anything more than a sperm donor and a selfish waste of good air. But no matter how many times I repeat that it doesn’t matter, the words hurt. Not just the words, but his tone, the look in his eyes. The absolute truth I saw there.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I lean my head back against the pillow. I close my eyes and dig deep. What am I looking for? The will to keep going. I need not only the strength to live, but the desire to be happy and make the most out of my life, shambles though it is. I know I can either let the words of an evil human being like Darrel cut me and then fester until they cause an infection so deep and vile that I become just like him, or I can choose something else. I’m just not sure what that something else is just yet.

And my mother. Don’t get me started on her. Her body may have walked out a couple of days ago, but she abandoned me a long time ago. The same choice remains when I think about her. I can either allow my mother’s lack of love and abandonment to turn me into a bitter adult, or I can decide that my past is just that, the past. A chance in front of me. It’s fleeting, but I catch a glimpse of it. Today, now, in this hospital bed. This is my opportunity to walk away from my past and choose the future I want to have.

“Then, by George, that’s what you’re going to do, Sparrow James,” I whisper. “You’re going to move forward, scars and all.” I don’t know who George is and I don’t know why I feel the need to invoke his spirit for strength, but there you have it. Decision made.

Suzy returns with her kind eyes and easy smile. She places a plate of chicken fingers in front of me. I draw strength from Suzy. She’s much more powerful than George. Looking at her gives me the power to overcome my father’s words. They will not break me. I’d rather be taken out by salmonella than my own choice to believe a drunken monster.

I’ve really got to let go of the salmonella thing. Could I get salmonella infection symptoms from worrying about it too much, like a placebo effect? I don’t even know what the symptoms are. I should ask Suzy. I bet she would know. I shake my head. No, I shouldn’t. No more salmonella obsession. I reach for the napkin on the tray and shift the plate when something catches my eye. “God, if this is your attempt at humor, I’m giving you an F,” I mutter as I pick up the three ketchup packets, using my napkin as a barrier, and toss them into a nearby trashcan.

“Sparrow, everything okay?” Suzy asks.

“Yes, ma’am. Just not a fan of ketchup.” Anymore, I add in my head. “Thank you for the food. I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. If you need anything, just hit your call light.” She turns to leave and then pauses. “Try not to worry about what happens next.” Her eyes soften, and her lips kick up in a small smile. “God is good at catching falling sparrows.”

I’m not sure which is worse, waking up and remembering that I’m homeless, or remembering my father tried to kill me. Perhaps both are equally bad, individually. Together, they are nearly too much. Last night, I was protected, insulated from my circumstances by the shelter of the hospital room and the comforting influence of Nurse Suzy. Now, in the harsh, revealing light of the morning, my dire situation crystalizes. I. Am. Homeless.

I glance over at the table, intending to get a drink from the hospital-issued insulated mug. Instead, I find a stack of clothes under a handwritten note. I move gingerly, acutely aware of how sore I am. I could swallow my weight in painkillers right now. I pick up the note and read.

Ms. Sparrow James,

You slept through the last check before my shift ended, and I didn’t want to wake you. These clothes are from the lost and found, but they’ve been washed. I got your size from the clothes you were wearing when you came in last night, so they should fit. I am very sorry for what you have been through. If there’s anything I can do for you, please give me a call.

Sincerely,

Suzy

There’s a number just below her signature with “anytime” written by it. I reach for the clothes, feeling a tiny bit better. At least I won’t be homeless in a hospital gown. There’s something to be said for not having to walk down the street with my butt cheeks on display.

“Keep looking for the silver lining, Sparrow James,” I say to myself as I go about the painful task of dressing. I notice Suzy has even thought to get me a jacket. It’s a welcome sight as last night, when I bolted out of the house, running for my life, I hadn’t had time to grab one from the coat rack. As if we had a coat rack.

What felt like an hour later, I’m dressed and panting like a cat in heat on a summer night in South Texas. Apparently, I’ve been taking for granted the ease of getting dressed without knife wounds. Not a mistake I will make in the future. “Be appreciative for painless dressing; check,” I say as I write a checkmark in the air. Did I mention that I have a tendency to talk to myself? But only when I’m happy, or sad, or mad, or … well, you get the picture.

I go over in my head what I should do. Options aren’t plentiful. There’s the women’s shelter downtown. I guess I could go there and see if they can help me. And then there’s… Nope, that’s it, the women’s shelter.

A new nurse brings me my discharge paperwork. When the mountain of papers is finally signed, my hand is cramping, and I’m pretty sure I’ve signed over both my soul and my firstborn child. No biggie. I’ll probably never have children, and my soul is so damaged it surely isn’t worth much. Once they get a good look at it, they’ll probably be begging me to take it back.

They put me in a wheelchair and wheel me down to the front of the hospital, which I find strange. I could easily walk. And if I’m not able to ambulate without a wheelchair, should they really be releasing me?

A large Christmas tree is decorated in the foyer, and I’m tempted to ask the nurse to stop, just so I can sit and stare at it. I’ve never had a Christmas tree. Shocking, I know, considering what I’ve already told you about the healthy environment in which I was raised. I find them to be incredibly beautiful, probably because they are so foreign to me. I look at them every chance I get. But the nurse didn’t slow, and I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself.

“Do you have someone to pick you up?” she asks.

I nod, hoping the motion is less likely to give away my lie than a verbal response. As I said before, I try not to lie if I can help it. Now is not a time I can help it.

I stand up from the wheelchair, moving with the grace of an eighty-year-old woman instead of a recently turned eighteen-year-old girl.

“Thank you,” I mutter and then head through the sliding glass doors. Once I’m outside, I ignore the sharp bite of the cold morning air and find a bench. I pull the jacket tighter around me. Though I despise the hot, Texas summers, I’m now thankful our winters usually don’t entail below-freezing temps and feet of snow.