Gretch Sando
It’s a gray but warm day in Virginia. I’m on my way to social services to apply for an increase in Mother’s disappointment. I glare at the sidewalk—and step on every crack—until my eyes lock onto the vertical ridges of the metal door-pull. I take a breath of shame and reach for it. The room is stale. Papered with informational posters and racks of “Take One” pamphlets. Aqua-blue chairs—the molded-hard-plastic-easy-to-clean-and-stack kind are hit-and-miss occupied. I cross grimy-green and used-to-be-white tiles through eyes with no faces to reach the glassed-in front desk.
The woman behind it doesn’t look up. “Sign in. Take a seat. You’ll be called.” I slide into a chair. I have my sons back. I’m whole again but with a wobble in my chest. A quiver seizes the muscles in my back. Tightens my feet into my shoes. My heart races ahead.
Five- or thirty-minutes pass.
“Come with me,” says a petite young woman.
She turns heel before I catch her face and charges ahead through double doors. I follow and cross into that other world.
Partitions crowd dozens of gray desks, each with a worker behind and a person like me to the side. The room is chest deep in a blur of urgent chatter. It sounds like a busy diner, but without the clink of ice water and utensils. Someone drops a plate of raised voices. The din takes a collective breath, then carries on as though no one noticed the shards spinning across the floor. Phones ring. Babies cry. I can’t meet the eyes of my social worker.
Mother creeps in. And slaps me in the face. ‘How could you do this to the family? You’re always looking for the easy way out—letting others do the work for you. When will you take responsibility for yourself?’ I shake my head. Mother retreats but leaves behind her disapproving brow. I shudder, turn away, squeeze my eyes tight.
“Are you alright?” It’s my social worker.
“It—it’s hard to do this,” I say. “I wasn’t raised to ask for help—especially of this kind.”
“There’s no shame in this. Lots of people need help at some point in their lives. Now then, you recently moved. Two children under four. The father is out of the picture.”
She drones on. An automated voice answers her questions. I’m employed full-time so access to emergency food stamps is limited. But I’m eligible for food assistance through WIC, a program for women, infants, and children. I leave the building with an armload of guilt.
***
On paper, we eke by on a strict budget. I live week-to-week. Cash my Friday paycheck at a bank that doesn’t require an account. Set up an envelope system to save the required cash for each bill. Combine errands to save gas. Track every cent in a notebook. I establish a routine, focus on my sons, and put one foot in front of the other. I’m grateful but guilt and worry are ever-present. Depression sides with gravity. Saps my energy. Mires each step. I’m losing ground.
Our days are structured by departure, arrival, and pick-up times. Meal, bath, and bedtimes. Friday evening grocery shopping and Saturday morning laundry. Weekly therapy with Dr. Joe. Monthly meetings at Social Services. Storytime. Playtime. I’m tired all the time.
***
I stand outside this redbrick church as a beggar, cloak my disdain, gather my will, and open the door to illusion. A divine passageway to peace and tranquility. I’d forgotten the sound of an empty church—the murmurs held in sacred silence promising life everlasting. It’s the sound of floating face down in a pool of stagnant water. I linger in a mix of Sunday flowers and hymnals, lemon-fresh Pledge and Pine-Sol—purity unrivaled. Foreboding rattles my chest. Hushed echoes mock each hypocritical step of my passage through the hall.
I’m greeted by Mrs. Barclay, a Presbyterian Church Elder. Impeccably dressed in a crisp white blouse, a soft gray skirt the color of her hair, and a matching cardigan with mother-of-pearl buttons. Her skin is smooth. Pale. Polished. She extends her hand and a smile. I’m careful not to crush either one.
Mrs. Barclay ushers me to her office—a model of contemplative serenity. Two armchairs upholstered in soothing greens, blues and lavender compliment floor-length drapes, a blue-green carpet, and creamy-white walls. Her desk is busy, but tidy. She gestures to a chair.
“Tell me a little about yourself and the circumstances that led to your application.”
“I was raised in the Presbyterian Church,” I say. Admitting this can’t hurt. I don’t tell her how much I hated church. That I wanted to peel my skin off and scream bloody murder during services. How I stared at the floor and refused to answer when my dad called on me in Sunday school class. No. I say, “Our family held hands before dinner and took turns saying grace.”
The rest of the interview falls away—except for my expressed wish to travel to my parents’ home so two-year-old Josh and four-year-old Jeff will have a good Christmas. I don’t have gas money for the fourteen-hour round trip. I lay my humility at her feet. She hands me a check for twenty-five dollars. The walls writhe and hiss as I slither out.
***
My plan for a daybreak departure changes with the 5 a.m. alarm. I sleep until the boys stir. At noon, it’s sixty-one degrees and overcast. Rabbit is packed tight. We’re loaded in and buckled up. Jeff in the front, Josh behind him in the back—favorite blankets, toys, and books within reach. I start the car for our three-hundred-eighty-seven-mile drive to my parent’s home in northwestern Pennsylvania—seven hours plus time for stops as needed to make it tolerable.
The first hour is a breeze—over the Blue Ridge Mountains to I-81. The day brightens in the Shenandoah Valley. I dole out snacks from a bag on the floor. We exit at Scotland, Pennsylvania, twenty miles north of the Maryland State line. No snow and still mild. We stop for gas and a bathroom break. From here we travel two-lane highways called William Penn and Cumberland, pikes called Birmingham and Croghan—a dozen routes to cross the state.
We zigzag the spines of the Allegheny Mountains, with occasional hairpins that clear the trees for a glimpse of the next valley. We pass through tracts of farmland and Pennsylvania State Forests. The boys manage the miles well and giggle when I sing Jingle bells. There are enough sights to point out to make the trip pleasant. Night falls. Christmas lights greet us in snow-covered towns and villages. Josh is asleep. Jeff cranes his neck as we pass through Ridgeway. “Can you see the lights, sweetie?”
“Mm-uh. Is Santa going to be at Grandmom’s house? How will he know where we are?”
“I used to wonder the same thing when I was your age. Somehow, presents were always under the tree. I’m sure you’ll find presents with your name under Grandmom and Granddad’s tree.” How do I stay the magic and avoid deceit? With an hour to go, we arrive in the Allegheny National Forest. Home territory.
It’s just past eight p.m. and below freezing. I drive past the blue and green lights on the hemlock tree in the snow-covered woods that front Mother and Dad’s home. “Jeff? Josh? Wake up, boys. We’re here.”
Mother and Dad greet us as I turn off the car. They help unbuckle the boys and unload the car. My senses upgrade to high alert. We all put on our happy.
***
On Christmas Eve a package for the boys is delivered. ‘From Daddy’ is written on the tags, but I suspect they were purchased, wrapped, and shipped by MC’s parents. The return address is theirs. The writing on the tags isn’t his. What matters is that Jeff and Josh believe they received gifts from their father.
On Christmas morning, the boys tear through the paper. Jeff’s anticipation falls hard. He sits motionless, breathless. Eyes wide, lips trembling. The football and helmet he wished for and was sure to receive are sitting in his brother’s lap. Oh no, sweet boy. My heart constricts.
I check the tags. “Boys, hold up a minute. It looks like you opened each other’s gift. Daddy accidentally mixed up the tags. That’s all. The helmet and ball are for Jeff. And this truck is just right for Josh.” Jeff wipes away tears, the boys make the trade and the world rights itself. Jeff’s head disappears under the helmet. Josh carries on as though nothing happened.
MC calls the boys in the afternoon—his first contact since rushing away from them on the interstate six weeks ago, when he handed them off to me early. This after abandoning the dairy farm in New York, cancelling our insurance, hiding the boys, and filing for custody while I was hospitalized in Virginia for thirty-six days—a stay necessary because of the impact of our relationship on my mental health. This after he promised during a family meeting with my doctors to move with the boys to Charlottesville and start life anew.
I rushed to New York State where we hammered out a joint custody agreement that specified how time with the boys would be split between us.
I shake away the images, swallow my rage, and force my shoulders into place.
I alert MC to the tag mix-up but minimize the impact. “The boys hope for mail and phone calls from you.” His hollow promise to do both lies static in the wire.
***
I can’t recall the rest of the visit. Or the long drive home. Or unpacking. Or doing laundry. It’s as if we never left. I’m at work, Jeff’s at nursery school and Josh is at daycare. Mother sends photos of the holiday. A few frames of time frozen—otherwise lost. I can’t explain it and don’t have time or energy to dwell on it.
***
On New Year’s Eve our upstairs neighbors Erin and Deb come for a visit with snacks in hand and small gifts for Jeff and Josh. Deb’s in a chair. I’m on the couch. Erin sits cross-legged on the floor. The boys are in constant motion between the living room and their bedroom.
Josh speeds by and stops just shy of toppling into Erin. He beams mischievously. Erin grins back. “What did you get for Christmas, Josh? Can you show me?” He rushes from the room. Returns in a halting dash—head tipped back and tilted so he can see out from under the Disney Goofy hat perched cock-eyed on his head—one droopy ear flopped over his face. Josh plops into Erin’s lap with a book he’s lugged from the bedroom. “Read this.” He adjusts his hat.
“Josh, ask Erin nicely.”
“Will ya?”
“Jooosh?”
“Erin, please?”
She opens the book. Josh grins, form-fits his body into her lap and lets out a contented sigh—already absorbed in what’s to come. With Erin momentarily occupied, Deb turns to me.
“Say, Gretch. Any chance you sent a card to the Presbyterian Church?”
“Uh . . . yeah.” What the hell?
“I thought it sounded like you. Your thank-you note was read aloud during yesterday’s service—without your name, of course.”
My throat sticks to itself. What are the chances? Charlottesville must have twenty churches—two of them Presbyterian—out of all, I accept charity from the church Deb attends.
She continues, “If you ever need anything or need someone to watch the kids, just ask.”
“That goes for me too,” says Erin. “Your boys are so sweet. And how many people send a thank you note after receiving assistance? It’s nice that y’all did that.”
My eyes drop out of sight. Dozens of wood tiles scrabble across the carpet—but too quickly. I can’t get them to form words.
Erin adds, “Hey. We know you work full-time—and you’re a single mom. It’s hard. Anytime y’all might-could use some help, we’re here.” She pauses. I swallow and blink.
“Hey, Gretch, it’s okay . . . Josh, let’s go hug your Mama.”
Jeff runs in from the bedroom. “I want a hug too!”
How did I fall into such good people?
***
We walk into the Health Department at the speed of shy children—Jeff clamped to my right hand, Josh gripping my left. We enter a spacious room with soft lighting, brown carpeting, and comfy armchairs. It’s quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Is this the right place?
I give my name to a beaming young woman—thin, with long russet hair—sitting at the check-in desk. She leans across it. “And who might these handsome boys be?”
Josh wraps his arms around my leg and hides his face. Jeff tops his left foot with his right and twists. I whisper, “Jeff? Do you need to use the bathroom?” His headshake is unconvincing.
“It’s right over there,” whispers the woman. She motions with her head and a wink.
Once out of the bathroom, we’re approached by a woman with short wavy hair—strawberry blonde that catches the light.
“Hi boys! We’re so glad to see you today. Would you bring mommy and come visit with me? My name is Anne.” She radiates kindness from a face that glows.
As we start down a hallway, there’s a hustling of footsteps behind us with a voice attached. “Oh, dear Lord! Margie? We’ve got little visitors! You don’t want to miss this.”
Heads clear door frames from both sides of the hall accompanied by sweet greetings.
We sit in an office to the right near the end of the hall. Josh clambers onto my lap. Jeff wanders to a cabinet. Anne hands Jeff coloring books and crayons. Josh slides to the floor and receives his own. She floats me a smile from back in time—my great-grandmother Tish’s smile.
“You’re today’s first appointment,” she says. “Truth be told, we don’t often see little ones like this. Your boys are clean, well-behaved and . . . just plain cute as the dickens.”
Cute as the dickens. Tish would say that.
“Are you alright?” Anne sets a box of tissues next to me.
“Yes. Sorry. I—I got lost for a moment. Things have been hard lately.”
“I can see that. We’re going to get you the help you need. Y’all will get through this.”
Staff keep the boys occupied visiting other offices while Anne and I talk. She is thorough, compassionate, and doesn’t bat an eye at my psych history. Instead, she speaks highly of Dr. Joe. “You’re lucky to have him. We work closely with Social Services, the university system, and other agencies.”
We move to another room where the boys are examined by a middle-aged doctor with a quick smile and kind eyes. Jeff is still sick, has ear infections, and now pinkeye. Somehow, Josh does not. I’m provided medicines for Jeff at no charge. We’re scheduled to follow-up next week.
Our time with Anne winds down. “You’re doing a great job with your children,” she says. “Call anytime for any reason. If we can’t help you directly, we’ll get you to someone who can. We’re part of your team now.”
I have a team? My shoulders let go of my ears—slightly.
Slightly counts.
I have a team.
#
Gretch Sando is a neurodivergent writer of fiction and creative nonfiction verse and prose that often reflect mental health perspectives gained as a patient and as a treatment provider. She was shortlisted in Craft’s 2023 Character Sketch Contest. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Sheepshead Review, InScribe, The Orchards Poetry, Last Stanza, and Wishbone Words. Gretch is retired, resides in northern New York, and loves landscapes of balsam and cedar with fieldstone walls. She is completing a memoir manuscript.