(This is something I wrote some time ago, about a neighborhood kid who landed on my doorstep.  She's OK, now, living with a more stable grandmother.   And the details have been changed.)

 

Amber finally went to sleep, on a blanket on the floor next to my bed, holding a borrowed bear, wearing a borrowed nightie. Making do with borrowed mothering. She turned over so I wouldn't see her face, wet with silent tears.

Amber has carved out a place in my heart - I love this kid, shining with enthusiasm for her rough world, knocking on my door to tell me about school and show me her shoes with lights in them. She has a gift for grabbing joy from what's in front of her.

Mom's life has been too hard since she left Amber's dad. She left because he drank too much, danced too close to the line of abuse - "You look like hell," he'd say, even though she's hauntingly beautiful, in a weary kind of way. Or "You're so stupid," or "You're getting fat." He could be mean, especially when he drank. And he drank often.

They used to do crank together, but Mom quit; then they had nothing in common. Now she's staying on my street with HER mom, living in a tiny room with Amber, saving for her own place. And it mostly works, except sometimes Grandma drinks too much and takes too many pills.

Yesterday Grandma went into an alcohol-fueled rage and kicked them all out. Now Amber and her Mom and her cat are orbiting around my neighborhood, not sure of their place, or if they have one. I feed them, let them use my shower, and try to help without wading too deep into something I can't fix.

Mom dropped Amber off after dinner to spend the night; she said "I'll be right back with her stuff," but she wasn't. At bedtime, Amber said, "My mom'll be back pretty soon - she has to bring my jammies."

I loaned her my daughter's, found her a toothbrush, and made her a bed on the couch. "My mom'll be here to kiss me goodnight," she said. Then later, sad, business-like: "Is there a stuffed animal I could use?" I got her one, tucked them in. She said "Is anybody else gonna be sleeping in here?", and she jumped at the offer to sleep in MY room, instead. "Tell my mom to wake me up when she comes back," she said.

At midnight, Mom called from work. "I couldn't get back in time," she said. "Sorry," she said, and part of me wanted to make her REALLY sorry.

But another part of me, one I like better, didn't. I don't know where Mom went - if she was doing something necessary, or looking for comfort in the familiar arms of addictions or addicts. But I know that feeling, of finding warmth wherever you can get it, raising kids by yourself when your life requires everything you've got and then some just to keep it afloat. Of being needed and NEEDED by these little beings that you certainly love, until you wonder if there'll be anything left of you.

I regret I told her Amber had been crying. She's working two jobs, missing whatever she had with Amber's dad, leaning on a Grandma who bailed on babysitting. She drove all over town before asking if Amber could stay with me. Her life has got to feel like punishment right now - she didn't need any more from me.

We do the best we can, all of us. . .

Grandma tries to stay sober, become someone who can be counted on, undo the damage she did as a mom.

Mom tries to be the kind of mother she never had, tries to stay away from the drug and the man that, if she squints her eyes hard enough, can look like solutions.