Page 35 of Lily's Eagle

“I will, give her my best,” I say and turn to leave.

“Unless you wanna come in for a cup of coffee,” he says very sweetly and I absolutely do not. What’s with this guy?

“I better get on,” I say, unable to think of a better excuse. “I’ll see you later.”

I walk briskly across the deck and jog down the stairs, feeling his eyes on my back all the way to the truck. When I look up before getting behind the wheel, he’s still looking at me with a serene half smile on his lips.

Weirdo. But I better get over it, since I’m gonna see a lot more of him, I’m sure. Though I’m having trouble reconciling him with the good Samaritan feeding the poor and needy Ariana described to me yesterday. But maybe that’s just me and my suspicious mind.

The drive to the helpline center, or the Helping Hands Center, as it’s officially called, takes me less than five minutes, and I’m still not completely myself again after meeting Mitch. I can’t put my finger on what, but something about that guy really rubbed me the wrong way.

I hear phones ringing before I’m even near the flimsy, glass and aluminum door that leads into the Helping Hands center. A bell chimes over the door as I enter, but it’s swallowed up by the ringing phones and there’s no one in the reception area to see me come in. I hear a woman’s voice talking fast, but soothingly somewhere in the back, nothing in her voice betraying that at least two other phones are ringing while she talks.

The front desk is covered by papers, flyers, boxes, pens and I don’t know what else. The two shelving units, one on either side of the open door that leads to the back are stuffed so full with books, boxes, papers and more miscellaneous crap that some of the shelves are bent under the weight. The place smells like it hasn’t been cleaned or aired out in a while—not exactly a bad smell, just a staleness.

“I’ll talk to you later then, sweetie,” the woman—Joyce, I suppose, says then hangs up, sighing loudly.

I walk over to the door to let her know I’m here. The other two phones are still ringing.

“You must be Lily,” she says, ignoring the ringing phones as she stands up and walks to me. “I’m Joyce.”

She’s a slight, short lady, with close-cropped dark grey hair. Her hand in mine feels like I’m holding a bird, but the grip is strong. She’s wearing winged, bright red glasses that make her dark eyes look tiny, and a pair of jean overalls with flowers of all sorts and colors embroidered on them. They all clash with her bright purple shirt, yet it somehow works.

“I’m here to help,” I say simply, glancing around the room. The mess in here is even more incredible than in the front room. I suppose it’s mostly files that have been taken out to add notes, and never replaced.

“I’d love to chat and get to know you better. Your grandma was a friend of mine and I remember you from when you were little. But it’ll have to wait. You can hear how it is,” Joyce says, waving her hand to indicate the phones that haven’t yet stopped ringing. ”Have you ever worked at a helpline?”

“Yes, once. At a call center for battered women,” I say. “But I was told I’m too sharp with the callers. Not compassionate enough is the word they used.”

I went with Doc’s wife Anne who worked there regularly. And she was very compassionate when she broke it to me that helpline work wasn’t in the cards for me. I’d blame Cross’ attempts at fathering, which left a lot to be desired in the sensitivity department, but I can’t. I’m hard too, just like him.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Joyce says. “Compassion doesn’t do all that much good. People need a reason to go on more than compassion, I find. It’s a busy day today, because of Greg. Just tell whoever calls not to lose hope. Times are hard, they’re always hard. But we have to survive, we don’t have a choice.”

I don’t feel up to it in the slightest. But she’s already picking up one of the phones and the big red one next to me is ringing so loudly it’s practically glowing. So I give it no more thought, just pick up and introduce myself, asking how I can help.

“You probably can’t,” the woman on the other side says, her voice thick and hoarse from crying. “Why is this happening? What is it all for? What’s the point of all this suffering?”

“We are strong and therefore we are tested,” I say, hardly thinking before the words just spill from my mouth. “Because the strong are always tested. The stronger you are the harder the test it. And because of this we grow stronger. We are warriors.”

I know those words. They belong to my grandmother, the fiercest warrior I’ve ever met. Despite growing up in a house full of killers. She raised four kids on her own while my grandfather was in prison, and buried two. She also raised me and four of my cousins and those were the words she said to me when I complained. Or some variation thereof.

The woman on the other end of the line has gone very quiet, but I can hear her breathing.

“Don’t give up,” I add. “Fight. Survive. It’s all that really matters. Sadness and pain pass, life endures.”

Joyce has finished with her call and is ignoring that the phone is ringing again. She’s watching me, listening. She nods slightly as our eyes meet. But I think I was too harsh, not compassionate enough. Because the lady on the other end of the line is still completely quiet. And I think I’ve said enough too. It’d be better if I just try to put this office into some sort of order and leave the phones to someone else. I’m no good at giving advice.

“Thank you,” the woman suddenly says. “From the depths of my heart, thank you. That’s what I needed to hear.”

She hangs up before I can tell her she’s welcome.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” I say to Joyce who is still just looking at me.

She shakes her head. “No, no, you’re perfect. Did your grandma tell you that?”

I nod, and she does too. “Your grandma was a proud Lakota woman, a warrior, one who never forgot it, as so many had. And she taught you well. You’ve come here to make the rest of us remember too. So pick up that phone.”

She means the one right next to me, which is ringing again. And I’m not at all sure she’s right. But I pick it up anyway, for my grandma, I guess, who could’ve done so much more good in this world if she hadn’t died so young. And for myself.

---