The world was coming to an end, and all he could do was scream about the lack of Peanut Butter Crunch cereal.
His seven year old face was red and wet and contorted in feral mask of rage and his scream was a clarion call to let everyone in the shelter know that she was an unfit mother for not providing this basic necessity.
He hadn’t had the cereal in months, since the divorce, the bankruptcy, the eviction, since being thrown out onto the street, having to make do with stale donuts, pizza crusts, dollar store soup if they were in the high cotton, but now, surrounded by others, others who had survived the storm, escaped with their lives and the clothes on their back, and in the trash bags that surrounded their foldable cot, he expected the luxury of Captain Crunch.
The three of them had folded into the crowd of storm survivors, looking just as ragged, just as grateful, just as wide eyed with shock to find themselves living in the small gymnasium that smelled of sweat, and bleach, watched over by the bright fluorescents that floated overhead like cherubim.
Her daughter, 10 going on 30, stepped in, as she always did, to soothe and calm her little brother.
Eye contact, back pats, low voice, she knew what to do, so she allowed herself a minute of peace and quiet, and her dirty nails clicked against the treasure in the front pocket of her dirty, threadbare jeans. No phone, no keys, just a kit. Spoon, syringe, bag, lighter.
Closing her eyes brought the memory back. She could feel the needle pierce her skin and she was flooded with warmth, with solitude, with freedom.
Mother’s little helper.
A gentle touch on her shoulder brought her back to earth. Blonde, beautiful skin, well dressed. A confident smile, clean fingernails, bright teeth, sparkling eyes, an angel from the scoreboard heaven.
“He’s having a hard time, isn’t he?” The angel picked him up, cooed at him, gave him warmth and comfort – not a hard sidewalk and a soggy sleeping bag.
His screams decrescendo into sniffles.
Her daughter looked up at the angel, grateful for another adult in the room that didn’t look at her as an afterthought.
She felt thankful, she felt a different kind of warmth. A glow and calm that she hadn’t felt in a while.
Shared custody.
Out of the corner of her eye, a blinding light.
Turning, she watched the double doors swing open, revealing the storm that still raged, and she didn’t see darkness, didn’t see clouds, she only saw escape.
“His name is Andrew,” she said to the angel, “and this is Ruth.”
Hand on her pocket, she turned and started walking toward the storm, ignoring the one that raged inside of her. They’ll be fine, she told herself.
That’s what angels do, they take care of you.
