Elizabeth Atherton — The Dweller

A delicate feeling of shame creeps up my torso.

Candice turns her head to look at me. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You are raising human beings. Caring for your children is the most important job you can do.” She looks me in the eye for emphasis.

“Yes,” I acknowledge, “But we also need to eat. We need food, money. I need to work.”

Candice softens her gaze. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

I feel comfortable in her care. I can tell she knows what she is doing. I look at the small stack of business cards on her desk. “Candice Shipley — Program Case Manager,” they say. Of course, I think, she’s a case manager. That explains it.

I return my attention to the forms. There are several pages.

“I’m going to keep interrupting you,” Candice says, “One of the best parts of my job is meeting people and hearing their stories. Some of the stories are sad and I try to forget them. But others are uplifting. I find your story to be uplifting.” Candice smiles.

“I bet a lot of desperate woman come in here looking for help. Just women, no men.” I say, feeling angry. “No,” says Candice, “There are quite a lot of men. Quite a lot. And grandparents. Most of the people I see here are grandparents. And I feel very bad for them. Because they are my age, you know? I just imagine myself with an infant and a two-year-old.” Candice clutches her chest dramatically.

I think about the other women who have sat at this desk. I imagine a woman looking over at her granddaughter as she plays with the toys in the adjacent room.

“And also, they must have double pain,” I say, “Because of that degree of disappointment they feel towards their own children. Why are they caring for their grandkids, you know? What’s the story there? Not a good one, I suspect.”

Candice looks at me. “Uh-huh,” she says. Her face is blank.

I try to stay focused on the forms. There is a section that offers educational pamphlets. I check the boxes beside Stress and Your Child, Self-Esteem, Special Needs, and Communication.

I look over at my daughter in the adjacent room. She is so sweet and gentle; I am filled with love for her. She is eating her cashews too fast. “Eat more slowly please,” I scold. She looks at me with a touch of shame. “It’s okay,” I say, “Just eat those more slowly. One at a time please.”

Candice clicks with finality at her keyboard and rolls her chair back to the intimate section of her

Candice clicks with finality at her keyboard and rolls her chair back to the intimate section of her desk. “OK!” she says, “I’m going to go over some of these with you and it’s going to feel like a lot of information.”

I follow along at first but eventually it becomes confusing. There are sign-in sheets, dates of ending and beginning, income qualifications, 12-month notification deadlines.

Candice indicates places on the forms where I must initial, and other places where I must sign.

She looks at me from across the desk, green eyes raised, glasses lowered to the tip of her nose, “I know this is a lot.”

“Its fine. I will figure it out when I get home. I’m glad that I qualify for the program.”

Candice smiles. She puts the forms in a bright yellow folder, adds the informational pamphlets I requested, then slips in her business card. She hands me the yellow folder with both hands.

I return my pen to the white mug.

“Thank you so much Candice. Thank you so much.” She smiles again. “You’re welcome.”

I stand up and walk to the adjacent room. “I’m all done! Are you ready to go?”

“No,” my daughter says.

“How about some stickers?” asks the woman who’d let us in, sitting in a desk I hadn’t seen before.

She hands my daughter a set of yellow stickers shaped like stars.

I smile politely.

“Thank you,” we say as we walk out the door. “Thank you.”