Blue Eyes and Second Chances

Her face was younger than it should have been.

Living on the street ages people faster than most of us realize. The sun’s rays strip away the skin’s youthful suppleness, and the winter’s cold leaves it dried and cracked like old concrete.

Yet, her skin was smooth, unmarred by the elements, sleep deprivation, or the relentless anxiety of not knowing when you might eat next, if you’ll have a safe place to sleep at night, or if you’ll be assaulted and robbed by someone else doing whatever they must to survive. Though dirt coated her ragged jeans and two-sizes-too-big red flannel shirt, her face was clean. I’d even go so far as to say it had a soft, pink glow to it.

What struck me most, however, were her powder-blue eyes. Clear as a cloudless sky, they indicated alertness and sobriety. They stood out in contrast to the filthy blanket draped around her shoulders and the dark, tangled hair sticking out from under a soiled, backward baseball cap.

Shaded by an awning which covered the wide walkway between the side of a grocery store and a beauty salon, she stood still as I walked toward her. Her back stiffened as she noticed me noticing her, causing her to rise to her full height. She was taller than I had initially thought. Only, something seemed to be pulling her downward, causing her to slouch before she’d seen me approach. As our eyes met, I could see a great deal of sadness and a touch of fear behind those big, blue eyes.

I offered her a warm smile. It was the only thing I could think of to try to put her at ease.

She quickly looked away.

“Um, excuse me?” she said. Her voice was small, like it was uncertain of itself. She shifted her gaze downward, focusing on the ground in front of me. “Can you, um, spare some change?” She raised her eyes a little, still avoiding mine, but showing her hopefulness that I might offer her more than a smile.

“Sure,” I said as I reached for my wallet. As I took a few slow steps toward her, I took in her facial features; sharp, but not harsh, delicate without being fragile. She had a beauty that was visible through the layers of dirt and too-worn clothes. If I had to guess, I’d say she was no more than twenty. And yet, her demeanor and apparent homelessness suggested that she’d already endured more hardship than most people much older than she. The longer I looked at her, the more curious about her I became.

More than that, there was something oddly familiar about her. Not that we’d ever met before; there was just something about her that reminded me of someone I used to know. At that moment, I couldn’t place it, however.

“Here,” I said handing over a few folded bills.

She hesitated before reaching out to take them, almost as though she was expecting me to yank them away at the last minute.

“Thank you.” She stuffed the bills into her jeans pocket without counting them.

“You’re welcome.” I offered her another smile. So many thoughts and whispers of distant memories ran through my head that I didn’t realize I was staring at her with a blank, but steady gaze.

She forced a small smile, something which seemed to take a concentrated effort, almost like she’d forgotten how. Her eyes darted from left to right, back toward me, then down and away. She took a half-step back.

“Sorry. I kind of drifted off for a minute there,” I explained. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Thanks again.”

I took a few steps away before turning around and asking, “Do you like coffee?”

She looked me in the eyes, scrutinizing the implications of my question.

I pointed back toward the coffee shop I’d come out of. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to get you a cup of coffee.”

She thought about it for a long moment before nodding.

I gestured for her to walk with me. “Come on. I’ll get you a coffee and something to eat if you’d like.”

She glanced at the coffee shop, then down at the ground. “The manger doesn’t like us coming inside,” she said in that same small, unsure voice.

She must have read the confusion on my face, because she followed up with, “He says street people drive away paying customers.”

I shook my head. “I once saw a ‘paying customer’ at a Starbucks dump his coffee into the lap of another customer during an argument. No one besides the guy who got a crotch full of hot coffee said a word.”

She shrugged. “I’ll stay out here.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

Who was I to argue further?

“Do you like anything in your coffee?”

“Nothing!” she blurted out. A flash of panic flickered across her face. She recoiled from herself, her gaze returning to the ground. “I just mean, black coffee is fine.”

Her small, momentary outburst raised further questions in my mind. I fought the urge to give voice to my curiosity, opting instead to simply smile and nod.

“How about a sandwich or something?”

“I like turkey and Swiss,” she said.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

As I walked back into the coffeehouse, I wondered, who was this girl? What’s her story? And what is it about her that makes me wonder about her? Why didn’t I just hand her some money and keep walking?

“I understand you have a ‘no homeless people allowed’ policy,” I said after placing the order.

The barista, a young man who looked fresh out of high school, stared back at me, unsure of what to make of my statement. “I mean, the owner doesn’t like them hanging out in here all day.”

“Why not? What’s the harm in letting them come in out of the sun? Or the cold and the rain?”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably as he stared at the register. “That’ll be $10.55,” he said.

“Homeless people are people, too, you know. They deserve to be treated as such,” I said as I inserted my card into the chip-reader.

He remained silent as his eyes refused to meet mine.

As I exited the coffee shop, realization as to why I was drawn to the girl outside hit me.

Her eyes. They were the same as my sister’s.

I was curious why I didn’t make the connection sooner.

I returned to her, sandwich and coffee in hand. This time, it was my turn to force a smile. “Here you are,” I said, handing her the cup and the paper-wrapped sandwich. “Careful, it’s really hot.”

“Thank you,” she said in the same small, timid voice.

“You’re welcome.” Not wanting to create another awkward moment, I just smiled and walked to my car, glancing back one last time before getting in.

The girl sat on the ground, her back against the wall of the grocery store. She held her coffee in both hands, staring into nothing as she took small sips. That image burned itself into my mind’s eye and stayed there all the way home.

***

That evening, I tried watching television. I tried cleaning up around the house. I tried getting a jumpstart on some work for the next day.

Nothing could shake her from my mind.

Against my better judgment, I went to the closet in my bedroom. On the upper shelf sat an old, leather-bound family photo album.

I wiped the dust off the cover and placed it on my lap as I sat on my bed. I skipped past the first few pages until I found what I was looking for. A picture of my sister and me at the beach. Her damp, brown hair was caught in a breeze as we both smiled for the camera. Her big blue eyes sparkled with sunlight and joy as she held rabbit ears up behind my head.

“Take care of your little sister…” My mother’s voice rang through my head like static feedback – the shrill, ear-splitting kind that comes from a cheap PA system. It harmonized horrifically with the sound of screeching tires, steel colliding with aluminum, flesh and bone, and my sister screaming.

I’d just gone inside for a second. If I’d waited or done so earlier…

A sensation like someone pressing an ice cube to the back of my neck shot down my spine. I shook hard to rid myself of it, hoping the memories would fall out of my ears.

The next page held a picture of her on the mountain bike she’d gotten for her eleventh birthday. It was the last picture in the album.

There were no more pictures of my sister.

There never would be.

Even though I was alone, I looked around and pretended there was something in my eyes as I wiped them dry.

***

The next day, I went back to the grocery store and coffee shop. I looked for the girl with the blue eyes as I walked through the parking lot, lingering outside the coffeehouse’s main doors before going inside. I got a turkey and Swiss sandwich and two coffees, just in case, putting cream and sugar in one and leaving the other black.

As I walked outside, I tried to find her. I strolled around the general vicinity, pretending to be interested in various flower beds, street signs, and weeds growing up between the cracks in the sidewalk. I window-shopped a nearby outdoor goods store, pretending to be interested whatever it was they’d displayed in their main window.

I genuinely considered going into the bookstore across the street and drowning my worries in paperbacks.

I was about to give up, feeling rather embarrassed at the ridiculousness of it all, when I happened to look down the alley leading to the grocery store’s loading dock. There she was, sitting on the edge of the concrete, eating a hamburger. A smile spread across my face at the thought that maybe she’d bought it with the money I’d given her yesterday. I walked down the alley toward her.

She turned her head as she heard me approach. Her eyes widened as if she’d been startled and, pulling the foil wrapper around the rest of the burger, stuffed it in a bag under her blanket. She hopped off the edge of the dock and gathered her things as fast as her hands could move.

“Hello,” I said in the kindest voice I could muster.

She looked at me, ready to run if she felt she had to.

“I brought you a coffee and a sandwich.” I held the paper cup out in front of me. “Black coffee and turkey with Swiss, just like yesterday.”

Her eyes darted from me to the wrapped sandwich and the cup, then back to me. She remained where she stood.

“I’ll just set this here,” I said as I placed the cup on the edge of the concrete where she’d been sitting.

“Thanks,” she said. Her voice was with thick with apprehension. The way her eyes locked onto me and her rigid body language made her look like a scared rabbit staring at what she thought might be a hungry predator. The change in demeanor caused my mind to conjure a number of horrible scenarios which could have occurred since the day before.

“Are you ok?” It might have been a dumb question, but it was all I could think of.

She stood silent and still.

“I’m James,” I said. I thought better of extending my hand, even in friendly greeting.

She remained silent. Her eyes were still fixed on me, her body tense.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I’m not going to sleep with you.” The words burst from her mouth like water breaking through a weakened dam.

“I, er…what?” I took a step back and pressed my free hand to my chest. “No, that’s not at all what I-”

“I don’t care how much money you’ll give me, I’m not that kind of girl.” That same look of panic I saw yesterday reappeared on her face. Only this time, it was accompanied by an undercurrent of anger.

Realization hit me like an express train. I reddened as I looked at the ground.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I thought you were a…that you’d…that I could pay you for…” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

“Then what do you want?”

I looked in her direction, but not directly at her. Choosing my words and tone with caution, I said, “I’d like to help you.”

“Help me?”

“To get off the street.”

She paused as she considered what I’d said. “Why?”

I raised my head and looked her in the eyes. Her stance remained tense and ready to bolt at a second’s notice, but she didn’t break eye contact.

“You remind me of someone,” I said. “Someone I used to love.”

“Used to?” she said. “Why is it used to?”

“She died. A long time ago.”

She didn’t say anything. And while the anxiety remained on her face, the anger faded. “That still doesn’t explain why.”

I thought for several seconds about how I could explain my motives without sounding predatory or desperately sad and pathetic. “I couldn’t help her. So, I thought maybe I could help you.”

She stared at me before asking, “How would you help me?”

My face went flush again. “I haven’t figured that part out yet. I was hoping to do some research tonight, maybe find some programs that-”

“No.”

“What?” It’s not that I hadn’t heard or misunderstood her. It’s that she’d said it with such ironclad certainty that I simply couldn’t process her response.

“I don’t want your help.” She turned to walk away.

I hadn't been prepared for outright rejection. “Can I ask why not?”

“Because I don’t,” was all she said. She turned to walk away.

“Wait!” I searched for any excuse to get her to stay. In the last two days, I’d spent less than five minutes interacting with this girl. Yet, each minute brought a fresh myriad of questions. Not that she was obligated in any way to sate my curiosity, nor was she a surrogate for my sister. Still, I’d sort of hoped…

“You forgot your coffee,” I said.

She stopped. She took cautious steps back toward me.

“I didn’t mean to presume anything,” I explained while I still could. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. And I wasn’t expecting anything in return.”

“No one does anything without expecting something afterwards.” The angry undertone was back in her voice.

“That’s not the case here.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She stepped forward, snatched the coffee and sandwich from the dock, then retreated a few steps back. “Maybe you mean well. Everyone does…at first.”

The fragments and hints of information I’d gleaned from her melted and congealed together. The picture they formed made my stomach hurt.

“Tell you what,” I said after swallowing hard. “I’ll be back here tomorrow with more snacks. If you change your mind, we can talk about what I might be able to do to help you get off the street. If not, I promise not to bother you again. Just know that all I’m expecting in return is that good feeling that comes from doing a good deed for someone who needs it. Nothing more.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” was all she said before turning and walking away.

***

That evening, I researched all the local programs and services available to people looking to get back on their feet. While there were several shelters and soup kitchens, I found few programs which help people transition back to work or into housing. And most of those programs were geared toward recovering addicts, requiring the participants to submit to weekly drug screenings. Others required applicants to supply an address and phone number.

Apparently no one else saw the irony and ridiculousness of asking homeless people for their address.

“This’ll have to do,” I mumbled to my computer screen after nearly three hours of scouring the internet. My printer sprang to life as I prepared a small folder for the girl with the blue eyes. I slipped the information for a transition-to-work program into the pockets, indulging in a little self-satisfaction that I was doing something impactful to help her.

Giving her a few bucks was a nice gesture, but only helped in the immediate short-term. I was aiming for something more along the lines of that whole “teach a man to fish” thing.

***

The next day, I walked quickly across the parking lot toward the coffee shop, folder in hand and a smile on my face. I went over the ways in which I might present the information on the one promising transition-to-work program I’d found, how they offered on-the-job training, and that she’d be earning a paycheck as she learned. The tricky part would be explaining that the program didn’t offer housing, but that I could put her up in an extended stay motel room for the first month without making it sound like I was expecting anything in return.

Of course, this was all predicated on the assumption that she would show up.

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, that I didn’t notice the police tape and flashing lights coming from the alley in which she and I had last spoken. I kept walking toward the coffee shop, looking for her, wondering if she’d seen the cops and cordoned-off alley and gotten spooked. I went inside, checking to see if maybe she was there, waiting on that cup of coffee I’d promised. It was the first time I’d gone in without stopping to savor the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries.

She wasn’t inside.

I still got a sandwich and two coffees like the previous day, one with cream and sugar, one black.

As I exited, I walked toward the alley. Two squad cars and an ambulance sat parked with lights flashing. An officer stood at the edge of the scene keeping people on the opposite side of the police line.

“What’s going on?” I asked a middle-aged woman in a navy-blue pant suit.

“Someone was killed in the alley,” she said, keeping her eyes on the emergency responders.

I surveyed the scene. A pair of women wearing windbreakers with the words “Coroner’s Office” in big, bold, yellow font poked around a lump covered in a black tarp. They scribbled notes as they worked. One of them lifted the tarp, revealing a mass of tangled brown hair matted with blood. A slender, pale arm stuck out from the tarp.

My heart leapt into my throat as my whole body became tight and tingly.

“It’s too bad,” the woman in the pant suit said. “Poor girl is probably a Jane Doe. You know how it is with people on the street.”

“How is it?” My voice had more of an angry bite to it than I’d intended.

She watched intently as the paramedics prepared to load the body onto a gurney. “Well, they don’t have families or anyone to notify. It’s not like anyone will come looking for them. No one will bother the police to catch their killer. Happens all the time.”

My face and neck heated. I wanted to yell at this woman, to argue that she was wrong, and that she didn’t know what she was talking about.

But she was right. And my not liking it wouldn’t change reality.

She didn’t have to be so callous and casual about it though.

I walked back toward the parking lot, stopping to look back one last time as the paramedics transferred the girl’s lithe body onto a gurney. Memories long buried clawed their way out of their graves, bearing the likeness of my sister, only decomposed, rotting, reeking of decay. My mother’s screams. Endless nights of sobbing.

“Take care of your little sister…”

Shaking my head, I turned and spiked the cup of black coffee against the wall of the grocery store. Some splattered back at me leaving little brown droplets on my white shirt.

Embarrassed, I glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed my outburst.

There was the girl with the blue eyes staring at me, her face scrunched in curiosity.

“Something wrong with the coffee?” she said in a small voice.

I gazed at her, mouth agape, as my mind worked to process the events of the last ten minutes. I stared for longer than she was comfortable with, causing her to look around and pull her dirty blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“What?” she asked.

Relief mule-kicked me in the chest. I pressed a freehand to my stomach and sucked in rapid breaths, offering my thanks to whatever unseen forces allowed for this turn of events.

“Um…you ok?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I replied, smiling like a nun with a concussion. “I thought…” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Yeah.” Despite her subtle tone, she seemed almost as surprised as I was that she was here.

I pointed back behind me with my thumb. “I saw the scene over there.” I searched for something to say beyond meaningless clichés and platitudes.

“I knew her,” she said. Her eyes scanned the ground in front of me. “She didn’t deserve…that.”

“No, I don’t imagine she did.”

She glanced toward the alley and back at me. “I don’t want that to happen to me.”

“Me neither.”

We locked eyes. Hers still had the fear and sadness I’d seen the first time we’d met, but there was something else, something that brought a small smile to my face. Hope and a willingness to trust, albeit tempered with caution, glimmered dimly just below the surface.

She blushed a little and her eyes moved to the one cup I still held, to my empty hand, then to the wet brown splotch dripping down the outer store wall and the empty cup on the ground. She then turned a questioning gaze upon me.

“I owe you a coffee,” I said, fresh embarrassment for my childish behavior washing over me.

“What’s that?” She pointed with her chin to the folder tucked under my arm.

“My plan for how to help you.” I gestured back toward the coffee shop. “If you’d like, we can get you a coffee and I can go over it with you.”

She looked at the folder for several seconds. “I’ll listen,” she said. “But I don’t promise anything.”

“That’s all I ask.” I moved aside and gestured for her to walk with me.

It was so slight I would have missed it had I not been paying attention, but the corners of her mouth curved upward, leaving the smallest hints of a smile.

“By the way,” she said as we walked. “I’m Anna.”

***

If you liked this story and/or my writing, sign up for my email list to stay up to date on new stories, upcoming features, and cool news. I promise to do my best not to annoy you.

You can also follow me on Twitter, Instagram, Medium, and BitClout.