Vacant(5)

She sits for a moment with her eyes trained on her hands while her fingers twist with each other on her lap. Her hair is frizzy from the humidity, and despite having it pulled back, there are tiny tendrils sticking up forming an angelic halo around her face. After a few moments, she finally speaks. "So, what do you want in return?"

What? I'm fully aware she has no money, so why would she think I would want her to pay-

I'm not even finished with my own thought when I realize she's not talking about monetary payment. Nothing is ever free, and she thinks I want her in return for providing food and shelter. The thought strips me down to the core.

"No!" I shout unnecessarily, but I can't help it. I do not want that! She's hiding her face, but I can see her scrunching her eyes closed. I take a breath to calm down and explain myself.

"No," I start again, much calmer than before. "I don't want anything from you, Emily. I want to help you. I know how..." I stop and take a deep breath. I need her to understand where I'm coming from. "I know how hard this situation can be."

She flinches and snaps her head up to look me in the eye. "You don't want...you know, then?" She gestures between us to further her point.

Lie. "No. The last thing I want is for you to be taken advantage of." While the thought of being with her physically is an attractive offer, I would never want it under that set of circumstances. I know how easy it is to become a target when you're young and in need.

"But, why? Everyone wants something, Ethan. There has to be something you want from me. I mean, it's okay if you want... you know..." Her cheeks flame red as she says this.

God, she's so naive she can't even say the word "sex." It only solidifies my decision that I'm doing the right thing, but she's right. People always want something in return, so I will have to give her a reason why I don't want anything from her. I have to be honest with her and let her know that I'm all too familiar with her situation.


After four months, I continue to be astonished by what Emily can do with a dented, often label-less, can. She says it's all the Julia Child reruns on PBS, but I don't care who's to credit. Dinner is on the table every night with mismatched plates and silverware, and our economy paper towels are always folded into decorative shapes. It hasn't escaped my notice at how much I enjoy seeing our laundry mingled together, either. The bottom line for me is that she makes even this place seem like home.

After Emily agreed to move in with me - which was no small feat - it took a month until she stopped knocking, then cracking the door and yelling, "Ethan?" before she would enter through the front door. It was as if she thought I would get mad if she didn't practice her self- imposed ritual. While her discomfort with calling this her home still lingers, it's just the tip of the iceberg concerning our... issues.

Initially, she'd been particularly insistent about getting a job and wanting to help financially. I hadn't argued, thinking she was nearly done, if not completely finished, with school. I hadn't bother to ask what her status was, figuring she was old enough to make that decision herself. So, it was with eagerness that I helped her look for a job.

One roadblock was her lack of identification. Employers want an ID, but of course, Emily didn't have any. We spent an entire day at City Hall getting the required documentation and social security card, so we could then go to the DMV. That was the day I found out she was barely old enough for a driver's permit - let alone a driver's license. Emily insisted she was nearly eighteen when we met, but I found out she wasn't even close. Shock didn't even begin to explain what I felt at the revelation of her real age. She hadn't lied about when her birthday was; it was a month after she moved in, as she'd first said. However, she was turning sixteen, not eighteen. While I was monumentally upset by her deception, I got it. She was living with the fear of being herded into a state system that could feel like you were being fed to the wolves. I couldn't really blame her.

After I got over my initial anger about her lie and the additional guilt of some of the inappropriate things I may have fantasized about her, I realized Emily missed the milestone of sweet sixteen. I remembered a co-worker talking about her sister's sixteenth birthday and the excitement that went along with the momentous occasion. Emily insisted she didn't want anything special and maintained that by finding me, she'd already received more than she ever hoped for after her mother's passing. The celebratory sad-assed cookie I had on my twenty-first birthday came to mind. I instantly knew it wasn't good enough for Emily, so I went into work and ordered the most extravagant and girly cake our bakery had - regardless of the fact it was almost forty bucks, my usual weekly food budget. Her reaction to the cake was like a kick to the stomach. When I brought it home, Emily cried, explaining that even her mother had never gotten her a cake since cake wasn't something you buy on a strict budget.

That was the moment I decided Emily would never go without again. Knowing that cake was so special made it all the more enjoyable when I ate it every meal the week that followed.

"Ethan, go wash your hands please. Dinner is ready."

It never fails. The girl can literally watch me walk from the bathroom, knowing I've just scrubbed up, but she will still tell me to wash again, and I will. I know that she's tied to the routine, not really the cleanliness factor. Many who have been in a homeless situation will cling to routines for the comfort and solace they bring.