The Stranger

I left the house around noon and headed downtown. As I walked, head down, I paid little notice to my surroundings, occupied with my own thoughts. I was nearly past the local library, when suddenly a woman jumped out from the bushes, directly in my path. Startled, I instinctively clutched my purse closer and took a step back. She only stood there, head whipping from side to side, trying to look in every direction at once. 1

When my racing heart began to regain it's normal rhythm, I looked at her more closely, taking in the ragged clothes and greasy hair. I forced myself to keep a straight face, though I was nauseated by the stench of sweat and cheap liquor which surrounded her. I did not recognize her, which was very unusual in my small town, where strangers were almost non-existent. From the looks (and smell) of her, I assumed she was homeless, a bum passing through.2

"Can...can you...can you...help me? Please?" she asked, looking helpless and frightened. I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet, thinking that I could spare a couple dollars. I usually didn't give money to panhandlers, but she looked so desperate, my heart went out to her. I held out the bills, expecting her to snatch them from my hand and leave. I figured she would most likely head to the nearest liquor store, but I chastened myself for being so cynical.3

Instead of taking the money, she shook her head, the color rising in her cheeks. "I...I don't, don't need...I didn't mean..." She stuttered. I realized that she was embarrassed, and quickly tucked the money into my pocket. I began to apologize, ashamed of myself for jumping to conclusions. She interrupted me, tears welling up in her eyes. "I just want...I need to talk..." Suddenly she embraced me, hands clutching at my back, sobs wracking her thin frame.4

Hesitantly, I placed my hands on her shoulders, and tried to calm her. She only held me tighter, her tears soaking into my shirt as she wailed. "I don't know what to do! I'm scared! Please help me!" She shook in my arms, coughing and sniffing as she wept. I placed one hand on her back and began to pat her gently and shush her, comforting her as I would a small child. She was a stranger (a dirty, smelly stranger), but I didn't have the heart to push her away.5

Chest heaving, breath hitching, she began speaking rapidly, words jumbled and confused. Finally she calmed down a little, and I was able to make sense of what she was saying. She was pregnant, and her boyfriend (the father) had kicked her out of the house. She was an alcoholic, and though she had been sober for nearly a year, she had gotten drunk that morning. She was ashamed of herself, and frightened for the welfare of her unborn child. I asked how far along she was, and she guessed four or five weeks at the most. I reassured her, telling her that I didn't think it would hurt the baby that early in the pregnancy, as long as she had no more 'slips'. 6

She kept crying, apparently doubting my words. I didn't know what else to say, I had never been in such a situation. I was only nineteen years old, perhaps half the age of this poor woman. Still, I kept talking to her, holding her in my arms in the middle of the sidewalk. For a moment, I wondered what passersby might think about this ridiculous scene, but I dismissed the thought as selfish.7

After half an hour of this, I gathered that she had only recently moved to this area. Her boyfriend was the only person she knew in town, and he no longer wanted anything to do with her. She had no where to go, and no way to get home to her family, who lived several hundred miles away. She had tried calling her mother, hoping she might wire her some cash for a bus ticket, but nobody had answered.8

At that, she began wailing again, sounding for all the world like a hurt child, hopeless and heartbroken. "I WANT MY MOTHER!" She flopped down on the ground, pulling up her knees and rocking back and forth. I sat down beside her, putting my arm around her shoulders, not knowing how to respond. "Momma, oh, momma! I wanna go HOME!" She howled, voice cracking on the last syllable. 9

She was at least forty years old, but at that moment she seemed like a little girl, and I nearly cried myself, out of pity. I didn't bother talking anymore, there was nothing I could say that would help her. I just sat with her, hoping that my presence would somehow comfort her. Eventually her ragged breathing slowed, and she seemed somewhat calmer. She wiped her face roughly, as if ashamed of her tears. She turned to me, eyes red and glistening, mouth quivering as she tried to smile.10

"I'm sorry. I...I just needed to talk..." She rubbed her face again, and fought back more tears. "I just...I wanna go home, and I want my momma, I guess you reminded me of her, you looked nice..." She trailed off, squinting at me, then jumped to her feet. As I stood up, she backed off, shaking her head. "You're not old enough to be my momma!" sounding somewhat betrayed, as if I had played a nasty trick on her. "How old are you?" she demanded. I replied that I was almost twenty, my birthday was in two months. 11

"Oh my god! I'm sorry..." Blushing, she turned and walked away, nearly running. Obviously embarrassed and wanting to put as much distance between us as possible, she didn't even look back. I stood for a moment, confused, then began laughing. My shoulder was wet with tears and snot and I reeked of booze, but I couldn't stop giggling as I headed home to shower and change.12