Give Me Reason (The Reason Series) (4 page)

I head into the kitchen but stop before I get to the fridge, shaking my head. I’m choosing to skip the morning hot dog. Despite having just emptied my stomach, I don't feel hungry. I settle for a glass of water.
 

I grab the pen and paper and sit on my bed. Pulling the journal out to use as a hard surface on which to write, I start composing my note to Mr. Suit.
 

Mikah,
 

Or should I call you Mr. Blake?
 

While I truly appreciate your gesture yesterday, I cannot accept your outrageous tip. Please accept your change from your meal at the diner last night — you know, the one you didn't eat, and the one you forced on me.
 

I've always found ways to survive just the way that I am. I don't need your money to make it through.
 

Thank you,
 

Vivienne
 

A little while later, I leave my apartment. I'm dressed as nicely as I can manage in the skirt and blouse I wore to my interview with Bartie and the Mary Jane shoes that were given to me during my stay in the shelter. The outfit is hidden beneath my worn, oversized hoodie. It's colder today than it has been.

My hair is down. I'm hoping that it will make me harder to recognize when I arrive at Mr. Suit’s office. I really have no desire to see him again.
 

But before I can go there, I need to make a stop along the way. I cross the street to wait at the eastbound bus stop. It’s still early – about seven thirty – and the street is mostly quiet. The daily commuters are mostly already at work, and the neighborhood crowd hasn't emerged from their houses. There are a few passing cars, but the neighborhood just looks rundown and abandoned compared to other parts of the city.
 

I’m used to living like this, though. It’s the kind of life I've always known. I grew up the only child of a single mom who worked three and four jobs. But she did it more to support her drug habits than to support me. It’s amazing that I managed to stay away from drugs.
 

The bus arrives and I climb up, put my money in the machine and grab a seat about halfway back. First stop, the diner. It's Friday — payday. Then I can run across the street to cash my meager check and head off to my next destination.
 

After cashing my check, I get back on the bus and head further east to my next destination: Moore's Family Home. I don’t usually go to see my mother on Fridays, but I figure that since I’m running downtown today it makes sense to go, and I can just stay in my neighborhood tomorrow.
 

When I walk in, the lady at the counter greets me by name. Then she tells me, "She's in the game room."
 

"How is she today?" I ask.
 

"She seems to be having a good day today. Enjoy your time." This is the typical response when I ask about my mother. I nod, and the buzzer sounds.
 

I walk quickly through the drab, white-on-white, hospital-style hallway until I reach the game room. When I turn the corner, I see her sitting in a wheelchair facing the window. Her nightgown is light blue, very old and thin at the shoulders. Her gray hair is about shoulder length. She looks years older than the forty-eight that she is. Years of drugs and alcohol have completely destroyed her body. And her mind. Until she moved in here about five years ago, she had never sobered up. Now they have her on all manner of medication for paranoia, bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. Most of the time she's pretty out of it.
 

"Hi, Momma," I say as I sit in the chair next to her.
 

She doesn't respond, just keeps staring out the window. This is typically how our visits go. It’s better than a bad day; it’s not pretty when she’s jumpy or freaking out. She can get very violent.
 

Knowing that I’m taking the money back to Mikah today has me on edge. To top it off, a lot of things from my past that I've worked very hard at suppressing keep floating through my brain. Like the way we moved around from city to city, state to state. 

It seemed like every time my mother got a wild hair up her ass we were off. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Which of course was never a problem: She never let me keep toys, and I only had enough clothes to fill up half of a garbage bag. A few pairs of pants, a couple of t-shirts and a pair of sneakers were usually about it. Even to this day my list of material possessions is so small that I can probably pack everything inside of one box and a trash bag.

Hell, I moved into my apartment with about three days’ worth of clothes, two pairs of shoes, my journal — compliments of the psychotherapist at Amber’s Place — and my bag. Or purse. Or whatever you want to call it. Since then I’ve also acquired a small pitcher and a cooking pot. Not that they get much use; I’ve got nothing to cook.
 

My tummy rumbles. Maybe I should have had that hot dog before I left. 

Momma still isn't saying anything, just staring out the window. Lord knows what she’s looking at. Or if she’s even looking at anything. Sometimes I think she’s just lost inside of her own mind, trying in vain to pull herself out. But then again, that’s probably just me hoping. Hoping she will come around. It’s wishful thinking, I know, but it is one of the few things that keeps me coming back here time after time. 

It’s been about five years now that she had her stroke. We had just gotten into Minneapolis from somewhere in Chicago. We didn't stay there long, so I don't remember too much about it. Before Chicago we had been in Ohio, Michigan, New York, Maryland, Georgia - which is where we spent the majority of my younger years – Florida, Alabama and Texas. She told me that we had been in Arizona, California and Nevada when I was really young, but I don't remember it. I don't remember everything about Georgia either, but that is where some of the few brighter highlights of my life happened. 

I never went to the same school for a whole year, but I was always enrolled. She found me easier to deal with when I was gone in school for eight hours a day. It meant she was free to do whatever she wanted without me around to bother her.
 

I was able to graduate from a vocational school shortly after coming to Minneapolis. I managed to test out of all the required classes and then some. I actually scored a seventeen hundred on my SATs — which I was told was beyond awesome — and that I could pretty much attend any school I wanted to. I even had a couple of colleges come after me, but the catch was, I was broke and couldn't afford their tuition. Besides, school wasn’t anywhere I needed to be. 

It wasn't long after that SAT test that my mom suffered a severe stroke that left the right side of her body useless and put her in the mental state that she is in right now. The stroke was a blessing in disguise. It forced her to detox and sober up, but the flip side is that she can’t do much on her own and she’s forced to live in this home. But when you break it down, it’s better this way. 

Better for me, or better for her? That is the question I always find myself trying to answer. The selfish side of me wants to say it's better for me that she’s here. Hell, even the non-selfish side of me says it is better for me. Having her here means she’s sober and not on the streets. Despite all the times I’ve been asked why I don’t just walk away, I still come here, thinking that maybe my presence brings her some sense of joy. Maybe one day I will find the strength to move on. But today is not that day.
 

I say my goodbyes, kiss her on the cheek and leave the facility. I need to get downtown and then be back at the diner by four.
 

The bus drops me off right across the street from Capella Tower. It's a beautiful building, sleek and modern with glass walls and a rounded rooftop. I cross at the crosswalk and head into the building. The entrance is huge, with stone floors and glass-domed ceiling. There is a large directory toward the back, and I head over to it.

I've seen this building a hundred thousand times in the Minneapolis skyline, but this is the first time I’ve been inside. The elaborate decor makes me feel even poorer than usual, even more out of place.
 

I finally find MSB Enterprises. It’s on floors forty-two through fifty-two. There’s an asterisk next to level fifty and a note:
All Visitors Please Report To Level 50
. Well, level fifty it is.
 

When I get to the bank of elevators, I see signs over several of them indicating which floors they go to. I push the up arrow next to the elevator labeled
42-52
.
 

Jeez, they even have their own elevator?
 

I shift nervously from foot to foot while I wait for the elevator to arrive, again conscious of being completely out of my element. When it comes, I can hear voices — male voices — on the inside.
 

"Oh, no," I breathe, and I slink away toward the back of the hallway, hoping the men will just exit and turn toward the entrance, away from me.
 

The doors open and six men file out. Five of them head toward the entryway. The sixth gentleman quickly slides past me toward the door at the end of the hallway. Thankfully, I don’t recognize any of them as Mr. Suit.
 

I duck into the elevator and look at the control panel. Above the buttons there’s a little sign that reads,
Entry to floors 42-49 prohibited without a key card. Floors 51-52 only accessible from floor 50.
Well, I guess I have no choice but to go to the fiftieth floor. I push the button and lean into the wall, wrapping my arms around my ribcage. After a few moments the elevator starts to chime as we pass every third floor past the twentieth. I watch the numbers rise by threes, wrapping my arms tighter around my chest, nerves taking over.
 

I regret coming here. I hadn’t thought this far ahead, and I don’t have a clue how to go about leaving this for him. Maybe there will be a receptionist I can leave the note with.
 

I suddenly have the urge to see him again, something I hadn’t expected. The image of Mikah looking down at me when I woke up from fainting yesterday pops back into my mind, and the urge to see him grows stronger. I look up to see what floor we’re on. Forty-one. Almost there.

Ugh. It’s stupid of me to want to see him again. He’s everything I’m not, and I have no business thinking about him that way.

"When was the last time you ate?" a male voice says from behind me.

SIX

I jump, stop breathing and then try to sink further into the wall.
 

Without turning to look at him I mumble, "Uh, last night, with you."
 

Suddenly an arm reaches out for the panel in front of me. He presses stop and then presses the button with a phone on it.
 

A disembodied voice comes on the line. "Yes, sir?"

"Redirect us to the skyway level, please."
 

I huff.
 

"Yes, sir."

There are a couple of clicks, and the elevator starts to descend again. I'm still not looking at him.
 

"Why? What is so damn important about feeding me?" I try to growl and sound irritated, but the mention of food has made me hungry. Then again, I'm almost always hungry. But there’s no way I’m accepting more charity from him. In fact, this is the perfect opportunity to give him his money back. Then I can leave via the skyway system and grab a bus back toward my apartment. It’ll give me time to eat a hot dog, since it's still hours before I have to be at work.
 

"It's important to me because eating is healthy, and I don't like the way you look."
 

"Gah!" I exclaim. "Are you kidding me? What difference does it make to you what I look like? You’re some random customer who’s come into my diner for the last couple of nights. So what if I'm a little thin. That's my business and none of yours."
 

I look up, trying to see how long until we reach skyway level. I’m eager to get out of this conversation. We are still only in the upper twenties, and the skyway is on level two or three. Damn it.
 

I hear him sigh in frustration. "Because people, especially you, should not go without food."

Me?
"What is so damn special about me?” I ask aloud. “For all you know I'm some random drug addict—"

"I know that's not the case," he says, cutting me off.
 

I finally look at him. His hair is slicked back in the same way it’s been the other times I’ve seen him. His eyes are blue and warm, and there is a half smile playing at his lips. He’s looking down at me, making me feel small at five feet, two inches. He has to be at least six feet tall. Broad shoulders. His suit today is gunmetal gray with blue or black pinstripes — I can’t tell which. His shirt is a beautiful lavender color with a darker purple tie.
 

"How do you know I'm not an addict?" I ask softly.
 

He smiles at me, warm, genuine. "Because you've come to return the tip money I left you last night."
 

My jaw falls open. "How" — I swallow hard — "did you know?"

His smile fades a little. "Why else would you come down here?"

I close my mouth and look down at the floor. He says it almost as if my being here is unwelcome, but he has a point and his ability to read me is really scary.
 

"Since you haven't eaten since last night, I'm going to take you to lunch."

I feel my face flush bright red, both in anger and complete irritation. "That is not why I'm here. I've survived my entire life fending for myself, I don't need some rich, hot-shot businessman buying me food."
 

I reach into the pocket of my bag and pull the folded-up paper from it. I thrust it toward him. He refuses to take it. Tears of frustration trickle down my cheeks. "Damn it, Mikah, take it." I push it at him again, and again he refuses. "I'm not a damn charity case. I don't need your money or your food."