With The Times

At five years old, I didn’t connect much with reality. My only job was to learn the alphabet, go to preschool, and not spill chocolate milk in the backseat of my mom’s 2008 minivan. One day, a peculiar woman with a dusty clipboard that smelled like ashes came to my house clicking her pen obnoxiously. All of a sudden, my life dramatically shifted. After that day, my parents began overusing the phrase “Haley, go wait in your room – this is a grown-ups conversation.” Subsequently, I was stuck in my room with the avid perception of being afraid. My little brother, about three years old then, would be scared too. He didn’t enjoy being alone while these “grown-ups conversations” would occur. So, he’d sneak into my room with handfuls of legos and puzzles, oblivious that our lives were going to change forever. Then, I’d make a couple of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches when our stomachs began to growl louder than the traffic outside. 

Next, I’d quietly clean up the counter and tip-toe back to my room with a plate I held onto for dear life. He’d say “thank you” quietly as we both ate our sandwiches and built what looked like a small tower out of legos (even though we knew it was supposed to be something cool like the Batmobile). Eventually, this cycle continued and I’d prepare daily for those 4:00 “grown-up conversations” – kind of like a hoarder or an agoraphobiac. I’d make the sandwiches and place them like I was preparing for a fancy guest, smiling while anxiously waiting for the doorbell to ring.

As small children, my brother and I got distracted almost instantaneously. Even though we had no real intentions of clearly understanding her motive, her face creeped us out—sort of like a gut feeling. Yet, those sandwiches always seemed to cheer us up. Whenever I ate them, my brain displayed glimpses of my family and I eating dinner, just laughing and watching each other’s smiles grow wider. I thought about how, even though they didn’t make boat-loads of money, it didn’t matter. As long as I could eat these sandwiches with my family and smile, that was all I needed.

After a while, the woman brought her friends over. She brought strange men in black blazers and pristine white-collar shirts. I don’t remember much, just screaming and crying—not wanting to let go. Suddenly, my brother and I were in the unknown woman’s car. She had televisions and cupholders in the back seat and I remember her looking back, smiling, and saying “everything’s gonna be okay.” I didn’t listen to her, and my face was covered with dry tears, so I didn’t care much for her reassurance. My brother sat in the seat adjacent to mine, crying his eyes out and making it well-known that he was upset. At this moment, my mind wandered to the look on my mom’s face before I was ripped from her arms; she had sort of seen it coming, yet, her face held an expression of complete bewilderment.

After thinking about her and my dad, their faces, and watching their agony, I began to think about the memories I’d made at this house. I remembered when we didn’t have food, so I improvised and made the only thing I knew: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I thought about my and my brother’s so-called “tea parties” that went uninterrupted for three months straight. It seemed like such a simpler time: when I didn’t worry about anything because my happiness resided in my family’s company. I didn’t want to leave, and if I had the choice, I’d be kicking and screaming right now—clawing my way back to my room and locking the door. We began this dreadful road trip unexpectedly, going from house to house in hopes that somebody would take care of us. 

The first house belonged to this estranged black couple. I say estranged because this was no ordinary house—their furniture had clouds of dust, and their bureaus of plates were excessively cleaned down to the doorknob. The plastic tablecloth pulled at the sides, making a sticky noise every time you picked up or put anything down. When we arrived, they sat me and my brother down, then fed us a warm bowl of Reese’s Puffs. As we stared at the bowls, they glared down at us with their arms crossed and creepy wide smiles across their faces. The cereal tasted like cardboard, and it felt like I was eating balls of sand. The warm—probably spoiled—milk intensified the disgusting aftertaste, like eating something sour. A frown suddenly peaked at the corners of my mouth, and I looked up at the strangers with great disdain. Then, before we knew it, we were back on the road.

The next house was a bit dull, and I bet a pin drop could have filled the eerie silence. It was a little boy, who seemed around thirteen years old, and his father, who I can’t seem to ever remember smiling. The boy held a firm wide-eyed stare and sternly whispered “don’t go in the fridge unless my dad or I am there with you.” My brother just sat there, playing with his toys and ignoring the large terrifying man sitting in his dark grey armchair. The boy’s dad proceeded to rise out of the dark shadow from the corner, placing two Coronas on the table, saying that in his house we either ate what he gave us or nothing at all. Before I could blink, we were back on the road again.

We proceeded to interrupt the lives of around five other families before we met our dream house. On the way there, we drove past this patch of grass and a turquoise sign saying “Welcome to Bridgewater” right in the middle. Instantly, something felt different: I was hopeful. The house had a nice backyard, a blindingly sparkling Christmas tree (you could see them through the oversized front windows), and the warm smell of fresh-baked cookies. When we got there, a woman with dark, textured hair smiled from one ear to the other. Her cerulean eye shadow creased in the corners as she placed two peanut butter & jelly sandwiches gently on the table. “This is all I have for now,” she said.

She then placed a big bowl of cookies on the table and told us to wait, as they had just come out of the oven. We waited patiently as she suggested and she brought out her two sons. We introduced ourselves, and these boys had the same glow she did. Their smiles stretched across their faces, similar to how she smiled when she implied the words “Welcome to your new home.” We ate our sandwiches and smiled—it felt like they were excited to have us, and that was a first compared to the other places we had been to. I wasn’t sure if it was an instinct or those so-called “gut feelings,” but I knew this woman represented our new home.