in a coffin.
Melanie gave up trying to stack the children’s books on the side table in one of the shelter’s two common rooms. They just kept sliding and falling on the floor.
When did it stop? Melanie silently demanded. When did it stop hurting like this? When did the pain fade into the background instead of being the first thing she was aware of every morning and the last thing that she was aware of every night? When did it stop chewing bits and pieces out of her every day?
Four days, she thought now. Four days, that was how long Jeremy had had left. Four days and he would have been out of harm’s way once and for all. His tour of duty would have been over.
Four days and he would have been back in her arms, back in her life, taking vows and marrying her. But it might as well have been four hundred years. It hadn’t happened.
Wasn’t going to happen.
Because Jeremy was now in a cold grave instead of her warm bed.
“Are you okay, Miss Melody?” the small, high-pitched voice asked.
Trying to collect herself as best she could, Melanie turned around to look down into the face of the little girl who had asked the question. The small, concerned face and older-than-her-years green eyes belonged to April O’Neill, a beautiful, bright five-year-old who, along with her seven-year-old brother, Jimmy, and her mother, Brenda, had been here at the shelter for a little over a month. Prior to that, they had been living on the streets in a nearby city for longer than their mother had been willing to admit.
Initially, when April had first made the mistake and called her Melody, Melanie had made an attempt to correct her. But after three more attempts, all without success, she’d given up.
She’d grown to like the name April called her and had more than a little affection for the small family who had been through so much through no real fault of their own. It was an all too familiar story. A widow, Brenda had lost her job and, after failing to pay the rent for two months, she and her children had been evicted.
With no husband in the picture and no family anywhere to speak of, the street became their home until a police officer took pity on them, loaded them into the back of his squad car and drove them over to the shelter.
Melanie told herself to focus on their problems and the problems of the other homeless women and single mothers who were under the shelter’s roof. Their situations were fixable, hers was not.
Melanie forced herself to smile at April. “I’m fine, honey.”
April appeared unconvinced. Her small face puckered up, as if she was trying to reconcile two different thoughts. “But your eye is leaking, like Mama’s does sometimes when she’s thinking sad thoughts, or about Daddy.”
“Dust,” Melanie told her, saying the first thing that occurred to her. “There’s dust in the air and I’ve got allergies. It makes my eyes...leak sometimes,” she said, using April’s word for it and hoping that would be enough for the little girl.
April was sharper than she’d been at her age, Melanie discovered.
“Oh. You can take a pill,” the little girl advised her. “The lady on TV says you can take a pill to make your all-er-gee go away,” she concluded solemnly, carefully pronouncing the all-important word.
April made her smile despite the heaviness she felt on her chest. Melanie slipped her arm around the very small shoulders, giving the little girl a quick hug.
“I’ll have to try that,” she promised. “Now, why did you come looking for me?” she asked, diverting the conversation away from her and back to April.
April’s expression became even more solemn as she stated the reason for her search. “Mama says that Jimmy’s sick again.”
Melanie did a quick calculation in her head. That made three times in the past six weeks. There was no doubt about it. Jimmy O’Neill was a sickly boy. His time on the street had done nothing to improve that.
“Same thing?” she asked April.
The blond head bobbed up and down with alacrity. “He’s coughing and sneezing and Mama says he shouldn’t be around other kids or they’ll get sick, too.”
“Smart lady,” Melanie agreed.
As she started to walk to the communal quarters that the women and their children all shared, April slipped her hand through hers. The small fingers tightened around hers as if she was silently taking on the role of guide despite the fact that she and her family had only been at the shelter a short time.
“I think Jimmy needs a doctor,” April confided, her eyes meeting Melanie’s.
“Even smarter lady,” Melanie commented under her breath.
The comment might have been quiet, but April had heard her and went on talking as if they were two equals, having a conversation. “But we don’t have any money and Jimmy feels too sick to go to the hospital place. Besides, Mama doesn’t like asking for free stuff,” April confided solemnly.
Melanie nodded. “Your mama’s got pride,” she told the little girl. “But sometimes, people have to forget about their pride if it means trying to help someone they love.”
April eyed her knowingly. “You mean like Jimmy?”
“Exactly like Jimmy.”
Turning a corner, she pushed open the oversize door that led into one of the three large communal rooms that accommodated as many families as could be fit into it without violating any of the fire department’s safety regulations. Polly, the woman who ran the shelter, referred to the rooms as dorms, attempting to create a more positive image for the women who found themselves staying here.
The room that April had brought her to was largely empty except for the very worried-looking, small, dark-haired woman sitting on the bed all the way over in the corner. The object of her concern was the rather fragile-looking red-haired little boy sitting up and leaning against her.
The boy was coughing. It was the kind of cough that fed on itself, growing a little worse with each pass and giving no sign of letting up unless some kind of action was taken. Sometimes, it took something as minor as a drink of water to alleviate the cough, other times, prescription cough medicine was called for.
Melanie gave the simplest remedy a try first.
Looking down at the little girl who was still holding her hand, she said, “April, why don’t you go to the kitchen and ask Miss Theresa to give you a glass of water for your brother?”
April, eager to help, uncoupled herself from Melanie’s hand and immediately ran off to the kitchen.
As April took off, Melanie turned her attention to Jimmy’s mother. “He really should see a doctor,” she gently suggested.
Worn and tired way beyond her years, Brenda O’Neill raised her head proudly and replied, “We’ll manage, thank you. It’s not the first time he’s had this cough and it won’t be the last,” she said with assurance. “It comes and goes. Some children are like that.”
“True,” Melanie agreed. She wasn’t here to argue, just to
