12.

On the day she is to pick up her belongings she rents a van, the smallest one she can get, and still backs into another car in the drugstore parking lot. A stranger has to talk her off the other car’s bumper, which he does, sensibly and without fuss.

She drives to the café near her and M’s house. Calls the police who must accompany her given her apparently terrible ways. The police are busy. She waits and calls back, waits and calls back. Finally the police call her. M has refused, they say. She will have to come another day. But the van, the empty apartment. Her son. In vain she argues.

She has to call her son’s father. It’s the second time they’ve spoken in years, after the night with the police at the other café. He arrives in an hour. Foam mattress, bucket, soap, cups & dishes. Sheets & towels. Drives her to the store for a clock and dishpan. Returns the van for her, drives them both back downtown. Large & silent in the driver’s seat. Her son asks nothing. Why are we moving. Why don’t we have our things. What will happen to us.