The moving truck came with a driver but not a “mover.” Legally, Will, the wiry guy behind the wheel, wasn’t allowed to lift anything onto the truck or into the storage unit because then he could be responsible for breaking it or throwing out his back. Drivers were insured for car accidents, he’d explained, but not compensated for injuries sustained helping out single moms. He hoped she understood.
As Tonya rode in the front passenger seat with Layla squeezed beside her, she realized that every part of her understood. Her neck. Her back. Her thighs. She’d dragged both her and Layla’s mattresses into the truck, as well as suitcases and paper grocery bags overflowing with all the clothing and linens that they owned. One of her neighbors had offered to help with the couch, but she’d decided that the five-year-old piece of furniture wasn’t worth saving. The large storage facility was double the price of the medium. She couldn’t afford to house her sofa if she wasn’t sitting on it.
Layla’s head rested on her shoulder. She’d gone from screaming about the forced move to silent acceptance. Tonya brushed her daughter’s copper bangs from her fair forehead and kissed the center. Layla’s mask was covering her cheek.
“Where are we going to go?” Layla whispered.
Tonya turned her face to the open window, pretending not to have heard over the blasts of cold air. She’d been struggling with that question since they’d started driving. Her parents would take them in, Tonya knew. But fleeing to rural Pennsylvania meant disrupting Layla’s schooling. Her folks were probably some of the last people in America not to have high-speed internet. They owned cell phones with patchy signals and tended to call her when they were “in town” on an errand.
City hotel rooms were relatively cheap at the moment, Tonya knew. But that was for good reason. Sharing common areas and ventilation systems was dangerous nowadays, and the places that Tonya could possibly swing had given half their rooms to the homeless. She didn’t want to expose Layla to folks who’d been on the streets and may be suffering drug problems or mental health issues.
Moreover, she couldn’t afford a hotel room for very long. Even if Kelner expedited setting up another account on Layla’s behalf, Tonya doubted the money would materialize before the end of the month. In the meantime, she had a little less than a thousand dollars in her checking account, two hundred of which would be going to the storage facility for a one-month rental and administrative fee. She would run through her cash far before the school year’s end.
Tonya rotated her phone in her palm. Who did she know who might help? She had no one to crash with. Despite all her years in New York City, Tonya had never found a tribe that could relate to her working all day as a waitress and then happily rushing home to be with a kid. Women her age were all chasing their dreams, free of such “bummer” responsibilities. Her fellow school moms had always been significantly older, richer, and not exactly enamored with the idea of commiserating with a single young woman. At some point, Tonya had stopped trying to find female friends. Layla had been friend enough.
And Mike. Tonya called up his number on the screen, debating whether or not to have a conversation with him in front of her daughter. Layla knew her mom had a special friend who she saw sometimes. Not a boyfriend, exactly. Tonya didn’t have time for dinner dates, movie nights, or dreaded conversations about where things were going. But she had needs, and every now and again Mike fulfilled them, taking her back to the small apartment that he shared with two other NYU grads juggling day jobs and auditions.
Mike’s place was too small and crowded to put up a woman and a child, Tonya decided. More than that, the favor was far beyond the bounds of their friends-with-benefits relationship. Even if he was valiantly willing to surrender his room and bunk with one of his buddies, the ask would change their relationship forever. She wasn’t ready for that, and she doubted that he was either.
“Mom, where are we going to go?” Layla asked again.
Tonya kissed the top of her head. “I’m figuring it out.”
* * *
By the time Tonya fit the last of their furniture into the walk-in-closet-sized storage unit, she still had not determined where she’d take her daughter. She sorted through her clothing for the warm items she’d need during the next few weeks, avoiding looking at her kid lest she again hear the question burning in her blue eyes. It wasn’t easy. Each task she gave Layla to do was done staring at her, silently demanding an answer.
“Mom,” Layla said.
“I’ll check the truck for any loose items,” Tonya said, putting a pile of clothes in an emptied duffel bag. “Put what you’ll need for the next few weeks in here, okay?”
Tonya hurried out of the storage room before Layla could respond. She raced to the back of the truck, heart pounding and her breath short. When she finally got inside the metal walls, she let it out, all the fear and shame and fury that had been building up inside her, not just since Ms. Bosco had kicked her out, but since this whole pandemic had started, maybe from long before. Homelessness was not supposed to happen to hardworking people. Her acting career might not have taken off, but she’d held on to a job with the same company for more than a decade. She’d worked her way up to head waitress, in charge of the whole dining room of a celebrated French fusion restaurant in Manhattan. How could she not have anywhere to go?
Tonya kicked the truck’s metal interior and screamed. The cry belonged to a harpy, high and visceral. She slammed her hands over her mouth, realizing that Layla might hear, and continued yelling into her palms. Afterward, she dropped to her knees and took out her phone. She’d given her life to Layla, the restaurant, and her secrets. The truth was, they were all she really had left.
Philip answered on the second ring, uttering “Hello?” with the wary tone of someone concerned that they might have inadvertently answered a telemarketer.
“Hi, Chef.” Tonya cleared her throat. “I mean Philip. Mr. Banks.”
She pulled the phone away from her mouth, giving herself a moment to exhale and correct her stumbling introduction. “It’s Tonya Sayre.”
“Hello, Tonya…” Movement added clattering sounds to the end of her name. Philip was taking the phone somewhere. “How are you?”
He already knew the answer, Tonya thought. How often did an employee call their boss hours after being furloughed with news of getting another gig or winning the lottery? “Um, I’m calling because you said this morning that you would see what you could do about keeping me on in some capacity, and I really need the work. I could clean the kitchen, perhaps, or deliver food. I was thinking I could use Citi Bikes or, maybe, get a bicycle off of Craigslist with those baskets.”
Philip sighed. “I’d really like to keep you on but—”
“I’m good at cleaning,” she interrupted. “You should see my house. It’s always neat and…” Her voice started to break. “The truth is, Philip, Layla’s child support usually covered my rent. But since it hasn’t been paid in a few months, the landlord kicked me out. All my stuff was out on the street when I returned today. I need to have a job to rent anywhere else. Landlords will want to see employment. Not to mention first and last month’s rent. And…”
The reality of her words overwhelmed her. Who was she kidding? Tonya thought. She wouldn’t be able to scrape together first and last month’s rent anywhere, even with Philip keeping her employed. Her call was pointless. She’d have to return to Stoney Hill, Pennsylvania, the failed actress limping back to the farm with her tail tucked between her legs. Layla would have to say good-bye to school and her friends, squeezing her gifted little mind into whatever box the public school could provide. She’d have to get used to standardized tests and learning things not because they interested her, but because that’s just what people learned at that point in public school.
Layla wouldn’t have it easy in Stoney Hill Middle School, Tonya thought. She’d tried to show her daughter how the other half lived and learned so that Layla would have something to aspire to, so that she’d feel comfortable dreaming big and working to achieve whatever her mind could imagine. But all she’d really done was show Layla what she couldn’t have.
Philip waited for a break in her sobs before saying anything. “Tonya, we have a guest suite on our top floor that isn’t in use. Why don’t you come see it?”
Tonya stopped crying, not out of gratitude but out of fear. Was Philip taking her up on her earlier, desperate flirtation? She’d meant to suggest that they could work something out, but she hadn’t really intended to follow through with it, she told herself. In her experience, the suggestion that sex might be in the offering was often enough to make men do what she wanted.
“Is your wife home?” she asked.
Silence answered her question. Tonya felt her eyes refill with tears. How desperate was she? Would she really? Was that all she had to offer?
A grumble sounded on the other end of the line. “You should meet her,” Philip said. “Maybe we can work something out.”