Just One More Layer

I woke up that morning with a feeling that my life was about to take a turn. Whether for better or worse, I didn't know but I kept my fingers crossed as I met my good friend Aria who volunteered every weekend at St. Martin's Orphanage for coffee.

“You wouldn't believe what I heard Sam, the caretaker say the other day,” she said in the middle of our conversation about Thanksgiving plans as though the thought had just popped into her head.

“Yea? Tell me,” I said, taking a sip of my latte and trying not to be offended.

“He said the hardest day for those kids is their eighteenth birthday.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's when they send them out into the world. They hand them a bag and a handshake and it's goodbye!”

“You didn't know this before?” I asked, mildly surprised.

“I should know but never paid attention. I'm terrible, aren't I?”

“Yes, you are,” I replied without missing a beat and we both burst out laughing but the conversation didn't end there for me.

As I drove home that evening, I thought of the five-bed bungalow my father bought for me as a birthday gift a year ago. I'd never lived in it but preferred to keep my condo across the city. Then a thought hit me like a brick to the head. I got home, called Aria and we spoke for an hour.

By the end of the week, the news was posted on the orphanage’s notice board: any young person leaving the orphanage without support was welcome to stay at my house for six months and no more. That was long enough for them to get a job and be on their feet. I added a condition: everyone must attend Sunday dinner, no exception.

Then I moved out of my condo into my five-bed house.

A few days later, the first guests of two young girls and a boy settled in. A week later came Phoebe, eighteen, with one bag and a face like a closed door. I could barely get a word out of her but I was excited to have them staying with me.

For two weeks, Phoebe did not speak to me or anyone else. She slipped past others in the hallway, ate her meals alone in her room and each Sunday, her chair stayed empty. I was disturbed and questioned whether I had made the right decision.

I set a plate for her anyway and told the others, “Her seat is here whenever she wants it.”

On the third Sunday, as the pot of savoury fried rice went round, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Phoebe stood in the doorway, looking nervous. I smiled and nobody made a fuss. Someone passed her a plate and she sat down and ate her food in silence.

Later that night as I was washing dishes, a small, hesitant voice came from behind me. “Ma'am? I have an interview tomorrow. I don't know what to say. Can you…will you help me?” Phoebe asked.

I dried my hands slowly, careful not to look too pleased. “Sure, Phoebe. Get a pen and jotter and sit. We'll start with your strengths.”

We sat at the kitchen table for two hours. I asked her questions like an interviewer would and her answers were short and guarded, the way she'd answered everything since she came to live with us.

“Why should we hire you?”

“I, uh, I work hard,” she said.

“Good. Now tell me more. What does that look like?”

Phoebe hesitated, her eyes searching mine for some reassurance. Then she offered a little more information about her work strength.

I nodded. “Better. Now, go deeper, Phoebe. Just one more layer.”

Layer by layer, her voice and answers grew strong and confident. She talked about the years she'd spent helping the younger children with homework, about how she had learned to be reliable because no one else was going to be. Somewhere in the second hour, she laughed for the first time over how I pretended to be a stern, bad-tempered interviewer.

By midnight, we were both tired and for the first time, the house felt lived in.

The next day, Phoebe came home and stood in the doorway, a wide smile on her face, holding her phone like it might break. “They said yes,” she whispered. “I start Monday.”

I hugged her before either of us could think about it and she, after a stiff second, hugged me back. I felt fulfilled that day.

As the months went by, Phoebe and I became very close. By the time six months were nearly up, she was no longer a guest in the house and I didn't want her to leave. She was family.

In her last week, she arrived with two girls from the orphanage, each clutching a bag and wearing a version of the closed look Phoebe herself once wore.

“They are turning eighteen next month,” she said. “I told them about the house….and you. Is that okay?”

I looked at the three of them and my eyes grew wet. “Of course, it is.”

Phoebe moved into her own small apartment across town but every Sunday evening, without fail, she was back at the dinner table, passing the rice, teasing the newcomers and saving a seat for whoever hadn't yet come downstairs.

Sometimes, when a new girl or boy stayed quiet through the meal, Phoebe would catch their eye and smile. “Give it time,” she'd whisper to them. “Just one more layer.”

I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "just one more layer” together with a similar story someone told me.

Thank you for visiting my blog.

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