The bridge abutment offered little protection against the howling wind and driving rain. Cold, wet, and shivering, this little space was all she had that evening. Huddled between the huge concrete girders that formed the structure for the roadbed above her, she wished she’d dug a little deeper in the dumpster for something warmer to wear. Her big toe protruding through the hole in her oversized PF Flyers wasn’t helping matters. Everything she owned was piled high in a grocery cart, waiting patiently for her at the bottom of the embankment. Whimpering, she knew she’d finally hit rock bottom.
Elizabeth Stanhope Lawson, her former married name, was known on the streets by other vagrants simply as Lizzy. She longed for a hot meal—heck, even a hot cup of coffee—to chase away the mental cobwebs. She found a nearly empty, abandoned cup of coffee on the brick windowsill of the nearby convenience store, but it didn’t provide enough caffeine to counteract the effects of a horrible night’s sleep. She was nothing but skin and bones. Ever since her ex-husband had changed the locks on their stately home just five month ago, heartlessly sending her away to start a new life, Elizabeth had lost twenty pounds she didn’t have in the first place. She loathed the embarrassment of being found by the family in which she’d grown up, choosing instead the anonymity of the miniscule abutment space. Oh, how far she’d fallen. At age twenty-nine, she was convinced her life was over.
If she was being fair with herself—a commodity that seemed to slip further away the longer she lived on the streets—Elizabeth had to admit all of this was of her own making.
If only I hadn’t been so obsessed with social media on my phone, I’d have never rear-ended that semitrailer and ended up in the hospital with a fractured vertebrae in my neck. Yeah, it wasn’t really my fault that I got distracted and ran my brand-new Porsche into that stupid truck. Besides, he decided at the last second to brake for that yellow light. If he had only followed the rules of the road and run on through the intersection, none of this would ever have happened.
Justifying her actions, she felt better about herself again. It had been someone else’s fault. No way could she have had anything to do with it. But what about the oxycodone? Whose fault was that? Once again, the looping tape of how those events finally led her to the streets began to haunt her.
With her neck in a brace for six weeks, the hospital had sent her home with a thirty-day supply of oxycodone for the pain. She’d been warned the drug was habit-forming. Reasoning that she’d back off the dosage by cutting the pills in half, she asked for a refill. The doctor obliged with the caveat that there would be no more refills after this one. Pain had formed a stronghold in her life. Elizabeth became frantic, needing more of the drug so she’d feel normal again.
The law firm’s annual fall soiree, to be held at the Taylor’s French château, had Trevor Lawson pressuring his gorgeous bride, Elizabeth, to once again play the role of trophy wife. But Elizabeth wasn’t up for it; her pain was debilitating. She had told him it was too soon after her injury to be on her feet and socializing for hours. Besides, she didn’t have anything to blunt the pain. They argued bitterly. Unable to control his anger, Trevor slapped his wife—something he’d never done before. Pain from her healing vertebrae radiated down her neck, spine, and arms. An unmanageable setback, especially without medication. Fearing further retribution from Trevor, she slinked into her favorite sequined ball gown, slapped a smile on her face, applied extra makeup to cover any bruising, and wearily headed for the car.
Hostess Hannah Taylor took one look at her as she entered the tangled masses and asked, “Honey, you don’t look good. Are you still in a lot of pain from that car accident?”
“Thanks, Hannah. I’ll be all right,” was all she got in return.
Always meticulously dressed, Elizabeth’s somewhat disheveled appearance had Hannah grabbing her by the elbow, whisking both of them into the waiting elevator for a quick trip to the second floor where Hannah’s luxury walk-in closet greeted them.
“Sweetie, let’s get you straightened up a bit so you can enjoy the rest of the evening. I’m guessing your injury has you unable to reach behind you and fix this pretty bow around your waist. It’s a bit droopy,” Hannah offered before being called away to meet the law firm’s new recruits.
Alone in her misery, Elizabeth knew if she swallowed a few Tylenol, the pain would subside and her miserable shaking would go away. Rummaging through the Hannah Taylor’s medicine cabinet, she found the holy grail—not only Tylenol, but an almost-full bottle of oxycodone. She took two to even herself out and then emptied the rest of the bottle in her purse.
Thus began her downward spiral. She’d intentionally schedule fun things to do with her friends, drive them home, ask to use their bathroom, and rummage through their medicine cabinets. She became adept at locating not only oxycodone but other narcotics to fuel her burgeoning habit.
And just like that, Elizabeth Lawson became a drug addict.
To her husband, Trevor, and all of their friends, things weren’t adding up. Elizabeth got sloppy, careless, inconsistent, and unable to answer even the simplest of allegations without looking away. Trevor, ten years her senior and firmly ensconced in high society, began investigating. And there it was. Elizabeth’s stash was hidden in her vanity under the false drawer bottom she’d had a carpenter add. Smart as he was, though, Trevor saved all the ranting and raving for after he’d gone to his buddy, the judge, and had her vacated from her family’s trust. In the process of seizing all of her assets for himself, he picked up a cute little court reporter who made facing all of his beleaguered friends much more palatable.
Next, Trevor changed all the locks on their home. Unable to locate her parents, who lived in New York City, and who unbeknownst to her had only a week before been killed in a private plane crash, Elizabeth was left with nothing but the streets and a horrible addiction, which took weeks to shake off.
About four months later, rumor on the street had some frumpy, dumpy, unraveled woman with oversized glasses that kept sliding down her nose looking for someone named Elizabeth Stanhope. She’d been passing out cards that identified her as a social worker, which was the last type of person Elizabeth wanted to see. She soon changed locations, not wanting to be found, and locked on to the name Lizzy.
Huddling under a six-foot by eight-foot polyethylene tie-down tarp that had been blown off a speeding truck, Lizzy was minding her own business while fading in and out of the blissful consciousness caused by lack of sleep when a small voice asked, “Elizabeth? Elizabeth Stanhope? Lizzy?”
Trying to sound as gruff as possible, Lizzy growled, “Who wants to know?”
“I’m, Uhm . . . I’m Norma Tennison, a social worker with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. Can we talk for just a minute?”
Lizzy was filthy. The last time she’d bathed was two weeks prior in the fountain at the public library. She barely resembled her former one-time model status with her unkempt, stringy, lice-filled hair, her tattered and smelly clothes, her dirty hands and face, and her long thin frame. “Go away,” she answered gruffly. “I don’t want to be found.”
“Elizabeth, your Uncle Edgar Stanhope is looking for you. He has been searching everywhere. Something about your family’s estate.”
Hmm. Uncle Edgar, my father’s brother? Uber rich Uncle Edgar? Maybe he could help me? Horribly embarrassed by her plight, Lizzy said, “Tell him I’m dead. I don’t ever want to be found.”
~
Thomas Everman noticed the slightest of details. He was paid to pay attention—and he did it very well. At the same time each morning, on his way to Everman & Associates Architecture, Thomas followed the same route in his midnight-blue Infiniti QX55.“Elegant but understated,” he would say, just like his architectural firm. Nattily dressed in the finest of understated sportscoats and slacks, and comfortably ensconced in the saddle-colored top-grain leather interior of his very fine automobile, a pattern was developing, and he didn’t miss it.
Every morning, a tall, rail-thin scuffed-up beauty patiently stood at the corner of First and Audubon, watching over three or five listless vagrants who were busy panhandling the traffic flow for their next meal. Or liquor. Or sometimes even sex. Where her minions swayed back and forth as if high on either drugs, or liquor—or both. The “den mother,” as he came to think of her, always maintained an almost regal bearing. Not condescending, certainly not officious, but more watchful and protective.
I wonder what her story is all about, Thomas thought. How did she end up out here? The curse of his overly creative mind took hold, spinning scenario after scenario while trying to satisfy his morbid curiosity.
Day after day they began to wave at one another, subtle and coyly at first. But as time passed, each began searching for the other until one day Thomas pulled up to the curb offering a cinnamon roll and a five-dollar bill. Empathy oozed from him, but never judgmentally. Thomas knew but for God’s amazing grace, that might have been him. Day after day she gladly accepted the warm roll and the five dollars without a word having been spoken between the two of them.
Winter was making its final assault, obviously annoyed that spring and the fresh renewal it would bring was right around the corner. One particularly stone-cold day, the tall and willowy homeless girl looked into his eyes and croaked, “Thank you. This means a lot.”
Thomas had never expected anything in return for his kindness. Taken aback, he struggled to barely eke out a muffled, “Your welcome,” before she vanished. Well I’ll be, he thought, she’s beginning to finally trust again. Someone or something has horribly scarred her to the point that she’s scared of men. He made a mental note to pay closer attention. No way was he going to violate the fragile trust she’d offered.
A week later, winter still wasn’t finished. The thin sheet of ice draped over everything made Thomas wonder if he could make it out of his driveway, much less to his office. But the main roads, though sloshy, were still passable. He stopped to pick up a warm cinnamon roll, made change so he’d have a five-dollar bill, and added a cup of hot chocolate to his daily ensemble. Would she even be out in this kind of weather?
Like pigeons in the park who patiently wait for people to feed them, there she was on the same corner all by herself, visibly shaking in the freezing temperatures. Cautiously, Thomas curbed his car, rolled down his window, and said, “I didn’t know if you’d be here today in this nasty weather, but I brought you some hot chocolate and a warm roll. May I drive you somewhere?”
She paused, torn between the heat of the car and her open disdain for men. “Could you take me to the public library? Maybe I could get out of this weather for the day.”
“Sure, jump in,” he said with no expectation of anything but a short ride to the library. “I’m Thomas, by the way. And here is your roll and hot chocolate.” As she crawled into the passenger seat, a noticeable change in the aroma of the car became apparent only to him.
“Thank you,” she cautiously offered. “It’s so nice and warm in here. They call me Lizzy, by the way.”
Off they journeyed in treacherous conditions, Thomas working hard not to make eye contact or say anything about her pungent odor. “Nice to know you, Lizzy. I’m glad to get you out of these freezing temperatures. I hope you haven’t been out there too long.”
Despite a heater turned to full blast, she sat there staring out the window, shivering, while devouring the food. “It was a long night,” was all she offered, her face beet red from the cold and freezing air.
“Can I get you a hot meal?” Thomas winced at his offer, which sounded too forward, too quick. Hoping to blunt his mistake, he quickly added, “That is, if you want something more to eat.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to go and something better to do,” she replied. “But I do appreciate your kindness. The library is just up ahead. I’ll spend the day in there.”
No, she wouldn’t, he thought upon seeing that the library was closed due to the icy conditions. But Lizzy’s unkempt appearance didn’t seem to be consistent with either her kindness or her proper English.
She groaned as she evaluated the darkened building that hadn’t bothered to remove ice from its walkways. “Now what?” she mumbled.
Quickly changing the focus from the shuttered library, he said, “How ‘bout we go get that hot meal? We passed an IHOP right around the corner, and it looked to be open.” Her slight nod was all the encouragement he needed.
~
She inhaled her meal as if she hadn’t seen a full plate of hot food in a month. She probably hadn’t. So he ordered her another. Conversation was little to nonexistent. His past reminded him not to push, so he didn’t. But after Lizzy’s second cup of coffee and a quick trip to the restroom, a What now? vibe hung in the void.
“I suppose you should take me back over to the library. I have a tarp stowed away, so I’ll be warm.” She’d been meticulously polite and extremely grateful during breakfast. Somehow, somewhere she’d been brought up right. Though Thomas thought of asking how she’d ended up on the streets, he knew better.
“Don’t you have family I can take you to?” Thomas asked, knowing he was being too intrusive.
“Can’t find ’em,” Lizzy replied. “My parents live somewhere in New York City. That’s where I was raised. But they musta moved or something. I’ve tried calling a few old friends, but it’s been so long since I was in the city, I couldn’t reach anyone.” She paused, a hardness settling in again. “Besides, I don’t want to be found.”
Hurt radiated from her. Lizzy’s pain was obvious. Whatever was in there was obviously way too painful to talk about. He couldn’t find a place to hide. Not that he wanted to, but he was torn between wanting to help and not wanting to pry. Sending her back out into the unforgiving elements wasn’t an option.
“Look, except for an occasional curbside visit, and this time we’ve had over breakfast, we don’t know each other. But I can’t put you back out on the street in this weather. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
“I’ll be all right.” Lizzy was quick to cut Thomas off. “Please, just take me over to the library.”
“I’ve got a different idea,” Thomas began, infused with a passion to help. “There’s a guesthouse behind my home. I built it for my sister, who uses it when she comes to town. She just left a few days ago, so the place hasn’t been cleaned yet, but it’s got a stack of fresh bedding and towels in the closet. How ’bout you come stay there for a few days until this weather passes? You can get a hot shower. There’s food in the refrigerator, and you’ll be guaranteed a good night’s sleep. Don’t worry about a change of clothes. My sister is about your size—although not quite as tall—and you could wear her things. She always leaves an extra set of clothes here so she doesn’t have to drag a bag back and forth to Phoenix. You’d have full run of the place, and I’d never bother you. What do you say? Will you be my guest for a few days?”
Lizzy’s eyes lit up with his description of the place. He knew she wasn’t leaving anything behind, and the idea of a warm shower and a comfortable bed sounded good. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like that.” Briefly, their eyes met as they shared an affirmative nod.
Thomas showed her to the guesthouse, helped her find everything she might need, double-checked the refrigerator, asked if he could run to the store for anything, and made a hasty exit. It would be a full thirty-six hours before he’d see a light turn on in her room out back.
Be sure to catch Part 2 of “Banished” on Thursday. Subscribe for free to get the story delivered right to your inbox.
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Oh wow…this is a good one. Bob! The kindness shining through. The descriptive details that paint a picture of Lizzy….her appearance, surroundings…I can feel the icy cold weather. Can’t wait for next chapter, my friend. 😊Btw…did you see my Amazon review a few weeks back?