“What would make you think calling would be a good idea?”

The voice on the phone sounded dumbfounded. Ruben’s voice. Her hu — ex-husband. Alone in her car, sitting in the passenger seat, Valerie leaned her head against the window and felt small vibrations at the point of contact. The drizzling rain outside plinked against the car roof. She hoped Ruben couldn’t hear it.

“Sophia loves ponies,” Valerie responded, her words short, nervous, clipped. “I bought one, a stuffed pony. It’s soft, and, uh, pink. I thought — ”

“Are you off your meds?”

“No, I’m taking them.” She hadn’t missed a dose in four years. She’d followed what the therapist had said, what the doctor had said; she’d done what she was supposed to do. She knew if she messed up, in any manner, she’d never see Sophia again. One missed appointment, one arrest, a period of extended unemployment . . . that was a strike against her, despite her application to every paralegal job under the sun over the past three years. Apparently, her ability to convince potential employers of her experience working with the law was undermined by her publicly available criminal record. And the part-time stop-gap jobs were infuriating. “Don’t worry. I just thought for her birthday — ”

“Oh, Christ, the restraining order’s up. That’s why you’re calling?”

It was her daughter’s birthday! Did she need another reason to call? She supposed she did since she hadn’t called the year before. Due to the restraining order. So, that the restraining order had expired was one of the reasons she was calling. She wasn’t asking to have some say in Sophia’s life. That wouldn’t be good for Sophia, for Ruben, for anyone.

All she’d asked for was a chance to send her daughter a birthday present.

She brushed the stuffed pink pony’s disproportionately long mane out of its oversized eyes. The pony hadn’t been planned. She’d been standing with a six-pack in line at the convenience store when the pink horse had caught her eye and reminded her of Sophia. Her now seven-year-old daughter, whom she hadn’t seen since Sophia was three. Reminded her that today was Sophia’s birthday, and the restraining order had expired last month.

“You don’t have to tell her it’s from me. I just want to send — ”

“We’re happy, Valerie. Sophia and I. And Jenny. I can’t believe you’re calling.”

“I’m not trying to visit. I just bought this pony; I can send it if you tell me — ”

“For God’s sake, I’m not giving you our address. If you want Sophia to have a happy birthday, don’t bother her. Please, Valerie. Leave us alone. Don’t call me again.”

Ruben hung up.

I’m her mother! Valerie wanted to scream into the disconnected phone. She wanted to curse Ruben until her throat was sore. The pink pony’s body contorted, squeezed in her hands. Then she took a deep breath. The pony reinflated. The denial wasn’t unexpected. She wouldn’t see Sophia again. Not as a child, at least. Maybe, when Sophia turned eighteen, she’d be in a rebellious phase, an independent phase, and decide to meet her good-for-nothing mother out of pity and curiosity.

Maybe Sophia would completely forget about her by then. Replaced by Jenny, whoever that was.

Valerie opened the glovebox and laid the stuffed pony on a framed photo. From the photo, a smiling family mocked Valerie. It had been taken four years ago. The summer before everything went to hell. She wore a blue one-piece and enough make-up and with her hair done in such a way it was clear her beach plans involved the beach and not the ocean, one arm wrapped around Ruben’s waist and the other holding the three-year-old Sophia. Sophia was wearing sunglasses, oversized for her tiny head, which she’d thought hilarious at the time, as could be seen in the photo.

Valerie snatched a folded plastic poncho and slammed the glovebox shut. With a shake, the poncho unfolded, and she hunched over as she pulled it on. Dressing inside the car was an art. Depending on the time of day, it occasionally was an art exhibition.

What could she remember from fifteen years ago? She’d been … twenty. In college. A state school, huge. She’d been one among tens of thousands. Studying, tests. Ah, there were some good memories. Partying, drinking, streaking in the middle of winter.

That was good, right? She could recall memories from fifteen years ago. Not as well as memories from four years ago, but well enough. She still felt fondness for friends she hadn’t seen in fifteen years. She still turned red remembering their antics. But that was college. A special time that people remembered for the rest of their lives. Childhood was different.

On a sudden impulse, she opened the glovebox again and extracted the framed photo. On the back, the flimsy latch moved easily, letting the cheap cardboard back come loose, and she carefully removed the photo before returning the frame to the glovebox. After a few moments of staring at the family frozen in time, she tucked the photo into her jacket’s breast pocket.

With quick, practiced motions to open the car door as little as possible, she slipped out of the car. Water in the car was near the top of Valerie’s list of things to be avoided. One time, she’d accidentally left the window open before a rainstorm. That had been a miserable week.

Ten-story apartment buildings rose behind the extra-wide sidewalk. Few people were out and about, deterred by the rain. Perhaps downtown more people were braving the rain, but this area on the south side was mostly residential — with free parking.

The few brave pedestrians all walked in a manner that announced they had somewhere important to be, or that they were late. They were dressed in cheap suits and conservative dresses, and each had a black umbrella. No navy blues or clear umbrellas, just black. Was this a new trend among the young white-collar workers in the city? Another trait they shared was the glance each directed at her. Observation from the corner of the eye, then, when their curiosity was sated and their fear of the unknown had been assuaged, a blink followed by a movement of the eyes — the head stayed still — and then a hasty ocular retreat and a poker face that denied guilt. Valerie was a curiosity, an item of interest. Likely because her shield against the rain was, instead of a black umbrella, what looked like a translucent trash bag.

She walked north, toward downtown.

At this rate, the rebellious and curious eighteen-year-old Sophia would find neither hide nor hair of her. Not being able to afford healthcare was expensive. She couldn’t afford to not buy her anger medication, and she couldn’t afford healthcare to buy meds for her, so she’d chosen the most expensive option: buying the meds without healthcare. They were supposed to mellow her, and they worked, but they made her tired. She slept more hours than she used to. And they were so expensive.

As a consequence, her savings were nearly gone, and she was cutting back on meals. She’d lost twenty pounds — a fact she found hilarious whenever she went to the gym, which was daily since she was homeless and living out of her 2006 Civic. For sixty dollars a month, the gym provided a heated and air-conditioned space, clean showers, water fountains, free television, and a locker in which she could fit four sets of clothes. After two years, Valerie was confident she was fully utilizing every amenity at the gym save for the ones that made it a gym. The only drawback was the presence of the punching bags. She had to avoid those.

The gym she attended was near a public library, Valerie’s other hangout, although both were over a half hour’s walk from her car — the combination of free parking and a safe neighborhood was rare in the city, and she was a homeless woman sleeping in a car. The library had computers, from which she could send job applications. Between the gym, the library, and her car, Valerie was surviving. She hadn’t stooped to dumpster diving. Yet. She just needed one law firm to consider her, to give her a chance. But paralegals were a dime a dozen, and she was an ex-felon, and she couldn’t afford nice clothes because she was spending all her money on anger meds, because they’d warned her, guaranteed her, that if she didn’t take her meds, she’d be denied outright.

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And still she’d been denied. She’d taken parenting classes, attended anger management therapy, took meds, followed instructions obediently . . . she struggled to get worked up over it. Was it the medication? Or was it because she knew that, regardless of Ruben’s decision, these people and classes were supposed to make her a better person? And she wanted to be a better person. It just seemed a little pointless: for whom was she becoming a better person? If she lived alone, why did it matter if she was as tranquil as a monk and lacking a permanent abode like a monk instead of being alone and angry but warm in a nice studio apartment at the south edge of the city?

A stop signal interrupted her journey at a corner with a Starbucks. Having neared downtown and turned west several blocks back, she was nearly out of the city again.

The Starbucks was doing well — this one always was. The people inside looked, on average, younger than Valerie. In their twenties, mostly. All looking at their phones and laptops, tapping and typing, dressed fashionably enough that they could rise and start speed dating without looking out of place. About half had raincoats, umbrellas, or both. Did the rest live nearby? Had they driven here? Or were they simply unprepared, uncaring that they were destined later today to be cold and drenched?

The walk sign turned green and Valerie crossed.

She deserved this: to be alone, denied. She had hoped, but that hadn’t counted for much. If anyone had ruined her life, if there was someone she ought to be angry at, it was herself. Anger wouldn’t help.

One method for calming her anger was jogging. She’d been told repeatedly that violent exercise was a no go — supposedly the satisfaction from venting anger would form a positive feedback loop — but jogging could tire her out, give her a runner’s high, and burn some calories at the same time. Unfortunately, she had no extra calories to burn.

Valerie walked and forgot her hunger, forgot her occasional panic that she’d forget where she’d parked her car, immersed in memories she was afraid she’d be alone in remembering.

Stopping on a certain overpass in the west side of the city, she leaned against the railing, cars shooting past behind her. Three blocks away, visible over squat storefronts, rose a six-story apartment building made of red brick, with numerous, tiny, cramped windows, screaming it was built for cheap in the 70s. The interior walls were a strange mix of exposed brick and wood paneling. She used to complain daily about the ugliness of the exposed brick.

What were Ruben and Sophia doing now? Were they in their new apartment? Was Ruben pranking Sophia? Struggling with math homework? Had Sophia started the piano lessons they’d once discussed signing her up for?

Ruben had moved. They could be in another state, for all she knew. Bound by uncertainty, this was the closest she could be to her daughter, separated by three blocks and four years.

Fantasies of accidentally running into Sophia and Ruben bubbled into her head, showing an embarrassing scene on their warped surfaces before she could pop them in shame. Saving them from a mass shooter, rescuing them from a burning building . . . she felt a twinge of guilt, imagining her daughter in danger, but it wasn’t that she hoped it would happen. They were just fantasies. They didn’t need her.

As a paralegal, she would never admit it, but sometimes she wished she’d received the maximum sentence. Then she would’ve been locked up for years, defiant, angry, protesting the unjust, callous system. When Valerie got out, and Sophia was grown up, the girl would find her mother still alive and fighting.

Instead of this. A suspended sentence, probation, and . . . what was she doing, years later? Living in a car, applying to jobs, walking around the city. There was no point. No light to chase after, no promise to keep, no one to curse except herself.

Down below, cars sped toward and away from the overpass, filled with people who had destinations. People moved. Only the asphalt, the concrete, the painted lines on the roads were stationary.

Face reality.

She was disconnected from everyone and everything. No one would notice if she disappeared. It would probably be years before anyone filed a missing person report, if ever. Maybe down the line, Ruben would find out and feel a little bit of pity. At least it would give them both closure.

People did that, didn’t they? Save up a bit of money, move to a low-cost-of-living country, pick a new name, and start over. Not long after college she’d married Ruben, and then become a parent, and planned for the future, and then . . . she’d never traveled to other countries. Laos was supposed to be very beautiful. Or Brazil. Or Costa Rica. She’d wanted to vacation there ever since her best friend in middle school had taken a cruise to the Caribbean over winter break.

Or she could just lean forward a bit further.

It was rather windy up here, wasn’t it?

A bit more.

Her heart thumped, her nerves screamed, and her mind imagined the fall over and over and over.

A bit more.

She felt more alive than she’d felt in months.

Exhaling, she pulled back.

People were crossing the street to avoid her, despite how dangerous it was to cross here. Did she look that strange? A 32-year old jogger. It wasn’t that uncommon. She was 5 foot 10, tall for a woman but not threatening, in her opinion, though she was widely built compared to a stereotypical jogger. They weren’t ogling her; she’d never been considered especially attractive. Her facial features were thick: thick eyebrows, a thick nose, thick lips. She didn’t think she was especially unattractive, either. Never standing out, she always had to work to prove herself.

Something tickled her face. Oh. She was crying. So? What were those fuckers staring at her for?

“Mind your own damn business!” Valerie shouted at a couple who’d been walking towards her on her side of the street. They fled back down the street, along with another man a little ways behind them.

Valerie’s hands itched, clenching and unclenching. She wanted to run at them, scare them so they took off running. Maybe one of them would fight her, prompted by a sudden urge of heroism, thinking her an easy target, homeless and alone. She hoped they would.

The couple and the man reached the intersection and crossed at the crosswalk.

Taking deep breaths, she tried to redirect her thoughts.

She imagined the smell of smoke suddenly catching their attention. Heads turning, everyone on the street would notice the haze rising above that apartment three blocks away. Suddenly, flames roared up and the smoke thickened. The bystanders yelled in confusion, some running away, the others pointing and staring.

Prepared to violate her restraining order and return to jail, she sprinted the three blocks toward the apartment without a second thought.

Between deep breaths, the dumb heroism fantasy played out in her mind.

Screams, windows, a tide of people covered in soot.

Elevators, a stairwell filled with smoke, the railing too hot to touch.

Wallpaper aflame, Room 405, kicking down the door —

Valerie shook herself, blinking, freeing from the fantasy. The couple and the man were gone, but new pedestrians had replaced those that had fled earlier. They gave her those short glances that city-goers used when assessing how much effort they should exert to try to avoid attracting another pedestrian’s attention. On this overpass, she was the center of attention, pulling and pushing those around her. She was the only disturbance. The other pedestrians didn’t seem bothered by anything else. Like, for instance, the smell of smoke.

She sniffed the air. Was she delusional? Had she spent too long fantasizing? She could swear she smelled smoke. She jerked her gaze towards the apartment building, and then she looked back down in embarrassment when it was clear their old apartment wasn’t on fire. Was someone having a barbecue? A restaurant kitchen fire? She didn’t see smoke anywhere, but the smell was getting stronger.

That was no barbecue. That was the smell of a wood fire.

The passersby didn’t smell the smoke, or if they did, they didn’t react. Were they too focused on quickly skirting around her without attracting her attention? Was this smoke a regular occurrence? The odor was pungent now. Valerie’s throat tickled, pulling out a cough.

A sudden sense of vertigo struck her. Her hand swiped at the railing, but she missed. She felt weightless. Her stomach flipped, and her senses went haywire unable to tell up from down. Her panicked thoughts of whether she’d screwed up her med dosage and accidentally fallen over the railing were interrupted by the sudden return of gravity, with the slight modification that this gravity pulled parallel to the ground. She was wrenched backward, and the city around her vanished, replaced by blurring colors. Gravity changed directions again, pulling her left, then right, then back again. Distorted greens and blues with occasional white flashes filled her vision. Bile rose in her throat as she was wrenched this way and that as if gravity’s direction were being controlled by a hamster in a plastic ball. Or maybe she was the hamster, and God had kicked her ball.

If that's the case, she thought during a long enough period of constant gravity that she could gather her thoughts, he better have a damn good reason.