“And what does my caseworker need to grill me about today? I would have thought I gave you enough of my depressing story yesterday,” he remarked shortly, scratching at the healing stitches on his arm.
“I spoke with Dr. Howell, he said the results of your liver function test should be ready by this afternoon. Then you will know your options for treatment,” I told him.
“Yeah. Treatment,” he responded dully.
“I’ve also made some calls and there are a couple of beds open at the Salvation Army—”
“I’m not staying in a shelter, Imogen,” he interrupted.
“You have nowhere to go,” I argued.
“I’ll find somewhere. I always do. But I won’t go to the Salvation Army,” he said emphatically.
“I think you’re being unreasonable, Yoss. You can be safe there—”
“I was stabbed in the leg and the back of the hand at the Salvation Army a few years ago. All because some meth head wanted my bag of Doritos. I think you overestimate the safety there,” he remarked harshly.
That explained the scar on his hand that I had noticed yesterday.
“Oh. I had no idea—”
“It’s okay, Imi. You didn’t know,” Yoss said, his face smoothing out. Green eyes less frigid.
I had always done my job well. I knew how to be supportive, understanding. But I was having a hard time calling up those qualities that had served me so well in the past.
I wanted to help Yoss, but it was hard when our history smacked me in the face every time I saw him.
“Maybe we should talk about making a plan—”
Yoss snorted and I raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember being the one to tell you the same thing a long time ago,” he mused and I couldn’t help but smile.
“You told me to figure out a plan. You made me promise.”
“I’m glad you kept it,” he said.
“I like to keep my promises,” I replied sharply. I hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory, but it seemed old bitterness found its way into our conversation, no matter how I tried to keep it out.
Yoss’s eyes went frosty again and I berated myself for ruining our moment of ease.
“So your plan,” I began, pulling out the blank service agreement. Yet more paperwork I needed to fill out. More paperwork that I was thankful I could fall back on when things became completely awkward. “We can talk about steps to get you your own place maybe since you’re so adverse to a shelter.”
“I had an apartment,” he stated, changing the subject.
I glanced up from the paper in my lap. “You did? When?” I didn’t mean to sound so surprised.
Yoss’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “About five years ago I moved into a little place above the bakery and coffee shop on Vine. Do you remember it?” He was challenging me.
I held my chin up a little higher. “Yes, of course I do.” I was very familiar with the dumpsters behind it specifically.
“I even had a job. It wasn’t much. I was a handyman for the apartment complex on the south side of town. I lived there for almost three years.”
“That sounds great.” I was happy to hear that at least, for a time, Yoss had been doing okay.
“Yeah, it was for a while. But then I was laid off. The apartment complex hired a new manager and he didn’t need two full-time maintenance men, so I got the ax. I was going to try to find something else but then my grandma died…” he drifted off into silence and I knew he was battling with some heavy emotions.
“I’m so sorry, Yoss. She was a great lady,” I said, meaning every word. I knew how much he loved his grandmother. How much that would have destroyed him.
“It got shitty again after that. I was evicted from my apartment. I didn’t have anywhere to stay,” he said on a sigh.
