The Wrong Stop by Lauren Cantell

A woman helps out a neighbor and reaches a revelation about home.

I amble down the street, led by my particularly strong dachshund named Birds, as I gulp my coffee and think about the day ahead. I’ve got a meeting at 10, so that should give me just enough time to get a workout in before I have to “start the day.” It’s going to be a hot one. It’s already hot as hell, the trees are brown from lack of water - it hasn’t rained in months, and my 8 year old shitty AC unit is going to do fuck all but keep the temperature hovering around 80 degrees, but 80 is not 90, so I am grateful. 

Birds and I round the corner as he tries to pull me to our neighbor, Tanya’s house. Not today, I tell him, your mom’s got stuff to do. I feel my sweat break and the first bead rolls down my back.  It’s at this exact moment I wish I’m wearing any sort of bra to prevent it from–yep, there it goes–rolling down my ass crack. Nice. I widen my stride to get some air flow, a not-so subtle maneuver, when I notice an elderly woman with a rolling cart filled to the brim with some very heavy bags looking frantically from a piece of paper in her hands to the street signs. 

How she managed to get that massive cart with a crock pot and gallons of what looks like juice up one of the steepest hills in Silverlake is beyond me. She must be active, I think. One of those octogenarians who never stopped exercising, a body in motion, physics. 

I contemplate walking past. I really want to change my underwear, but then I think about my deceased grandmother and how I would want someone to treat her if she were lost at the top of some hill, sun blazing, cart full of juice. I will be damned if I let someone else’s potential grandmother suffer because some woman was a little bit uncomfortable in the August sun. 

Hi, do you need some help? I ask her.

She is breathless and so happy that I stopped to help her. To think I almost didn’t? That is too sad to consider. 

Yes, do you know where Silverlake Boulevard is? She asks.

Her words are a bit choppy. Our first languages aren’t the same. I glance around and tell her, 

Yes, but it’s nearly a mile that way. I motion with my hand, curving it around. And all the way there are really big hills. 

A gut punch. She bows her head. I see the sweat beading along her face and neck, though the rest of her is shielded from the sun.

Oh no. I got off at the wrong stop. 

Like an idiot, I pull out my phone to show her the path to Silverlake Boulevard, as though that’s helpful whatsoever. 

Oh no, I’m so sorry. Yeah, see here, it’s about one mile and all of these streets are hills. Do you have anyone who can pick you up? I ask. An inane question because the woman took the bus. Likely, she doesn’t have someone to get her. 

I’ll try calling my friend, thank you so much. 

I am back on my way, satisfied that I did my neighborly job of giving a shit. It’s only half a block more to my apartment. I bring Birds in and feed him. I change my shoes into sneakers and pull up the Peleton app. I don’t have a Peloton, but I do use the app because my friend gives me access to her account. I pause. Shit, the service up on this hill is shit, I bet she can’t even get in touch with anyone. I close the Peloton app. I put Birds in his crate and sprint out the door. 

I jog the half block and she’s still there, pacing. Now, she’s out of breath. 

Hi again. Hi. I live right over there, I point back towards my apartment, I can drive you to Silverlake Boulevard. I pant, and justify to myself that this is my workout. 

Oh god bless you. God bless you, she says. 

My heart nearly breaks. To think I was going to do mat pilates and not help this woman. I cringe at the thought. 

Okay! I’m going to run and get my car and I’ll be right back, I tell her. 

I sprint back to my place, pull out of my spot. Slam on the brakes. 

Water! She needs water. I run inside and by a miracle I have a sleeve of plastic cups from the 99 Cent Store, I wish it hadn’t closed. I fill it with ice water and run back outside, slam the shifter into drive and drive up my street to find her. 

I hand her the water and I tell her to get into the car with the AC blasting. I load up the car. She takes the cup of water and begins to drink, mumbling to let her help. I try to tell her no, but I literally can’t lift the cart. It’s too cumbersome to load into the back of my tiny Mazda 3. I wonder how on earth did she pull this around? I am baffled. 

Finally, we put THREE gallon jugs of juice, a crockpot full of food, bags of other groceries and the folding metal cart into my car. We have to fold the cart and put it in the passenger seat, since my trunk is full of clothes that should have been donated but just haven’t yet. She sits in the back with the other bags, sipping the water. She hands me a torn piece of paper with an address on it that I enter into Google Maps and begin to drive.

I turn down the first hill and I am sure that we’re both thinking of her trying to roll that 100 pound cart up and down them. I catch her eyes in the rearview mirror. She smiles.

God bless you. God bless you, That’s all she says. She reminds me of my grandmother, my grandmother would absolutely say that. 

You remind me of my grandmother. I say. She holds my gaze.

You make her proud. God bless you, God bless you.

My eyes begin to tear up. My grandmother has been gone for about six years now. I hide my sudden emotion from the woman, I don’t want her to feel strange or worry that she got into the car with some weirdo. She’s been through enough today.

I turn down another street. We catch each other’s eyes again in the mirror.

My friend, her husband just died. We are going over to keep her company. She explains, motioning to the bags. 

I consider this. I wonder if she is also married or widowed, if her friends have done this for her before? I wonder how long she’s lived here and how long her friends have lived here. I’ve only been here three years and the first two were at the height of the pandemic. I’m still finding my footing and trying to make this home. I wonder if I will have a community like this when I’m in my later years? Women who will bring me gallons of juice when I face a loss. Will this be where I die, or will I move again? I don’t say any of this to her.

That’s beautiful, I say. She’s lucky to have you. 

I pull over, we’re at the destination. We both get out, though she tells me to stay in the car and that she can do it. A group of four women, similar in age, walk down the stairs of the apartment building and take over. They assemble so quickly and get everything out of the car and back into the cart, like a hive. Experts. They each look at me and say the same things: God bless you, thank you. 

I hug the woman goodbye. We don’t exchange names. Holding her small frame I feel her thin skin and uneven bones beneath her shirt. She feels like my grandmother. I give her a gentle squeeze. She holds on just a little longer, and I think she somehow senses I need this. My eyes tear up again, and when we break the embrace, I see that hers do too. 

On my drive back up the hill, I have a feeling that I haven’t felt for some time. I feel at home.