I never thought five dollars could make a difference. Then I put a pair of baby shoes from a flea market on my son’s feet and heard a tiny crackle. That was the moment my whole life changed.
I’m Claire, 31 years old, and I work in a restaurant at night and take care of my sick mother and my three-year-old son, Stan, during the day. It feels like walking a tightrope over a chasm most weeks: one late bill and we’re going to fall. Mason kept the house after the divorce and moved in with his fiancée. I stayed in the apartment with the mold, the heater that produced noise, and the agony of what could have been.
That Saturday morning, the clouds were so thick that it felt like the world was holding its breath. I had a crumpled five-dollar bill in my wallet and a kid whose toes were curling up against his socks. The flea bazaar used up a whole parking lot. There were old vinyl records, cardboard crates, and the smell of wet paper from someone else’s life.
Stan’s hand was warm in mine. He said with excitement, “Is it a dinosaur?”
“First, buddy, shoes,” I whispered, even though I felt bad about it.
That’s when I noticed them: small brown leather shoes that weren’t too worn. They made me feel silly with love. The woman with a knit scarf who worked for the seller said, “Six.”
I answered, “I only have five,” and gave him the bill as an apology.
She looked at me and then nodded. “No child should have cold feet.”
Stan sat at home with his blocks and elevated his feet, appearing like a little king waiting for his crown. The shoes slid on like they had been waiting for him. Then there came a sound like crackling. I took off my left shoe, felt the insole, and there it was again: paper.
I lifted the padding. Like a pulse, a folded note was buried. The paper was thin, and the writing was little and close together.
To the person who finds this:
These sneakers belonged to my son Jacob. He died of cancer when he was four. My husband left when the finances got too much for him to handle, which cancer couldn’t do. Jacob never wore these because they were too new. There are a lot of emotional wounds in my house. If you’re reading this, please remember that he was here. Keep in mind that I was his mom. I loved him no matter what.
—Anna
The room shook. Stan’s fingers were around my calf. “Mommy?” he asked in a quiet voice.
I lied and said, “Just dust,” but my vision grew fuzzy anyhow. The fridge produced a humming sound, way it happens when the flat is quiet. I laid awake with the note on my chest, feeling like someone had given me their misery and told me not to drop it.
I knew I had to find her before the light came up.
The merchant who wore a scarf said, “A man brought a bag from his neighbor.” She said her name was Anna. It wasn’t much, but it was a thread. I pulled. I asked the restaurant. I browsed through Facebook groups and obituary listings until all the names started to seem alike. A week later, Anna Collins, who was in her late thirties, was living in a house that was falling apart.
When she answered the door, I thought for a moment that anguish had a face. Eyes that look empty, hair that looks dull, and a body that is so thin that you can’t tell if someone is eating or just getting by. “Yes?” she said, sounding careful.
I held out the note and said, “I found something that belongs to you.”
She couldn’t breathe well. She wiggled her fingers when she took it. “I wrote this when I thought I was…” she continued, and then she fell apart on my doorway. I reached for her because it was instinct. She fell into my arms like someone I didn’t know and a brother or sister at the same time.
I said softly, “You’re still here.” “That matters.”
After that, I brought coffee. The first time, she tried to get it back.
She said, “You don’t have to.” “I don’t deserve to have friends.”
“I guess we don’t get to choose who cares about us,” I said. “Maybe they just do.”
We started to go around her block, two people and a small, tired sun. She told me about Jacob, how he loved dinosaurs, how they had pancake Sundays, and how he called her “Supermom” even while she was crying in the bathroom with the water running. I told her about Mason and my mom and how being weary makes your shoulders feel heavy.
“You kept moving,” she said once, surprised.
I told her, “Crawling counts.”
The first time she went to the children’s hospital to read to kids, she called on her way home. “One hugged me,” she said, astonished. “He called me Auntie Anna.”
“Because you are,” I said. “To more people than you think.”
Her voice progressively started to sound more colorful. She started eating again. She started buying flowers from the store and putting them in jelly jars next to the sink. One afternoon, she came over with a modest, wrapped gift and eyes that were brighter than I’d ever seen them.
She said, “It was my grandmother’s,” as I opened the locket, which was composed of warm gold. “She told me to give it to the woman who saved me.” I took it as a narrative.
I murmured, “I didn’t save you,” and my throat hurt. “We held on to each other.”
She slipped the chain around my neck. “Same thing.”
When she tried to give me a cheque for an overdue inheritance, I said no.
“I won’t take your money,” I said.
She looked me straight in the eye. “You’re not taking. You’re letting me love you like a family member should.
My ribs hurt from crying so much.
Two years later, I was in a little church with a lot of flowers and a heart that seemed too big for my chest. Anna walked up to a man named Andrew. He was a calm, steady nurse who looked at her like she was a rare find. There was light in her face again. It wasn’t a floodlight or the bright white of denial; it was sunshine. The kind that warms you up without hurting your eyes.
At the reception, she gave me a bundle. “Claire,” she said. “Say hi to Olivia.”
The baby blinked at me, and for the first time, her black eyes saw the world. I said, “She’s just right.”
Anna said, “Olivia Claire is her name.” “After the sister I didn’t know I had.”
Sometimes things you didn’t expect can transform your life. For example, five dollars can open doors, talking about your pain can help you deal with it, and love can come back in ways you never imagined imaginable.
Today, Stan scuffs those same soft sneakers on the floor of our kitchen. They are a little more used and a little more ours. My mom is sleeping in the room next door. The heater is making noise. The fridge makes a humming sound. The locket on my chest gets warm when I touch it. I have a picture of Anna on my phone that she took at the hospital. A young child is sitting on her lap and a dinosaur sticker is on her cheek. We’re all still here.
I thought I was receiving some sneakers. I really bought a story that was folded up and hidden under an insole, begging to be transported. I took it. It brought back memories.