Chapter Six: A Temporary Address

Hanna

It had only been a few days on Waverly Street, but I could get used to living here with Faith. The clean, lush extra bedroom was completely lacking any personal objects that carried the weight of the life I had just lost in the fire. Waking up to enveloping silk sheets and staring at the white walls as the soft morning light leaked in through the large windows, it was a little easier for me to embrace the misfortune I had been handed without my consent.

I spent most of my time these couple days in the kitchen, a small part because it was all I had to do and for the most part because of how Faith's eyes lit up when she walked into the kitchen every morning to a fresh pot of coffee I had just brewed and me standing at the stove tending a frittata or flipping some bacon for a BLT.

"How do you already know me so well?!" Faith would say to me on one such morning as she chugged her coffee, always black with a heap of sugar, and wharfed down bites of the omelette I had made as she headed out the door, blazer in one hand and thermos full of the rest of her coffee in the other.

"I'm pretty sure you need all the energy you can muster to handle your jackass boss all day. I know I would." I said it with a little smirk.

Faith laughed in her usual self-deprecating way and gave me a doe-eyed look of appreciation before the door closed behind her and I heard her car back out of the driveway. It was I who was appreciative of Faith as I sat down with my share of breakfast and a bundle of job search brochures that she had handed me the night before. 

"Now where to begin?" I thought as I rummaged through the brightly colored graphics that displayed an array of jobs I could not see myself doing, always aware that I really did not have a choice.

One page read: "BARKEEP NEEDED on Bushwick," and I put it under the pile, wanting to stray as far from my loss as possible, and picked up another one that was seeking a starting position as Assistant Manager of a retail store. I flipped open the laptop Faith told me I could borrow, typed in the website, and began to fill out the application.

Name: Hanna Anderson

Address: err....

The realization that I was essentially homeless hit me again. I was used to handling things by myself and have been on my own for as long as I can remember—no boyfriends since my last traumatic relationship with a narcissist, no real friends—just the regulars at my bar that were now a pile of ash. I was going to have to call Faith at work if I was planning to turn in any of these job applications today. I dialed the same number I had called that night, staring at the "Spears Real Estate" caller ID on my screen, hoping this wasn't asking too much.

"Hello." I said it more cautiously than I had originally intended.

"Hanna?" Faith recognized my voice instantly, and that single action made me feel a lot less imposing. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I'm really sorry to call you at work; I realized I didn't have your cell, and it's sort of urgent." I crooned, trying to sound apologetic.

"What's going on?" She sounded concerned.

"I was wondering if it was okay to use your address in my job applications; this means my mail will get sent to your house and you may be sought out as a reference."

"Go ahead, Hanna; you didn't even need to ask." She said it without letting me finish.

"Thanks." I was a little surprised that she was so nice to me still. I thought there had to be a limit somewhere between living in her house rent-free and asking extra favors, but she didn't make me feel like there were. "I have to go now; see you later. Good luck with the applications."

Feeling relief, I typed in the address on the laptop screen that had been staring back at me the whole time.

Address: 41 Waverly Street.

Motivated by the kindness that has found me for some reason, I spent the rest of my morning perched on the kitchen island, filling out forms. One for a front desk attendant, another as a customer service representative, I surfed through the webpages, filling in my personal information and leaving little insights to myself for whoever reads these things, hoping that something would click.

I even applied for the barkeep job I had put at the bottom before, remembering to state my experience as an ex-bar owner, not mentioning the burning down part, of course, that would not help anybody. I could not bear the thought of continuing to freeload; I had to somehow make some income. My brain was still too jumbled from the events of the past week to file an insurance claim, and even if it were, those brokers would not make my life any easier before I got a payout. That can wait.

By the time I was done, the orange tint of late afternoon had crept up over the kitchen ambiance, and I put the computer aside to get started on dinner. I wanted to do something that took a lot of effort tonight—say thank you to Faith, the only one I could right now. Peering into the fridge, I pulled out chicken and veggies and found some potatoes in the bottom drawer. It was an odd place to keep potatoes, but I had come to learn that my new friend wasn't much of a chef. It made me feel useful somehow.

So I got to work, dicing potatoes, searing chicken thighs, seasoning, garnishing, and waiting for everything to melt into a cauldron of rich, delicious chicken juices at a bare simmer. I knew she would be home any minute.