Just a little help

‘You’re wrong, you moron. Check the numbers again.’ 

I gaped at the budget spreadsheet, a mess of numbers swimming before tear-brimmed eyes. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, I checked the entries and equations. 

‘Well, we’re fucked. Great work, Grace. You’ve really screwed us this time. You are so stupid. Well done.’ 

Picture by Amelie Vorchheimer

I shook my head. ‘No, wait, this can’t be right. Thirty-two dollars? No. No. But…we still have to get food and meds! And pay for Myki…’ I trailed off as I felt my heart rate rise. The fluttering in my chest increased. Butterflies wearing Docs kicked around in my abdomen. 

‘How the hell could you let this happen? You are such a fuck up!’ 

I flew to the back door of my small Brunswick West flat as the nausea threatened to spill onto the already stained carpet. I ran from the spreadsheet, from the numbers, from the abuse, but the taunting followed me into the tiny courtyard. 

A panic attack later, I lay exhausted and dizzy on my bed with a pillow over my head. I tried to drown out the insults, but the seemingly never-ending tirade continued. Accusations and criticisms stung like a swarm of vicious blood-seeking mosquitos. Each insult was another puncture wound in my already bruised body. 

‘How could I let this happen?’ I murmured over and over. 

‘I’ll tell you how you let this happen, Grace. You were a teacher with a full-time job and enough money for rent and food and nice things, and now you’re an unemployed crazy person with no food and thirty-two dollars ‘til next Wednesday. You’re a bloody mess and it’s your own fault.’ 

I rolled over and stared out the window at the buttery-yellow climbing rose cascading over my balcony rail. I could feel the panic returning, my vision blurring, my breath becoming more laboured. 

I could go to a food bank. The social worker at the hospital had given me the details of some organisations that gave out food. If they gave me enough food, I could make this work. Maybe. 

I tore through the notebook from the ward, scattering cognitive behaviour therapy work sheets and half-finished goal-setting tasks around me, as I looked in vain for the printout. 

‘They won’t help you. They’ll see right through you, Grace. They’ll check the computer and know that it’s your fault you don’t have any money. You didn’t have to leave your job. You just gave up because you’re fucking weak. You don’t deserve the help. There are people who need that food more than you do. You’re going to take food away from families, from children, Grace.’ 

On the back page of my notebook, I had scrawled ‘Richmond Jesus’. 

A quick google and cup of coffee later, I was in my car navigating the busy morning traffic, trying to focus on the road and listening to Tool instead of the plethora of reasons this wasn’t going to work. 

‘They’ll turn you away, Grace. You’re not going to get there in time anyway. It closes in half an hour. What if you see someone from the school? How are you going to feel then, huh? What are they going to say? I’ll tell you. They’ll say you’re a selfish fuck-up who deserted her job and all the kids that needed her there, and that you should just get your shit together and go back to work!’ 

I pulled into the full church car park. The panic in my chest threatened to burst through my rib cage. 

‘I told you it was a waste of time. Go home, Grace. Just go.’ 

I let out a loud, frustrated howl and parked on the street. I would have to buy a ticket or risk a fine. I tried to steady my breathing while I weighed my options. If I got a ticket, I wouldn’t have to pay it for over a month. Future Grace could solve that one. 

There were a lot of people milling about the back of the church. I stumbled and leant against a wall, adrenaline and cortisol flooding my veins. 

‘This feels wrong. This is all wrong. This isn’t who I am,’ I whispered. 

‘Turn around and leave, Grace.’ 

I pulled the hood of my jumper over my head and, with tears streaming down my face, I joined the queue at the back of the church. There was a trestle table set up against the back wall of the kitchen with instant coffee and tea bags. A lady with long, curly ebony hair wearing an apron was handing out styrofoam cups and biscuits from an Arnott’s family favourites assorted pack. She caught my eye and smiled. I quickly averted my eyes. 

‘She’s laughing at you, Grace. This isn’t going to work.’ 

I was now second in line and watched carefully what was happening with the man in front of me. He handed his Centrelink card to a retirement-aged woman with glasses and a hijab. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with three large shopping bags full of food. He thanked her, calling her by name, and shuffled past me to the tea table, a harsh cough racking his chest. 

‘Hello dear, I don’t think I’ve seen you before. My name is Rima. Do you have your Centrelink card there?’ 

I nodded and fumbled for my card. My nose was streaming from crying and my hands shook. 

‘Grace. What a nice name. Let’s see what we’ve got left.’ 

She returned from the kitchen with bags full of food and a little packet of tissues. ‘People tend to get a cuppa, have a chat and swap things around over there. We don’t have a lot left today because it’s closing time, so I can only give you these three bags. But next week, if you come back earlier, you’ll get a little bit more.’ 

‘Thank you so much,’ I said quietly as I sniffed and walked shakily over to the tea area to look through the groceries. There were potatoes, apples, carrots, lettuce, some onions and a parsnip, a loaf of white bread and a bag of six cheese rolls, some tins of tomato, kidney beans and four large tins of baked beans. There were jelly crystals, a bag of rice, a packet of pasta, 500 grams of chicken legs, a freezer bag of red meat, and a large tub of natural yoghurt. 

‘Grace, give it back. You don’t need it. You’re being selfish. Let’s go. People are looking at you.’ 

I began to cry again. Big ugly gulping sobs. The tea lady with the smile came and sat beside me and patted my arm.  

‘It’s going to be ok, sweetie.’  

I looked up into her gentle, sympathetic face. ‘They gave me so much food. I think they made a mistake,’ I gasped between hiccups. 

‘A lot of first-timers feel that they don’t deserve help – that they’re taking charity away from other people that need it more,’ she said softly. ‘You see your Centrelink card there? That card means you deserve help. That card was given to you because you need a bit of a hand. That’s all there is to it.’ She smiled and went back to her duties at the tea table. 

‘Thank you so much,’ I said again, and carried the shopping bags back to my car. I drove back home in silence with the windows down, the fresh winter breeze cooling my hot, post-cry cheeks. The stream of insults had ceased for the moment. I knew they would be back, but for now the silence inside my head was comforting and sweet.