LAVENDER FLOWERS

She handed me a 20-dollar bill—an old, wrinkled, yellowed bill. Her voice kept cracking, and her hands were trembling. I gazed at her and overlooked her captivating purple eye and the scratches that extended across her shoulder.

“It was a cabinet,” she said, pointing at her eye.

I smiled awkwardly.

“I would like to skip the registration,” she said restlessly. “Please”

I hesitated.

She looked at my name tag. “Sue?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

“I only have a blouse and a pair of jeans,” she said.

She seemed distressed, consumed by a deep sense of fear.

I pointed to the ones on my right. “These are unoccupied,” I said.

She nodded. The woman grabbed her clothes and made her way to the washing machine. After placing the clothes inside, she turned on the machine. She then sat forward, moving her legs. She certainly doesn't give off the impression of a criminal. She appeared to be in her thirties, radiating a youthful vibe with her slim figure. Her curly brown hair was tousled, giving her a carefree look. She wore a simple white tank top, long denim shorts, and comfortable flat shoes. Her face was free of makeup, and her eyes looked a bit swollen.

Her cell phone kept ringing, but she kept ignoring the calls. Her gaze was locked on the doorway as though she were anticipating someone's arrival. A cabinet? I spent three years at a shelter dedicated to supporting women facing domestic abuse. I recognize the signs of a woman in distress.

I approached her and sat by her side.

I looked at her.

“I hope you won’t be in trouble for this,” she said.

Something about her reminded me of a young woman named Ines, whom I met when she was twenty-four. We met at the refugee shelter where she resided with her two-year-old son, Marcus. Following her admission to the hospital due to two broken ribs, a fractured leg, and stitches on her forehead, she decided to leave her home and filed for divorce. The woman who stepped into the program was overwhelmed by insecurity, fear, stubbornness, and a heavy burden of shame and guilt. However, when Ines completed her time, she became a light and hope to other women.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“It appears more severe than it is, you know,” she said.

I couldn’t speak. I kept looking at her.

“He had a crappy day,” she said.

I turned, sweeping my hair aside to expose the scar on the back of my head for her to see.

I got her attention.

“A vodka bottle,” I said. “He came wasted one night and started shattering bottles”

“He used to be kind and loving,” she said.

“It’s the people we love most,” I said.

I shrank, I pulled the brochure of my aunt's refugee program from my pocket for her to see it.

She stared at me for a minute and grabbed the brochure from my hand.

The dryer's whistle blew. She rose and retrieved her fresh, dry garments. I adore the scent of freshly laundered clothes. It carries the fragrance of lavender and blooming flowers, evoking memories from my childhood. I can still picture those sweltering afternoons when I used to wash my dad's clothes, carefully hanging each piece out in the yard. On the days he was particularly kind, he'd play music outside and dance around, only to see me smile.

I escorted her to the exit door, glanced at her, and nodded. Her eyes reflected a blend of despair and hope. I watched her from the window as she made her way to her car, and as she departed, a sense of fulfillment washed over me, filling my heart with joy.