If I turn into another, dig me out from under what is covering the better part of me

The gym I go to is in a Wal-Mart shopping center, and includes - of course - a Starbucks and several other shopping outlets.  I never think about these things and what they represent; I don't shop at Wal-Mart because I don't support their business practices, but I spend way too much money in general at Starbucks, and it occurs to me that I am of a particularly privileged class that this is even an option for me.  That I never think twice about shelling out four or five dollars for a mid-afternoon coffee whilst sitting in my air-conditioned vehicle, talking on my cell phone, at the great American drive-thru window.  When I worry, I worry about how we're ever going to get to Hawaii this summer, or how I can manage to get to London again this year. 

But there's a woman who lives in her car in this very same parking lot, and I can no longer ignore her the way I wish my middle-class white existence tells me I should.  I noticed her about a week ago, her car filled to its weight limit with her belongings, wrecked in the front, and she hangs around on her cell phone.  Initially, I thought maybe she was just traveling or moving, and had stopped for a break, but she is still there, and she has been each and every time I go there in the past week.  Several times I've meant to speak to her, but being alone, I thought better of it.

Living downtown, I became accustomed to the homeless population.  Normally they don't bother me, either, because in large part, the urban homeless seem to understand their resources, have friends and their own communities, and occasionally I toss a few dollars or some food their way.  It seems to be almost its own subculture, but out here in suburbia, it's keeping me awake at night.  This woman appears to be utterly alone, and what I find most staggering about her situation is that in the past week, no one has appeared to notice her or do anything to help her.  If I noticed, then certainly the people who work daily in this center have noticed her too?  Seeing her breaks my heart and mostly because I know that I can't adopt her and make her life better despite my obvious privilege in the world.  It makes me keenly aware that I am where I am largely because of the circumstances I was born into - I will always have family and friends, a certain standard of living I can maintain because of this fact, and the ability to obtain work and pull myself up if I have to because I'm educated and skilled.  

So I decided to do something.  I called my mom to find out if her church had an outreach program.  I wanted people who were on charitable missions to find her rather than the State.  There isn't much they can do.  I called the United Way on their 211 number and asked them what they could do.  Nothing until she comes to a shelter.  They told me to call the police department and have them "check on her" and try to convince her to go to a nearby shelter.  I called the cops and they said they'd take care of it, but I drove by late last night, hours after my calls, and she was there in exactly the same state I found her previously.  My heart sank when I drove in and saw her car again.  

Why is it that in a place where homes cost a quarter million and certainly not less than $150,000, and where a Starbucks drive-thru can be busy at every waking hour, that NO ONE can do a fucking thing to help this woman?

My parents went over and talked to her.  Her name is Kathy and she is obviously not well mentally, but reasonably lucid.  She said she was hungry and thirsty, so my dad got her some dinner and a large bottle of water and some ice.  He wanted to put her up in a motel, but thought better of it - he certainly cannot afford to keep her there so it would only be a band-aid and she'd go right back to where she is after that ran out.  She was very grateful to my folks, and my dad took her some breakfast this morning on his way to work.  I don't know where else to turn, really, but I cannot abide this situation.  I won't.

The worst, most sinking part of all of it, though, to be honest, is this: I can't figure out if what's bothering me is that she is there as a constant reminder of the iniquities of American existence, or that I would rather live in ignorant bliss.  Part of me wonders if it's just that I want her to go away to assuage my guilt.  I hope that it's because I genuinely care about her.