Chapter 3 - Twenty Dollars
Margaret ate slowly.
Emily stood by the service station and watched her, and she could not have said why she was watching, except that the woman ate the way Emily’s mother ate—carefully, with both hands, as if the bowl might be taken away.
Around seven, the front door opened and Richard came back into the dining room with Vanessa behind him. He had a folder in his hand now.
He stopped beside table six.
“Emily,” he said. “That report is on my desk. I’ll be speaking to the owner in the morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Collins.”
“Perhaps you’ll use the rest of the evening to consider whether this was worth it.”
He walked away.
Margaret set down her spoon.
“I’ve had a meal in a restaurant exactly three times in my life,” she said. “Once was my wedding. Once was my son’s college graduation. And once was tonight.”
Emily sat down in the empty chair across from her, which was against every rule the Meridian had ever written.
“Your son’s graduation,” she said. “What was he like?”
“Quiet.” Margaret smiled. “He wore a borrowed suit. He was the first person in my family to finish college. I worked two jobs to make that happen, and I would do it again tomorrow.”
“You raised him alone.”
“I did.”
“So did my mother.” Emily looked at her hands. “She’s recovering from surgery. I work extra shifts to pay the bills. She tells me I don’t have to. She tells me she’s fine. She’s not fine.”
Margaret reached across the table and put her hand over Emily’s.
“Tell me something,” she said. “If money and responsibilities weren’t holding you back, what would you really want to do?”
Emily laughed, surprised. Nobody had asked her that in years.
“I’d want to manage a restaurant someday,” she said. “Somewhere every guest feels welcome. Somewhere nobody gets turned away because of their coat.”
Margaret’s fingers tightened.
“Never give up that dream, dear,” she said. “Sometimes one small act of kindness opens a door you never imagined.”
At eight-fifteen, Emily’s phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She stood and excused herself and walked into the back hallway by the walk-in freezer, where the reception was better.
“Mom.”
“Emily. Are you on your break?”
“Something like that.” Emily pressed her forehead against the cool concrete wall. “Did you take your medicine?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
A pause. “You worry too much.”
“I worry exactly the right amount.” Emily closed her eyes. “Please promise me you’re getting enough rest.”
“I promise.” Her mother’s voice softened. “You’ve been so kind to me, sweetheart.”
“It’s not kindness. It’s the bare minimum.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Emily heard the sound of the television in the background, and the particular quiet of her mother’s apartment at night, and she wanted very badly to be there.
“I have to go,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Emily—”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happens tonight,” her mother said, “don’t you dare let anybody make you ashamed of who you are.”
Emily hung up and stood in the hallway for a moment with her hand over her mouth.
When she came back out, Vanessa was waiting by the service station.
“He’s calling the owner,” Vanessa said.
“I know.”
“Emily—”
“I know.”
Vanessa looked at the floor. “I wrote the report,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Emily said. “I’m not angry at you.”
Vanessa’s head came up.
“You should be.”
“Maybe.” Emily picked up a tray. “But I’ve got soup to serve.”
Margaret was still at the window table. She had finished her soup and stacked her spoon and napkin neatly, the way people do in houses where someone else will have to clear.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked.
Emily set down a cup of tea that nobody had ordered.
“There’s sadness in your eyes,” Margaret said.
“I’m just tired.”
“Is someone at home depending on you?”
Emily sat down again.
“My mom,” she said. “She had surgery in the spring. I work extra shifts to cover what the insurance didn’t. Some months I do the arithmetic on the bus and it doesn’t work, and then I do it again and it still doesn’t work, and I come in anyway.”
Margaret nodded slowly.
“I know how much a mother’s love can demand,” she said. “I raised my son alone, working two jobs. There were nights I ate what he didn’t finish so he wouldn’t know we were short.”
Emily looked at her.
“Years ago,” Margaret said, “a restaurant turned me away when I couldn’t afford dinner for my little boy. I never forgot it. Nobody should feel ashamed because they’re struggling.”
Emily’s eyes burned.
“I promise I’ll never make someone feel the way you did,” she said.
Margaret smiled.
“That,” she said, “is the only thing worth promising.”
May you like
At nine-forty, Emily went to the register to close out her tables.
That was when she saw the numbers.
