An 82-year-old woman hired me every Monday just to stare at an old diner. On our fourth trip, a stranger handed her something that brought her to tears. When she finally told me why, I knew I couldn’t just drive her home and forget about it.
I’ve driven rich people around for seven years.
Men with their mistresses.
Women with exotic pets.
Clients treating me like dirt.
Nothing prepared me for Eleanor.
She booked me on a Monday, 11 a.m. Eighty-two years old, pressed coat, pearl earrings, tiny purse.
Nothing prepared me for Eleanor.
“Where to, ma’am?”
“The diner out on the old highway, dear.”
“That’s twenty minutes from here. Meeting someone?”
“Not exactly.”
Not exactly. Great. Very clear. Thank you.
When we got there, she pointed across the lot.
“Where to, ma’am?”
“Park there, please. Where I can see the door.”
“Want me to walk you in?”
“No, thank you.”
She sat for twenty minutes, staring at that door like it owed her money.
Then she said, “Take me home, please.”
I get paid by the mile, not by the question. Mostly.
Mostly.
The next Monday, same ride. Same spot. Same stare.
On the way back, she finally spoke.
“Is someone waiting for you at home, Emily?”
“My daughter. Lily. She’s eight.”
“And her father?”
“Left when she was eleven months old.”
Same spot. Same stare.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was bad at it anyway.”
I still remember that night word for word.
“Jason, Lily’s not even a year old!”
“I know.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m saying I can’t do this anymore.”
“You can’t do what? Be a father?”
He didn’t answer. He just packed a bag.
He took the good blender, too. I never forgave him for the blender.
The third Monday, Eleanor brought a small paper bag. She never opened it.
I tried again.
He just packed a bag.
“Did you used to come here?”
“A long time ago.”
“Must’ve been good food.”
“The coffee was terrible.”
“Then why come back?”
She smiled and said nothing. Instead she asked, “How’s Lily’s spelling test?”
“Then why come back?”
I’d mentioned that once. In passing. Two weeks ago.
Okay, I thought. Mystery woman remembers everything. I’m in trouble.
The fourth Monday, someone was standing by the diner door.
An old man, maybe seventy, in a gray coat. He was looking straight at my car.
He froze.
Then he went inside, came back out, and walked right up to Eleanor’s window.
He was looking straight at my car.
She rolled it down.
“I’m Richard. And this belongs to you.”
He handed her a little velvet box.
Eleanor opened it.
An old ring. Thin gold band, tiny stone.
She put her hand over her mouth and started crying.
An old ring.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?”
She looked at the ring. Then at me.
“I think it’s time I told you everything.”
Before she told me her story, I had no idea fate could be so cruel.
“Sixty-two years ago, I was a waitress in that diner,” Eleanor said.
“You? Carrying plates?”
I’ve driven rich people around for seven years.
“I was twenty. I was very fast.”
“A young man came every morning. Coffee, two eggs, table three.”
“Let me guess. He sat there on purpose.”
“Every single day.”
She turned the ring over in her fingers.
“Thomas. Mechanic. Twenty-three.”
“Every single day.”
“What was he like?”
“Loud. Greasy hands. Terrible jokes.”
“Give me one.”
“‘Your coffee tastes like motor oil.'”
“That’s a joke?”
“I said, ‘Then stop ordering it.'”
“I was twenty. I was very fast.”
“And?”
“He said, ‘Can’t. The waitress is too pretty.'”
I laughed so hard I had to wipe my eyes.
“Okay. I’d have married him too.”
“That was the plan.”
Her smile went away.
“That was the plan.”
“A year later, he proposed. I said yes before he finished the sentence.”
“What went wrong?”
“My father.”
“He didn’t like Thomas?”
“He didn’t like mechanics. He wanted me to marry money.”
“Thomas got a great job offer out of state and asked me to come.”
“What went wrong?”
