Now the money she’d spent three months earning was gone.
“All of it?” I asked.
Lily nodded.
“Four thousand dollars?”
Another nod.
I kept my voice low because I knew shouting would make her stop talking.
“Who did you give it to?”
Now the money she’d spent three months earning was gone.
Lily wiped at one eye.
“Mom, I need you to understand something first.”
“No. I need a name first, Lily.”
“It’s not one name, Mom.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Mom, I need you to understand something first.”
She hesitated.
Then she said, “Seventeen names.”
I honestly thought I’d misheard.
“Seventeen people?”
“Yeah.”
“Seventeen people?”
“What people?”
Lily got up.
“Come with me.”
“Lily, I’m not going anywhere until you explain what happened.”
She turned toward the counter, grabbed her café hoodie, and pulled it on.
“Please.”
I looked at the empty key ring beside my coffee.
Then at my daughter.
“Lily, I’m not going anywhere until you explain what happened.”
Twenty minutes later, we were walking toward the café where she’d worked all summer.
Neither of us said much.
I had too many possibilities running through my head, and every one of them irritated me more than the last.
Had her coworkers pressured her?
I had too many possibilities running through my head.
Had some adult discovered she had savings?
Had Lily decided generosity meant handing money to anyone with a sad enough story?
She was 16.
Kindness at that age could be enormous and reckless in equal measure.
When we reached the café, Mrs. Patel was unlocking the front door.
Kindness at that age could be enormous and reckless in equal measure.
She had owned the place for almost 20 years and had hired Lily in June.
She looked at me, then at Lily.
Her smile vanished.
“You told her?”
Lily nodded.
I stopped walking.
“You knew?”
Mrs. Patel slowly pushed the door open.
“Come inside, Rachel.”
“You told her?”
That did not improve my mood.
The café wasn’t open yet.
Chairs were still upside down on tables.
The pastry case was empty.
Mrs. Patel led us past the counter into the cramped little office where Lily usually disappeared to count tips after her shift.
Mrs. Patel led us past the counter into the cramped little office.
She opened a metal cabinet.
“Before you get angry with me,” she said, “I didn’t know how far she was going with this until fairly recently.”
“That sentence isn’t helping,” I muttered.
“I know.”
She reached behind a box of receipt rolls.
“I didn’t know how far she was going with this until fairly recently.”
What she pulled out was nothing impressive.
Just an old index card.
The edges were bent.
Coffee had stained one corner.
Written down the front in blue and black ink were 16 first names, accompanied by dates.
What she pulled out was nothing impressive.
And next to several names, written in handwriting I recognized before my brain caught up with what I was seeing, was one word.
FRIDAY.
I took the card from her.
Michael’s handwriting.
I ran my thumb across the letters.
“No.”
Mrs. Patel just stared, saying nothing.
I took the card from her.
I looked at Lily.
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it in July, Mom.”
“What is it?” I gasped.
Mrs. Patel pulled out the desk chair.
“Sit down.”
I didn’t.
She sighed. “Your husband used to come here a lot.”
“I know that.”
“Your husband used to come here a lot.”
Michael had loved diner coffee more than any reasonable person should.
He used to claim coffee tasted better in thick white mugs.
I called that nonsense.
He called me uncultured.
But I had never known Mrs. Patel knew him as anything beyond a regular customer.
Michael had loved diner coffee more than any reasonable person should.
“Do you remember George?” she asked.
“No.”
“The first name.”
She tapped the top of the card.
GEORGE.
Mrs. Patel leaned against the desk.
“About seven years ago, Michael came in early one morning. He noticed a man washing his face in the restroom.”
“Do you remember George?”
I looked at the card again.
“Why?”
“Because George had been sleeping in his car.”
