The Christmas Secret (5 page)

“What happened?” she said, whispering.

I took off my jacket and put it under her head. “I don't know. You stopped breathing.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she squinted at me in the sun. “Where am I?”

“You're in front of my house.”

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

I pulled her jacket tighter around her. “Don't apologize. I'm grateful you're breathing again.”

She attempted a smile. “So am I. What's your name?”

“Christine,” I said.

She tried to find my hand and I slid it into hers. “You're a waitress?”

“Yes.”

“I was a waitress once,” she said. “It's how I met my husband.” Her hand lost its strength and began to slide from mine. “Will you stay with me?”

My mind raced. My shift started at eleven. “Yes,” I said,
glancing down the street. I could hear the ambulance making its way through town. She lay still with her eyes closed and I shivered as a breeze swept across the sweat that stood on my back.

“My car,” she said. “It's in your way.”

“Don't worry. I'll move it,” I said. I worried that she wouldn't remember where she had been driving when she blacked out. “I can take it to your home or work or wherever. Where do you work?” Her eyes were closed and I wasn't sure if she heard me.

“Downtown,” she said, so low I had to strain to hear her.

“I can leave it in front of Patterson's and the keys under the mat.” She squeezed my hand. The ambulance grew louder and I looked down at her. “It's almost here,” I said.

The ambulance stopped in the middle of the road and a man and a woman jumped from the back, rushing to the woman's side. I moved out of the way and watched as they checked her vital signs and spoke to her. “Do you know her?” the man said, turning to me.

“No,” I said, wrapping my arms tight around me.

“What happened?” They were putting her on top of a collapsible stretcher.

“I don't know,” I said. “I found her slumped over the wheel of her car.” They raised the stretcher and moved it toward the back of the ambulance. I ran for her car and lifted her purse off the front seat. “This is hers,” I said, handing it
to the paramedic inside the ambulance. “For ID. Tell her family that I'll park her car at Patterson's Restaurant. Keys under the mat.” They closed the doors and I watched as they drove away. I was trembling.

I picked my jacket up off the ground and threw the contents of my purse back inside it. I had five minutes to get to work. My heart was still racing as I sped through town and I hoped that Rod wouldn't notice that I was late. I parked the woman's car in front of the restaurant and slipped in the front door, scanning the place for Rod. I put my jacket and purse in the cabinet under the cash register. Renee caught my eye and moved her hand across her forehead. It was five after eleven but I had made it. She pointed to a section at the back of the restaurant and I grabbed an ordering pad. I smiled at a couple who were looking over the menu and approached their table to greet them. “Hi,” I said.

“Renee's got this section, Christine.” I turned to see Rod walking toward me.

“Oh, she thought I was back here,” I said.

“No,” he said, motioning for me. “You're done. Gather your things. I'll have your final check on Monday.”

My stomach dropped. “What? Why, Rod?”

His forehead turned red. “I told you that if you were late one more time that that would be it.”

“A lady passed out at the end of my driveway,” I said, following
him through the restaurant. “I had to give her mouth-to-mouth.”

He didn't believe me. “Sorry, Christine.”

I pointed to the front of the restaurant; my hands were shaking. “Her car is right out there. She's in the hospital and I said I'd park her car here so her family could get it.”

He turned to look at me. “Best of luck.”

He walked past me and I rubbed the sweat off my upper lip. I ran after him, grabbing his arm. “Rod, I need this job. You know I do.”

He pulled his arm from me. “Lots of people need jobs. Some people actually work when they get one.”

An image of Brad raced through my mind and my eyes filled. I could
not
lose this job. He would use it against me and try to get primary custody. Rod had to know how desperate I was. “Please, Rod. This was not my fault. I had to help that woman.”

Renee overheard us and stepped next to Rod. “We're so busy,” she said. “Can't you give her another chance?”

He wouldn't look at her. “Gather your things, Christine.” He walked into the office and closed the door.

Renee balanced the tray she was carrying on her hip and leaned in to hug me. “I'm so sorry, kid.”

I nodded and my legs shook as I walked toward the crowd of customers who were waiting for a table. The other two waitresses formed what they could of a smile as I picked
up my purse and jacket from under the hostess station and moved through the waiting area to the front door. I pushed it open and a rush of something like sadness or injustice or disbelief filled my throat and when I stepped onto the sidewalk I shoved my jacket to my mouth, sobbing.

“Are you okay, miss?” I glanced up to see an older man in front of the restaurant and turned my head away from him, nodding. “Are you sure? I can take you into the store and get you some help.”

I shook my head and walked away, hoping he wouldn't say anything else. I turned into the alley between the restaurant and the bank and waited for him to walk away. It took a few seconds before I heard him leave. I peered around the corner and watched as he waved at someone on the street before going into Wilson's.

 

The phone on Marshall's desk rang about twenty minutes after eleven. He hung it up and hurried toward the entrance of the store. “What's wrong?” Jason asked as he and Matt kept in step behind him.

“Judy's unconscious in the hospital!” He and Jason jumped into Marshall's green Dodge Stratus and pulled out of the lot.

 

I realized I had driven the woman's car to the restaurant and I didn't have a ride home. Tears burned my eyes and I
pulled a tissue from my purse, pressing it to my face. This was what I got for helping someone. I looked up and down the street, for what I don't know, and started walking in the direction of the bus station. The air made me shiver and I stopped to put on my jacket before crossing the road. I pulled up the zipper and stepped off the curb, jumping as a green car laid on its horn and raced by me. For a brief second I wished it would have hit me and cried harder. Why couldn't anything ever go right? Why was everything always so hard? The bus station was eight blocks away but it didn't feel like my legs could carry me there. I passed the florist and the flowers in the window caught my eye. They were beautiful pink and blue and white hydrangeas, my favorite. Brad never gave me flowers. Not even once. He said they died and were a waste of money.

I wanted to call someone and tell them what had happened but I didn't know who that would be. My mother and her husband Richard were out of town visiting his parents and I didn't want to bother them. Mom had always prided herself on never asking anyone for help when she was raising me; I was her responsibility and she took care of me on her own. I had fallen in step right behind her, failing to even call her when I needed help.

I'll figure it out
, I said to myself, shoving the tissue inside my jacket pocket. The sign for the bus station was visible in the distance and I picked up my pace. I stopped at the corner of
Main and Fourth Street and waited for the light to turn green before I crossed the road.

“Excuse me.”

I turned to see a woman with light brown hair that hung to her shoulders in a wispy mess. She looked to be in her midthirties but something in her eyes seemed much older. I had been a waitress since I was seventeen years old and had seen a lot of faces over the years. Every once in a while I really see what's in those faces, something that stops me. I can't describe it exactly but it's something there in the eyes or in the lines on the upper lip or across the forehead that reveals unexpected pain or beauty or both and in that split second of a moment my heart breaks for that person. I don't know what it was about the woman in front of me—maybe it was how close her skin stuck to her bones or the dark circles that cast moonlike shadows under her brown eyes. Whatever it was, I felt like I needed to protect her, defend her, or take her home.

“I'm looking for Daley's. Do you know where that is?”

I thought for a moment. “Is that the truck stop?”

She shrugged and held up the classified section of the newspaper. “I don't really know. They need a cashier.”

She looked breakable; there was no way I was going to send her to Daley's. “You don't want to work at the truck stop,” I said. “They'll put you on the night shift and the smoke will kill you.” She nodded without looking at me.
“Hey, why don't you go to Patterson's? I know they need a waitress.”

She glanced up at me. “I don't think I'd make a very good waitress.”

“Then you'd be perfect for Patterson's.” I turned around and pointed up the street. “It's up that way about six blocks, right next to the bank and Wilson's. While you're up that way you should apply at Wilson's, too.”

“No matter what you're going through,” my mother would say as I was growing up, “someone else has it worse.” I watched as the woman walked away and knew, without knowing anything about her, that her life was a bigger mess than mine.

I turned to head for the bus stop again when I noticed people mingling on the sidewalk off Fourth Street, waiting for a table at Betty's Bakery and Restaurant. I realized I had forgotten about that little restaurant tucked away off the main drag in town. I pulled out my compact and fixed the black lines under my eyes and put on fresh lipstick.

The lunch crowd stood outside the doors and filled the small waiting area. I pressed through them and the smell of cinnamon and hazelnut filled the restaurant. A waitress was filling a customer's glass with water. Unlike Patterson's, Betty's didn't have the newest furnishings. The chairs were hardwood or wicker-backed, the floors were dark, knotty pine, two walls were exposed red brick and old newspaper
articles and magazine covers were hung on them. Blue and white checkered cloths draped each table and baskets hung from the ceiling. The front counter curved from one end of the restaurant to the waitress station, enclosing the short-order prep area where sandwiches, soups, and salads were made. The first third of the counter was wooden and covered with Betty's T-shirts and sweatshirts for sale along with bags of coffee beans. The remaining two-thirds of the counter was glass that looked down into a brightly lit display of cakes, pies, pastries, bread, and cookies that stretched back to the waitress station. Across from the display cabinets were three wooden racks filled with day-old and fresh bread and rolls. It smelled like the bakery where my mother used to work. “Excuse me,” I said to the waitress. “Is there a manager on duty?”

She glanced at my Patterson's uniform. “Are you going to work or looking for work?”

“I'm looking,” I said. “Are you hiring?”

“I hope so,” she said, pointing to the back. “Betty Grimshaw's the owner. She's the lady with gray hair, talking to those people at the four-top.”

I walked through the maze of tables and waited for Betty to finish her conversation. Something about this place felt so different from Patterson's. Betty turned toward me, looking at my uniform. “You showed up for work at the wrong restaurant,” she said.

I faked a laugh and stuck out my hand. “Hi, Betty. I'm actually looking for work. I'm Christine.”

Betty Grimshaw had opened Betty's on her own twenty-five years ago. It started as a small bakery and grew to include the restaurant. She was short and plump, wore glasses on a chain around her neck, and cackled when she laughed. She studied me and then motioned with her head for me to follow her. “How long have you been at Patterson's?”

“Just over a year and a half,” I said, weaving in and out of tables.

“A long-termer,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. “It's a revolving door down there.” I didn't say anything. She pointed to a young woman working with dough. “Don't handle that too much, Stephanie. If you work the dough too much it won't be flaky. It's ready now.” Stephanie floured the table and rolled the dough out in front of her. A timer buzzed and Betty opened the oven, pulling out a large tray filled with pastries. “Stephanie, give these a few minutes but then use that pastry bag and drizzle icing over each one. And don't be stingy with it. No one's watching their weight when they eat one of these and they expect it to be fabulously gooey.” Betty washed her hands in the sink and dried them with a paper towel. “Do you cook, or bake, or wait tables, Christine?” She stepped out of Stephanie's way and leaned against the walk-in refrigerator. I wondered how old she was; her hair was a soft white with a few streaks of
pepper throughout, some would say her moon face was half-ruined with lines but I thought it crackled with joy. She bounced around the kitchen like employees half her age.

“I've only waited tables at Patterson's.” I realized that didn't make me sound very valuable. “But I
could
bake. My mother worked in a bakery for fifteen years and she taught me some things at home.”

“Do you have children?”

My eyes filled at the mention of Zach and Haley and I looked down at the floor. “I have two,” I said, pretending to cough. “A boy and a girl.” I could feel her watching me.

“I had that exact combination, too,” she said. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. “You remind me of my granddaughter. Something in the eyes. I think she's beautiful but I have been accused of being biased. It's completely unfounded. She is stunning. Like you.” I looked up at her and smiled. “Has it been one of those days?” I nodded. “I had one of those days once,” she said, reaching for a broom hanging on the wall. “It lasted fifteen years and then he decided to run off with the neighbor woman. Two years later she took him for everything he had but I got two kids who have given me four grandchildren so I made out in that deal.” She swept the kitchen floor and around Stephanie's feet in small, brisk strokes, sweeping up a small, floury, white pile. I reached for the dustpan hanging on the back wall and knelt in front of her. She took it from me and
dumped the pile into the trash can, washing her hands afterward. “Listen, one of my gals is about to go on maternity leave. I thought she should have left last week. When you get to the size of a planet I think you should lay low until the baby comes, but she was determined to work as many days as possible to save up Christmas money. She has three days left, then she'll give birth to little Aaron or Sybil and she'll be off until sometime in January. You interested?”