by Gail Sattler
He waited while she struggled with the handle to open the window, but it only opened two inches and stuck.
Mark tapped his foot, not caring if he looked as impatient as he felt. Every extra minute she took to fool around with the window took a minute out of his sleep time and hers, something neither of them would be getting enough of that night or for many nights to come. It was already nearly eleven p.m. The countdown to getting up at five-thirty a.m. had already begun, and he still wasn’t even in the house, never mind in bed.
“Just get out of the car already,” he snapped.
She froze, her eyes widened, and she looked up at him. Very slowly, she exited the car and stood in front of him.
Her voice came out as softly as a whisper on the wind. “Yes?”
All Mark’s anger melted. At the diner when they were both running around trying to keep up with the latest crisis of the hour, energy levels were piqued and adrenaline levels were high. It was easy for him to stay pumped. Now, here, when they were so tired he didn’t know how they both could stand, everything came more into perspective.
Chantelle wasn’t his enemy. They were both striving toward a common goal, which was the success of the diner. The little coffee-break battle they carried through the entire day, much to the amusement of all the employees, was meant to be for the good of each other. It had worked. They had both worked fifteen-hour days, and neither of them had made any mistakes or done anything wrong, except for one little piece of pie that went flying off a plate when Chantelle turned around too fast.
He didn’t want to fight with Chantelle. She was his friend.
“Come here.” He extended his arms, inviting her closer.
Much to his relief, Chantelle smiled and accepted his offer. She snuggled up to him, wrapped her arms around his back, and he did the same to her. Mark buried his face into the top of her head, being careful not to hit his nose on any of the plastic clips that hadn’t fallen out.
Her hair didn’t smell like apple shampoo this time. In fact, after a long day at the diner, she smelled a little like greasy French fries. Still, he couldn’t think of anyplace else he’d rather be.
“It’s been a long day, but we did great,” he muttered.
Briefly, she gave him a small squeeze, then released him, so he did the same.
“Good night, Mark,” she said softly. She shuffled back into the car and drove away.
Mark stood at the curb, smiling, watching the car until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
He couldn’t kiss her; but if every night they parted with a hug, then all would be well with his soul.
Still, hugs or not, it was going to be a long week.
❧
Mark opened one eye and smacked at his wristwatch on the night table to get the sound to stop. As his head cleared, he realized it wasn’t his alarm that was beeping. It was the electronic tone of his cell phone, ringing from his pants pocket, on the other side of the bedroom.
He flung the blankets aside, barely managing not to trip when his bare feet touched the cold hardwood floor. Grumbling every step of the way, he stumbled across the room and groped at the lump that was his pants until he found his cell phone.
“Hi, Mark! I was wondering what time you wanted me to pick you up?”
“Chantelle?” he mumbled, then shook his head to wake himself up enough to carry on a conversation. He shuffled back across the room and picked up his wristwatch. He squinted and held the watch up to his face, struggling to focus on the numbers without his contacts in. The time was nine a.m. “I’m sorry, I must have overslept. I didn’t hear the doorbell. Are you at the diner?”
“No, Silly. It’s Sunday!” she chorused in the most annoying little singsong voice he’d ever heard. “I was just calling to see what time you wanted me to pick you up for church!”
“Church? I was going to sleep in.”
“No, no, nooo-oh. . . ,” she sang into the phone, making Mark wince. “You already have slept in. The service starts at ten. I’ll be there at nine-forty. See you later!”
A click sounded in his ear.
“I thought you were going to ask,” he grumbled to the dial tone, then flipped the unit closed.
He crossed the room to get his bathrobe out of the closet so he could take a shower, but stopped before he opened the door. He looked at himself in the mirrored bifold door. Even without his contacts, he didn’t like what he saw.
He’d put in countless long hours over the years, but it had never shown on him before, at least not like this. He was barely awake, and already dark circles shadowed his eyes. His skin seemed too pale, not only because he was spending the bulk of the summer indoors.
Mark stiffened and straightened his posture, but he still looked like a scruffy mess. Aside from not having shaved yet and added to the rude awakening, his hair stood out in clumps. It reminded him that he couldn’t remember when he last had time to get a haircut.
He stood, unmoving, staring at his pathetic reflection. The last week had been the worst alleged vacation of his life. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired, even though last night was the most sleep he’d gotten all week because the diner opened half an hour later on Saturday than on the weekdays. Still, by the time they’d cleaned up and locked the doors, Chantelle had dropped him off at eleven p.m. For the first time in his life, he’d gone from the front door straight into the bedroom, leaving his clothes in a trail across the floor as he fell into bed.
The good part of the week, though, was that he finally finished everything he needed to do. Everything had been re-entered and reconciled, including an accompanying database. Both he and Chantelle now had signing authority at the bank, and he’d given everyone their paychecks on time. All he had left to do was network the computer to the cash register to tally the orders as they were charged to the customers. Then, once a day, he needed to enter only whatever had been spilled or disposed of at the close of business. In the tap of one keystroke, the computer would generate the order for the following week. From now on, nothing would be left to guesswork or to chance.
On Monday, they could start afresh with a new schedule having fewer hours per day for both of them. That afternoon, he was going to lease a car, which would gain him some independence.
If only he could get one good night’s sleep, life would again be good.
After putting in his contacts, he poked his head out the bathroom door. “Mom? Dad?”
Only silence answered him. He padded barefoot into the kitchen, where he found a note on the table. He sat on a stool at the kitchen counter to read the note.
Hi Mark,
We went to church, but you were sleeping so soundly, we decided to leave you alone. We’re probably going out for lunch with friends, so we’ll see you at suppertime.
Love,
Mom and Dad
Mark sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. His parents understood him. Chantelle on the other hand. . . That was another story.
He sighed again and slouched back down the hallway to the bathroom to run the water for his shower. He doubted she would be on time, but he refused to let her bad habits affect him. He would be ready on time even if she wasn’t.
Soon, Mark felt human again. This time, when he stood in front of the mirror, shaved, refreshed, and able to focus properly, he was more satisfied with himself. However, when he opened the closet door, his mood again fell to discouragement.
Working six days a week from sunrise to well after sunset, he hadn’t had time to go shopping. All he had with him was the contents of his one suitcase, which was only meant for one weekend. His mother, bless her soul, had felt sorry for him and bought him one additional change of clothes, then done laundry midweek to let the three outfits he had last him. However, today all that hung in the closet was one shirt, one pair of pants, and a tie belonging to his father—the same thing he’d worn to church last week.
He ran his hand down his face. Tomorrow, he would courier the key to his apartment and ask a fr
iend to pack up and ship some things to him. He also needed to make arrangements to store his car somewhere and see if he could sublet his apartment rather than paying rent and having it vacant.
He groaned out loud as he thought of the contents of his refrigerator, which he hadn’t even looked at when he got home from work the Friday he left. He had expected to be back two days later, not even enough time to worry about the milk going sour. But after over a week. . .
Rather than stand in one spot feeling sorry for himself, Mark dressed, made a quick breakfast, and was ready to go when Chantelle arrived, to his surprise, on time.
Instead of going to their uncles’ church, she took him to her own, where she felt more comfortable.
She seemed to know everyone there, from infants to the elderly. By the time they made it to the sanctuary and were seated, he’d been introduced to so many people, he knew he would never remember a single one of them, except for Tyler, the teen with the blue spikes in his hair.
He turned to Chantelle, meaning to ask what time the service ended, but his words caught in his throat. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed earlier, but Chantelle looked as bad as he felt. She wore only a bare hint of lipstick and eye shadow, which emphasized the lack of any attempt to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Even her unruly hair had lost its bounce. Although she never seemed to lose that effervescent cheerfulness, her eyes seemed dull, giving away how the long hours had more than caught up with her.
To cut her driving time and allow her more sleep, Mark made a mental note that leasing a car would definitely come before buying more clothes.
The lights dimmed, and the service began. He found he knew some of the worship songs. Although not having attended his own church much in the last year, he didn’t know some of the choruses that appeared to be fairly new to Chantelle’s congregation.
As they sat to hear the sermon, Chantelle pulled a small-print full-version mini-sized Bible out of her purse. When she noticed him squinting to read it, she handed it to him. Not that he particularly wanted to read it, but out of politeness, he was now obligated to follow along, holding it to the side so both of them could share. The print was so small, his eyes burned with the strain to read, forcing him to hold it closer than he normally liked to position his reading material. While the pastor read a very long passage, he felt Chantelle lean her shoulder against his, telling him that she, too, felt the strain of tired eyes and needed it closer.
Because the pastor often referred to verses within the text, Mark continued to hold the Bible up during the sermon.
Quite frankly, Mark found the message quite ordinary and the pastor uninspiring. Besides, he figured there was nothing God had to say to him. Instead of paying attention, Mark read past the section the pastor was preaching on, hoping no one would notice as he turned the page. Actually, since he probably would never be back there, Mark didn’t really care if anyone noticed. They would never see him again. The only one he had to worry about was Chantelle, because he had to see her every single day for the next four months. If there were one thing he had learned about her, it was that once she got an idea stuck in her head, nothing in the universe could change it, not even good old common sense and reasoned logic.
As he continued to read the story of Daniel, he noticed that Chantelle hadn’t stopped leaning on him.
He smiled to himself, wondering if she were as bored as he was and was also reading with him. Just before he turned the page again, he cocked his head slightly to ask if she were ready for him to flip the page. However, instead of reading, her eyes were closed. He moved slightly to look at her better. With the slight movement, her head bobbed, then flopped to the side, resting on his shoulder.
Mark forced himself to keep a straight face. Obviously, he wasn’t the only person less than enamored with the pastor’s monologue.
However, sitting in church with Chantelle leaning on him and sleeping put him in a quandary. It was church, after all. It seemed disrespectful to sleep through the pastor’s message, despite the fact that he knew how tired she was.
Still, he didn’t know if he wanted to wake her up. If he poked her, he would be taking the chance that she would be startled and jump or, worse, scream, which he wouldn’t put past her.
Therefore, as long as she didn’t snore, Mark decided to let her sleep.
Instead of reading, Mark found himself staring blankly, the words blurring on the page in front of him while the pastor’s voice droned on. The warmth of Chantelle on his shoulder distracted him, drawing all his thoughts to her instead of what was going on around him.
He knew how exhausted he felt—it was all he could do to keep his own eyes open. More than that, he was accustomed to unreasonable hours of work and she wasn’t. Plus, over the past week, he’d spent the majority of his time as he usually did, sitting down with his face glued to a computer. Chantelle, on the other hand, had spent most of the time on her feet and walking around, maintaining a cheerful presentation as she dealt with customers from opening until closing.
He specifically remembered on Saturday night, she’d traded duties with one of the servers for an hour. All Mark could see were dollar signs flitting through his mind as he added up the possibilities of what she could drop, spill, or break. But, if she wanted a change in her routine, he would do his best to push aside his worries. Putting in the long days as they had been doing all week, he at least had had the opportunity to change between accounting and cooking. He wanted to be fair to allow Chantelle some variety, although admittedly there wasn’t much difference that he could see between serving and hosting.
She’d done fine until just before closing, when he came out of the office to tell her that he’d finally finished compiling the database.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. As he started to speak, she turned her head. Not watching where she was going, she walked into the corner of one of the tables. She hadn’t fallen down, but everything on the tray she’d been carrying went flying and crashed to the floor. He couldn’t bear to see the mess and all the broken dishes, so he’d closed his eyes, hoping everything was a cruel figment of his imagination.
Then he heard her sniffle. When he opened his eyes, everyone in the area was looking down at the mess, but he looked at Chantelle. Tears shimmered in her eyes as she stood, immobile, pressing both hands into her thigh at the spot she’d impacted with the table.
She’d hurt herself. At the time, she’d just cleaned off a couple of tables and her tray was stacked triple height with dirty dishes. He knew she had difficulty walking in a straight line at the best of times, to say nothing of carrying a fully laden tray. Yet, knowing this, he’d forgotten common sense. In his excitement to be done, he’d called out her name. This time, her accident was his fault for distracting her. It had been when she looked at him that she walked into the table.
Just thinking about it made his chest tighten and his heart pound. Out of the corner of his eye, he ignored propriety and peeked down at her leg. Sure enough, her skirt had crept up as she sat, showing a huge bruise in vivid shades of blues and greens.
As clearly as if it had just happened, he again visualized her expression, the horror, the embarrassment, and the pain of impact. In front of everyone present, she’d blinked the tears back, choked out an apology, and insisted on cleaning up the mess by herself. When he offered to help, she shook her head and turned her back to him while she collected the broken pieces onto the tray on the floor by herself.
He felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the gut.
It suddenly dawned on him that the sanctuary had grown silent. The pastor closed his eyes and raised his arms, then instructed everyone to bow their heads to pray.
Quickly, he put his arm around Chantelle, both to steady her as he woke her up, but mostly as a precaution to hold her down if she jumped from being startled.
He was about to give her a gentle shake, but he didn’t want her to wake up quite yet.
Taking advantage of everyone having their e
yes closed, he studied her, possibly, first because she wasn’t looking back, and second, because it wasn’t often that Chantelle was still. If she weren’t walking, she was fidgeting or at least playing with her hair. Because of her small size and almost continual cycle of motion, he often compared her to an insect, always buzzing around but never settling down.
Another person who shared the same hyper trait of constant motion was Joe, only Joe was a more normal size.
Mark’s stomach took a nosedive. Joe had been home from the hospital for only a few days, temporarily confined to bed or low levels of activity because of his heart attack.
For now, Chantelle was still young—but how many years of the same hyperactive behavior and bad eating habits would it take for her to drive herself into the same situation? She’d already nearly fainted, and she said it hadn’t been the first time.
The thought that something might happen to her stabbed him where he didn’t think he could heal. For all her frenzied behavior, she did have a sweet heart and a helpful spirit. She often went out of her way to help others, sometimes to her own detriment. Unfortunately, her compassion for others tended to make her a poor supervisor. She tried her best, but she was completely unable to take a hard line, especially on questionable issues. Nor could she provide direction when she didn’t know the answer herself. In only a week, he’d already seen her fold a couple of times when dealing with the employees.
On the other hand, for such a little shrimp, she somehow managed to hold her own against big, bad, rowdy customers. Not that a family restaurant like Joe’s Diner attracted many of the unruly crowd; but on Saturday afternoon, a small group of young men came in who had obviously had a few drinks too many after a local sporting event. They had barely been seated when they became very loud and started to harass the part-time server. Mark had started to walk to their table to ask them to leave. However, before he could get there, Chantelle stomped up to their table and demanded that they apologize to the poor girl.
