The Light Before Us

by Stephanie Vercier

  It’s fairly slim pickings this time of morning, as the first store I come to is closed and won’t open for another hour. It’s not even seven o’clock in the morning, so I figure everything else will be closed too. I’m about to go in search of a gas station food mart when I come across a diner at the northern edge of Meadow Brook’s downtown. I pull into the small parking lot at its side that is already half full. That’s probably a good sign as to the quality of the food, but I’m a little worried about having so many patrons getting a look at my face. It’s probably a little grandiose, but I can’t help but to think Michael and my parents will have the entire Interstate-5 corridor plastered with pictures of me along with a cash reward for any information as to my whereabouts. They have the resources to do it, and I don’t doubt they’d get it on every TV station from Seattle to San Francisco too. It wouldn’t matter that I’d left of my own volition—somehow they’d turn it to make it look like I’d been kidnapped and was in mortal danger.

  But I keep walking toward the diner because maybe I am being too self-focused and paranoid. The woman at the motel was indifferent to me, so why shouldn’t everyone else be too? Even if my picture does find its way into viral social media postings, Mom would make sure to share one that had me in several layers of makeup, my hair perfectly done and in a dress worthy of a New York catwalk. Appearance is absolutely everything to her, but appearance can be changed, even just by playing it down.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” a woman carrying a pot of coffee says to me as soon as I walk through the front door of the busy diner.

  I look around at the booths with red vinyl seats that line the inside wall and front windows, then the tables and chairs that fill the rest of the space in the middle. The customers are mostly men, a few of whom look up at me, and I quickly make a dash for a booth in the back corner.

  Unlike the motel I’d stayed at overnight, the diner isn’t a dump, but it’s also not quite what I’m used to in Seattle. I fold my hands on a table that has some kind of fake wood pattern on it. It’s chipped on the edges, but it’s clean, and sugar packets and condiments against the wall are tidily ordered. I wish I had my phone or even a menu to read so that I didn’t look so totally conspicuous and out of place.

  “Coffee this morning?” The same woman who’d told me to find my own seat now stands above my table with the coffee pot in hand. She’s wearing minimal make-up, and her dark hair is tied up into a loose bun. Bloodshot hazel eyes make me think she’s exhausted.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  She turns one of the coffee cups on the table over and then fills it with the dark liquid. I try not to stare, but I see enough of her to notice she’s displaying a frown on her face that I imagine is otherwise quite pleasant.

  “I’ll bring you fresh creamer if you’d like, but otherwise the powdered stuff and sugar’s at the end of the table.”

  I look up at her, and she nods her head toward the packet dispenser.

  “I don’t need any cream,” I tell her, and reach for the sugar.

  “Just the coffee?” she asks.

  “Um… no… I think I’d like to order some food.”

  “Figured you might. You’re all skin and bones, honey.” She sets a menu down, then turns and walks away to the next table.

  I find myself shocked at what she’d just said to me, the thing about being all skin and bones. She doesn’t look the part of a cranky old waitress that goes around spewing slight digs at her customers. In fact, she doesn’t look old at all, probably not over forty and with a face most people would call pretty and a body most men would find attractive. And I most certainly wouldn’t consider myself a bag of bones.

  Michael had a tendency to find things to complain about when it came to my appearance, that my hair should have been down instead of up, that I wasn’t wearing the right outfit for an afternoon outing that suddenly became a formal event. But my body—or my face for that matter—had never been the subject of his complaints. I’m fit but curvy, tall without being too tall, and I watch what I eat without going overboard on counting calories. I consider carbs to be friends, though, like a lot of other girls, I’d considered them one of my mortal enemies for a stint in high school. It had been a time where I’d wanted desperately to please my mother to the point I’d have sleepless nights if I could pinch small bits of fat on my body. I’d nearly slipped into an eating disorder, but, as strange as it was, my own mother had told me I was looking sickly, and that being anorexic wasn’t any better than being morbidly obese.

  It’s now I remember, like one of those small, significant memories that you bury, that she’d said I was all skin and bones.

  No wonder the waitress’ words had wounded me.

  I tell myself she didn’t mean it to be cruel, and even if she had, I’ll need to thicken up my skin if I want to make it out here in the world all on my own. I stuff whatever offense I’d taken away and pour some sugar into my coffee and take a drink of it.

  It’s awful.

  I can’t stop my lips from puckering, and I’m regretting my decision not to ask for the real creamer she offered. It might actually be really good coffee, but even when I was at Stanford, I’d only ever had the kind you get at Starbucks or boutique coffee shops, coffee with whipped coconut cream and drizzled with caramel, so sweet that I’m not sure I ever tasted the actual coffee.

  But I’m going to have to get over all of that and start living like I don’t have a silver spoon sticking out of my mouth.

  I take another sip, deciding it’s not as awful as the first, then set the cup down. I look over the menu, everything looking like it comes with a huge side of grease or giant slabs of melted butter, none of it looking especially appetizing. I’m again reminding myself that I better get used to eating at places that don’t have organic or gluten free or vegan options—places I’d used my credit cards at without any thought to what my meal actually cost—when the waitress comes back around.

  “You decide?” she asks, a small pad and pencil in hand.

  I look up at her a little helplessly, noting that her nametag says Melissa. “I’m not sure,” I get out. “Umm… maybe I just need another minute or two?”

  She gives me a long, appraising look before she displays what I think is a smug smile. “You one of those foodies? From Portland?”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “It’s all right,” she says, turning her smile friendly. “We need to update our menus to get with the times. We can make whatever you want, but I can’t guarantee everything is organic except for the eggs.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I get out, unsure I want to be the type of customer who demands special treatment and off-menu items, allowing my younger, more pampered self to rise to the surface.

  She shrugs. “It’s not a problem. These guys like their food smothered in syrup and grease.” She looks around the room at the mostly middle-aged and older men. “But we get plenty of tourists through here too. I can tell you the eggs come from a lady near the coast. They’re fresh, and she doesn’t kill her roosters. She’s a bit off if you ask me, one of those animal lovers, which is great unless you have to live next to her and wake up every morning to a bunch of cockle doodle doo-ing.”

  I laugh at that—I can’t help myself.

  “But the eggs are absolutely delicious. So maybe I give our cook a break and whip up a Florentine omelet for you? Spinach, mushrooms and tomatoes with a side of hash browns sound good?”

  “It sounds perfect. But you don’t—”

  “It’s not a problem. Gives me a chance to work on my culinary skills. And if you don’t want regular creamer…” She looks around, smiles, then lowers her voice, “I’ve got soy or coconut milk in the back. I like to slip it into things to see if these guys notice. Just say the word, and I’ll get you some.”

  “Oh, coconut sounds good,” I say with relief, my cheeks warming as I’m hoping this isn’t just some trick where she’s actually going to spit into my food before bringing it
out. And I’m not sure I’d blame her.

  “Coconut it is.” She stuffs her pad into her apron, takes my menu and then heads off to the kitchen.

  My breakfast ends up being delicious, better than anything I’d ever eaten at one of the “foodie” restaurants in Seattle or San Francisco. When I’ve sopped up the last of the egg yolk on my plate with a thick piece of toasted wheat bread, I look up and notice a help wanted sign just above the counter in front of the kitchen where a few men sit drinking coffee, eating and watching the same morning TV talk show the woman at the motel had on.

  If I find the cabin today, and everything checks out, it might not be a horrible idea to attempt to get a job. I’ll already be down below four-hundred dollars when I consider what I paid for the motel last night, what I’ll pay for this meal, and the tank of gas I’m going to have to get.

  “Everything good?” Melissa asks, setting my check down on the table and picking up my now empty plate.

  “Delicious,” I say. I’m trying to work up the nerve to ask about the sign when Melissa starts to turn back to the kitchen. “Umm, can I ask you about your help wanted sign?” I manage to get out.

  She stops, looks over at the sign behind the counter, then turns back to me and smiles. “I just filled that waitress job yesterday and haven’t had a chance to take the sign down. Sorry about that.”

  “Oh… well, I just thought I’d ask.” I’m not sure if what she’s saying is true or if she just doesn’t think I’d make a very good waitress. She’d probably be right on that account—I’ve never had a paying job in my entire life.

  “I had to give it to my daughter,” Melissa goes on to explain with a sigh. “She’s home from college for the summer… needed a job.” She raises her brows and narrows her eyes at me, like she’s trying to decide if she should say more. Then, with a conspiratorial gaze, she says, “But who knows how long she’ll last. My daughter has a difficult time committing to things… to school… to work… and to leaving any of it on good terms. So why should this time be any different?”

  I’m sure my eyes widen as I take in the easy way in which she’s just unloaded so much personal information with a total stranger. And yet I get the feeling her words have spilled out because of frustration and last straws rather than any actual attempt at shaming her daughter.

  “So, you’re living here in town?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say, hoping I can find the cabin and make my statement true.

  “Well then, there is another job if you’re interested,” she says, lowering her voice.

  “Another job?” I’m already imagining something illicit, a drug runner or a prostitute or perhaps a foodie liaison to update the diner’s menu.

  “You have any experience in personal care for geriatrics?” She sets my empty plate back down on the table and slides into the seat across from me as if we hadn’t just met this morning.

  I’m relieved her job offer is about taking care of someone and not selling my body or illegal substances. In fact, it’s something that I do happen to have experience in because of my major.

  But I’m hesitant to say yes.

  She sighs loudly, closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I know it’s kind of a shot in the dark, and I shouldn’t have even asked,” she says when she opens her eyes back up. “I’m just so tired, which shouldn’t be surprising considering how sharp I’ve been with you. My name’s Melissa by the way, if you didn’t already get that from the name tag.”

  I smile. “I did—and I’m Natalie—and you’ve actually been really nice.” Even for saying I was all skin and bones, she’d gone above and beyond to make up for that.

  She shrugs just one shoulder, like she doesn’t believe me. “It’s my mother,” she goes on. “Had a stroke six months ago, and we can’t keep anyone on because she scares all of the home care attendants away. And the moment I even mention a nursing home, she turns into a raging monster. And I know I’m taking a chance, but I can read people pretty well, and you seem more trustworthy than—”

  “I’ll do it,” I say, surprising myself as much as I seem to surprise her.

  “You will?” She looks unsure and grateful all at once, like it’s too good to be true that this strange girl walking into this diner would be a good fit for helping her out.

  “I can provide references if needed, but I’d rather not,” I tell her with a burst of brazenness. “You see, I’m trying to make a fresh start, and I don’t especially want anyone to know where I am.”

  She sits back in the booth, pushing her lips into a thin line as her eyes widen.

  I’m afraid I’ve said the wrong thing, as sharing limited information about yourself can be the same as sharing too much. I know that if it were my mother I’d needed someone to care for, I’d demand those references. And that’s even considering how strained our relationship is.

  “What are you running away from, Natalie?” she asks in a near whisper. “Not the law I hope.”

  “No,” I say with a relieved, little laugh. It’s not all that bad at least. “It’s actually just my parents and my fiancé.”

  “Oh? They the abusive sort?” She arches an eyebrow.

  “No.” I bite at my lip. “Well… I don’t know. In a way maybe?”

  “There are all kinds of abuse,” Melissa says. “I’ve lived enough life to know that much, and one of the bravest things you can do is to break free from it.” She takes a deep breath and keeps her eyes solid on mine. “Tell you what, you come back here this afternoon, say around four o’clock. Then you and I take a drive up to my house, and you can meet my mother. If you can stand her, and she can stand you, then you’ve got the job, no more questions asked.”

  “You’d do that for me?” She’s putting a lot of trust in me, which means I’ve convinced her I’m at least not an escaped lunatic. But I think a bigger part of it is because she’s desperate to.

  “You haven’t met my mother,” Melissa answers with a crooked smile. “You may be asking why I did this to you when all is said and done.”

  Chapter Three

  NATALIE

  I still can’t get over meeting Melissa and her offering me a job on the spot. Even with her warning about how difficult her mother is, I can’t help my excitement and the hope that everything might work out, like I’d been meant to come into that diner just when I did and to have things fall right into place.

  But what’s not falling into place is my search for the cabin. I’ve been driving around for an hour already, using up gas and paying extra close attention to every turn I’m making since I don’t have a phone or the GPS I’d need if I were to get lost. I should have asked Melissa for some help with directions before I’d left the diner, but I couldn’t even remember the name of the lake the cabin is on—we only just ever called it our lake. And I’d look pretty suspect if I didn’t have a clue how to find the place I supposedly lived. Besides, I’d felt sure I’d be able to find it in the light of day.

  I’m currently heading down another long, two-lane road, not looking all that different from the other two-lane roads I’d gone down. I’m feeling defeated and thinking about finding a place to turn around when I come upon a big red farmhouse with white trim and a faded sign with a picture of a horse. The house is suddenly so familiar to me, and I know that I’ve seen it before, probably because it’s a landmark on the way to the cabin.

  Eagerly, I continue on the road and follow a gentle curve. Partway into the turn, the brilliant blue of the lake is revealed, and then, just a couple hundred more feet, I find myself right in front of the cabin that had been nothing but a memory for so very long.

  I’ve found it, and it’s real.

  Filled with excitement, I back up, then ease my car into the gravel at the side of the road and directly in front of the house. I want to jump out and run inside and see how many things line up with my recollections. But I’m also wary, and sit for a while watching and making sure there aren’t any signs that anyone is occupying it or that, conversely, it�
��s been left to rot and isn’t fit for human habitation. It appears clear on both counts, so I slowly open the car door and step out. I sling my purse over my shoulder, taking tentative steps closer to the cabin where some of my best childhood memories were made at.

  And those memories don’t feel at all exaggerated to what I now see in front of me. The cabin is set back a good way from the road—sometimes I used to run sprints from the front porch to the pavement after too much sugar, and it always seemed to take forever. The trees out front have grown fast. They’d been planted one year as seedlings by a couple of men who’d had what looked like a whole forest of trees in the back of their truck. I remember Grandpa saying something about wanting privacy, and over the years the trees have done exactly that, shielding both sides of the front yard from the very few cars or trucks that might drive by, leaving a space in the middle where the cabin—a chalet style with a steep roofline and green shutters on every window—can still be seen.

  The closer I get, the more apparent it is that it’s in really good shape. The siding is cedar I think, and it’s been stained a rich reddish-brown. The grass has recently been mowed, the lines of the mower still somewhat visible. I hesitate in exploring further because the cabin could only look this good if it were occupied. It’s possible my parents could have sold it without me knowing, but I’m unwilling to turn back now that I’ve come this far and continue up and onto the porch and knock on the front door.

  There isn’t any answer, and after knocking again, I grip the doorknob, take a chance and turn it.

  And just like that, the door cracks open.

  “Hello?” I call out, taking a step into the small foyer.

  The house is perfectly quiet except for the wood floor creaking beneath my feet and the very quiet hum that I eventually ascribe to a refrigerator as I make my way into the kitchen.