The Waiter

by Ginger Voight

slight, barely a wisp of a man in his finely tailored suit. A towel lay across his other arm and he had a ready smile for me.

  Before I could ask if this was Gus’s grandson, because surely it had to be, he said, “Good afternoon, Betty. It sure is nice to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

  “Gus?” I breathed.

  “Black coffee with sugar to start you out today?”

  It was what he had always said before a morning shift. All I could do was nod.

  I watched him disappear into the darkness of the rest of the restaurant.

  My mouth was still hanging open when he returned with my coffee. “Might I suggest the cream of asparagus to start?”

  “Gus,” I started again.

  He looked at me expectantly. It dawned on me there was no real way to broach the fact that he had to be a figment of my imagination. I was delusional. He was a hallucination. He had to be. That there was no logical explanation of why he was still barely out of boyhood and I was one foot outside the grave.

  “The soup will be fine,” I finally managed, unable to form my mouth into all the questions spinning around in my head.

  But there were always questions swimming around in my head these days. The doctor had warned me that my symptoms of dementia were getting progressively worse. I could remember entire chunks of my childhood with absolute clarity, but forget if I had taken my medication that morning for breakfast.

  I was on the downward slope. Visions of Gus only proved this.

  I glanced down at my hands. They had wrinkled and gnarled with age. I lifted a spoon to gaze into my reflection. Gray hair had replaced brown many years ago. Crows had left their footprints by my eyes, which now required bifocals in order to do their job properly. I had aged. Time had ravaged my body.

  But not Finnegan’s. Not Gus.

  A tear teetered in the corner of my eye. It hardly seemed fair, but yet it seemed right.

  I was still subdued by the time Gus brought me my soup.

  It was hot and creamy, the finest cream of asparagus soup I’d ever tasted and I had tasted plenty. Cream of asparagus was possibly my favorite soup of all time. Just its warm, creamy texture on my tongue was like a hug from an old friend.

  Like I said. Gus just knew.

  The rolls were still hot from the oven and soft and doughy to the touch. Cold pats of butter melted the instant they touched them, and I savored each bite.

  For a hallucination, they tasted pretty good. It tasted so good, in fact, that my appetite returned with a vengeance and couldn’t be denied, even in the midst of this beautiful daydream.

  He brought the main entrée. Pot roast so tender it nearly split before the fork even touched it. The potatoes had a nice, crispy skin, and the carrots were sweet and tender.

  By the time he brought the dessert menu, I was so full I could barely breathe. I hadn’t eaten that much in years, since before I was diagnosed, easily.

  “How about a piece of our pecan pie? Holiday special,” he added with a grin.

  I shook my head with a smile of my own. I was no longer really concerned with fact he had not aged one day in sixty-four years. It was clearly a dream, and I was going to enjoy it. But I was still a lady, after all. It was terribly uncouth to gorge oneself. “I couldn’t possibly,” I told him with a chuckle.

  He produced a plate from behind his back. Pecan pie with a generous dollop of whipped cream.

  It looked so good that I couldn’t say no, even though I had no idea where exactly I was going to put it. For the first time in a long time I was truly full, completely sated and satisfied. But then again, if this was a dream, why not live it up?

  He filled my coffee cup with the same quiet courtesy. And just like decades before, his calm presence healed my wounded soul.

  When the doctor had told me the news, the very worst Christmas present in the history of Christmas presents, I hadn’t thought I could feel any worse. I knew death was coming, of course. I could see his shadow waiting for me behind every window or door I passed. My strength was waning, my body was failing. It was no longer a matter of if, but a matter of when.

  Unlike Scrooge, who had seen his headstone and knew what waited for him if he didn’t change his ways, there were no friendly ghosts to save my bacon anymore. My time was up. The last grains of sand were about to fall.

  Even if you know it is coming, it brings no comfort whatsoever to know just how long that will take. It was bad news to get, and a bad day to get it. Dr. Padilla hadn’t wanted to tell me right before the holidays, I’ll give her that. But she had said, and I agreed, that it was best to know that this was the last Christmas I’d ever get. I could do the things I wanted to do, or say the things I wanted to say. I could leave this world without any regrets… if you didn’t count the regret that I had to leave at all.

  That was why I came back to Finnegan’s. Despite how my mind had failed me over the last few years, I remembered every tile on the floor, every nick in the wood – every last shade of every last tiny little lamp that made up the chandeliers in the dining room.

  And here it all was. I could see it with my own two eyes, and touch it with my own two hands. I could smell the bread and taste the food.

  I could depend on it, even if I couldn’t depend on my husband coming home from the war, or living long enough to see if the groundhog saw his shadow.

  What had felt like the worst day, and in fact was probably the most dreaded worst day of anyone’s life, had turned into a nice little sojourn into the past. I didn’t feel alone anymore. I didn’t feel afraid. I felt like I was home. Among friends.

  One very special friend in particular.

  Needless to say he was going to get a very good tip.

  After I enjoyed the two bites of pecan pie I could force down, I waited patiently for my check and simply soaked up the ambiance. Gus passed by, only this time he didn’t stop. I think that was the first time he’d ever done that.

  Outside the snow fell a little harder, tossed about on the wind until it stuck to the glass it froze from the outside. I glanced at my watch. It would be nightfall soon, and I didn’t trust myself to drive when it got dark.

  Like my memory, my eyes had started to fail. Obviously, or else I wouldn’t see visions of a boy I used to know a lifetime ago.

  I waited some more, and he passed by again. Finally, on the third time, I reached for his arm. “Gus, it’s getting late and the weather is getting bad. I really must go.”

  “I’ll go get Finnegan,” he said. “He’ll be bringing your check today.”

  I nodded and then resumed the wait.

  Finally a young man with dark hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen came up to the table. “Betty Malone?” he asked.

  I nodded, a bit thrown that he would know my name. Betty Malone had never come to this restaurant. Only Betty Peters. “I am,” I finally confirmed. “And you are?”

  He reached for my hand. “Albert Finnegan. I own the restaurant.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” I said as I reached for my purse. “I used to come here all the time back in the forties. I was so glad to see it was still around today. You have a fine establishment.”

  “I credit my staff,” he said with a proud smile.

  I couldn’t help but mirror it. “Yes, Gus in particular is a true joy.”

  I pulled a credit card out of my wallet, but he didn’t accept it when I handed it to him. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Malone. We don’t take credit cards.”

  “Oh.” I supposed some things really didn’t change. “I have cash,” I offered as I opened my billfold.

  He chuckled as he shook his head. “We don’t take cash either.”

  I was confused. “What do you take?”

  Right before my eyes, he disappeared just like a wisp of smoke.

  I heard myself gasp. The candle flickered and nearly went out. Suddenly I really wanted to leave. This was no longer a nice dream. As I reached for my purse, to dart out of the booth as quickly as an eighty-t
hree year old woman could, I suddenly realized my hands were no longer gnarled with age.

  They were the hands of another person; a person stolen from me so long ago by the thief called Time.

  I grabbed for my compact. In the small oval glass I no longer saw crow’s feet and gray hair. I saw the same young face I had seen every day in every mirror sixty-four years ago.

  And I was wearing a waitress uniform.

  My hand shook and the compact clattered to the ground, shattering the mirror into three big pieces.

  A familiar, slight frame knelt to pick it up. It was Gus. He gave me a comforting smile that let me know once again I was going to be okay. That I wasn’t alone.

  Once more words weren’t needed, only this time it was I who knew. I knew why I had come back to this strange yet wonderful place, and why I would never again leave. The old, disease-ravaged body that had been loaned to me hadn’t even made it out of the doctor’s office that afternoon.

  But my soul, once again young and beautiful, had. And it brought me here. To him.

  Gus reached for my hand.

  I took it with a smile.

  About the Author

  Ginger Voight is a screenwriter and bestselling author with over twenty published titles in fiction and nonfiction. She covers everything from travel to politics in nonfiction, as well as romance, paranormal, and dark, “ripped from the headlines” topics like Dirty Little Secrets.

  Ginger discovered her love for writing in sixth grade, courtesy of a Halloween assignment. From then on, writing became a place of solace, reflection, and security. This was never more true than when