“Bessie!” I scream. “Bessie!”
Oh my God, this is the worst Christmas Eve ever. Not only have I been working two shifts in a row at a crappy diner, but after forgetting to serve one of my customers, she died. You would think that if you screw up as a waitress, the worst thing that could happen is somebody has a bad meal. But apparently not. Apparently, my neglect has killed this woman. She starved to death while waiting for one of us to bring her food.
I am worse than Scrooge. I definitely deserve coal in my stocking. (Instead of a bunch of stuff from the dollar store, which is probably what is actually in my stocking.)
Bessie comes hurrying over, looking about as panicked as I feel. She catches sight of the old woman and sucks in a breath. “Is she…?”
“I think she’s gone,” I squeak.
This is going to be so awful. We will have to call the police, and then… Well, I’m not sure what will happen next. I imagine her family will be notified. Her children and grandchildren will find out that their mother/grandmother won’t be around to open presents with them on Christmas morning. Way to ruin the holidays.
Or what if she doesn’t have a family? After all, she is all alone on Christmas Eve. What if nobody even cares that she died? That’s even more horrible.
“What do we do?” I whisper to Bessie, as if the woman might overhear us if I’m too loud.
“Lady!” Bessie snaps, getting right up in her face. “We’re closing!
Time to wake up!”
Still nothing. Oh God, she’s definitely dead. How long has a dead woman been sitting here with us?
“Let me take a look at her purse,” Bessie says. “Maybe she’s got identification.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“Yeah, but first, let’s check her purse.”
I get the distinct feeling that Bessie doesn’t care about identification, and she’s just hoping to score a few bucks off the dead woman before the police haul her away to the morgue. I can’t even contemplate doing
something like that. Yes, I like to have electricity and heat in our apartment, but I’m not stealing from a dead woman. You have to draw the line somewhere, and that’s mine.
But as Bessie reaches for the woman’s alligator skin purse, a wrinkled hand shoots out and grabs her forearm. Bessie lets out an ear-shattering scream as she backs away from the old lady, who apparently is very much alive.
“I’m so sorry!” I cry. “We thought… I mean, we were worried that you were…”
The old woman finally blinks at me. She might be alive, but I very well could have a heart attack right about now. Bessie doesn’t look much better. The woman wipes a fleck of drool from the corner of her mouth and stares up at us.
“Yes?” she says in an accent that sounds European.
I wring my hands together. “We… we’re closing.” I glance down at my watch. “Like, now.”
The old woman considers this for a moment. Finally, she nods and carefully extracts herself from the booth. We don’t have a check for her to pay, but it doesn’t seem like she ate anything, so I guess it’s okay. I almost offer her a cup of coffee, considering we screwed up and failed to wait on her, but the thought of staying here even another minute is too horrible to bear.
The woman slowly pulls on an extremely worn wool coat, then limps in the direction of the exit. She looks like she’s about to fall over and probably should have a cane or a walker, but I’m not in any position to judge.
“Merry Christmas!” I call out as cheerfully as I can muster. And I do feel a little cheerful. After all, I’m going home soon to my wonderful and handsome husband. Although most of all, I am tired. Bone tired. I’ll be lucky if I can keep my eyes open while Justin and I are exchanging gifts. Not that I have a gift to exchange with him.
The old woman turns to look at me. She stops walking and reaches for her purse.
Oh God, what now? Is she going to take a gun out and rob us? Is that the punchline to this evening?
“I hear your problem,” the old woman says in her slightly broken English. “I want to help you.”
My problem? My problem is that it is Christmas Eve, I’m tired, and I want to go home. But I stand there patiently while the woman rifles around in her purse until she pulls out what looks like a business card. She holds it out to me.
“Take,” she says.
Obligingly, I take the card out of her hand. It is, in fact, a business card. Emblazoned in block letters on the card are the words: HELGA’S ATTIC. Followed by an address about a dozen blocks away from here.
“What is this?” I ask.
“This is my store,” the old woman says. “I am Helga.” “Oh,” I say.
“I will help you find a Christmas present for your husband.”
“Oh.” I force an apologetic smile. “Actually, I don’t have any money for that.”
“Not a problem. We will make a deal.”
Bessie has been listening to this exchange, and she suddenly speaks up, “So it’s a pawn shop?”
The woman, Helga, nods thoughtfully. “I am always willing to purchase interesting items.”
I almost tell her I don’t have anything worth buying, but then I remember I am wearing a necklace that my aunt and uncle gave me as a graduation gift. Maybe that’s worth something. And anyway, anything I could find at this shop is better than coming home empty-handed. Plus, it’s on the way.
“It’s late though,” I point out. “You’re still going to be open?”
“I am always open,” Helga says. “It is important to have a present for your husband for the holidays. I always have presents for my Sven and my daughter.”
I look down at my watch. I really just want to go home, but at the same time, I’m desperate to find a present for Justin. It is our first Christmas together as a married couple, and I want to get him something amazing.
“You come,” Helga says. It’s not a question—it’s a command. “I will find you the perfect gift.”
With those words, Helga turns and leaves the diner. The bells on the door jingle when she leaves—for just a bit longer than they should.
As soon as she leaves, Bessie turns to me, clutching her chest. “Oh my God, that woman nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought she was coming back from the dead!”
“I know,” I say, still feeling my heart race.
“You’re not actually thinking about going to that weird store of hers, are you?”
“Maybe,” I confess. “It’s on my way home, and I really want to get something special for Justin.”
“Why even bother?” Bessie snatches a fork from the table and waves it at me. “I’m telling you, every guy just wants a nice fork.”
“Alright, alright. I get it.”
“Seriously, though, you should head home to your husband. I’ll finish up here and lock up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’ve got no one waiting for me. Just go, and don’t waste your time at that ridiculous store.”
Maybe it’s because Bessie’s been married three times, but she doesn’t have the same sense of romance I do. I can’t go home without a Christmas gift for my husband. I just can’t.
I’ll swing by Helga’s store and see if there’s something nice and affordable. If there isn’t, I’ll walk out empty-handed. It’s on my way home, so what do I have to lose?
What’s the worst that could happen?
