"Oh, come on. I saw Irina baking some new pies this afternoon. Pie always cheers you up."
Irina is one of the chefs at the diner. She likes having me try her new pie creations before she offers them on the menu. Irina's pies are one of the reasons I've gained weight this past year.
At the mention of pie, I give in. If there was any time I need pie to cheer me up, this is it.
"The place is crowded tonight," Mom says to Mr. Reynolds when he hands her the forgotten paycheck.
Mr. Reynolds, usually so calm and in control, seems panicked. "It's the men's bowling league," he explains. "They just came in and Yolanda went home sick ten minutes ago."
There's about thirty hungry men milling around the tables, and I only see Tony, a new waiter, looking more frazzled than Mr. Reynolds.
Mom taps her boss on the shoulder. "If you need help, I'm sure Maggie won't mind if I stay for a bit."
Mr. Reynolds smiles. "Really? That would be great."
"No problem."
"You're the best, Linda. I owe you one."
My mom rolls her eyes playfully as she heads behind the counter to wrap an apron around her waist. "You owe me more than one, Lou, but we can discuss it later."
"You got it," he says, then rushes to greet new customers who've just walked in the door.
Mom scurries to the group to help Tony take orders while I follow behind her with a pitcher, filling water glasses.
After I pour the water, Mom tells me to sit down at a booth. I pull out the Frommer's book on Spain from my purse and stare at it longingly. If only we were as rich as Kendra's parents, I'd be able to go to Spain. Even if we were as rich as Caleb and Leah's parents, we'd probably be able to afford it without thinking twice. Their dad is an oral surgeon and has just about every southwest Illinois resident as a patient.
It's times like these I wish my dad and mom never got divorced. I can pretend to forget about the fights, the screaming, the anger lurking around every corner of the house. Mom said they just grew apart while he traveled for work and she stayed home. When he came home on weekends, he wanted to relax while my mom wanted to go out. Eventually Dad stopped coming home on weekends. And Mom stopped caring if he was home.
I'm not sure where Judy (his new wife) fits into the divorce equation. I miss my dad, but he never asks me to come to Texas and visit. I don't want to ask him why he doesn't invite me because, to be completely honest, I don't want to hear he doesn't want me as a part of his new life.
As I'm waiting for my mom, Irina comes out of the kitchen. "Moggie, Moggie!" she says excitedly in her heavy Russian accent, "I hove a new pie for you."
"Is it with carrots?" I ask, worried. The last time Irina made a carrot pie using an old family recipe of hers, there were chunks of carrots in the middle. I'm happy to say it didn't end up on the menu.
"I promise no weggies. It's a vhite pie viz chocolate cheeps and graham cracker crumbs laced viz caramel. Sounds delicious, no?"
My stomach growls, ready for the rush of sugar. "Bring it out. I need something to cheer me up," I say. "There's a problem with my trip to Spain."
Irina gasps. "Oy, vat hoppened?"
I shrug. "It's a long story."
"I come bring pie right now, da?" Irina says before disappearing into the kitchen. She comes back a few minutes later with a huge slab of pie. I can tell before I taste it this is going to be a best-selling dessert at Auntie Mae's Diner next week.
Before I take the first bite, I say "You're the best, Irina," and dig my fork into the white moistness speckled with graham cracker, caramel, and chocolate chips. She always waits next to me until I swallow the first bite and give her my analysis.
"It's awesome," I say, savoring the moistness of the creamy part and the soft crunch of the chips blended with the smooth caramel and crumbly texture of the graham crackers. "One of your best."
Irina whisks herself back into the kitchen with a flutter.
"I see Irina found you," Mom says as she holds a tray full of double-decker platters. "By the time you finish the pie, I'll be done here and we can go home."
I watch as my mom places the platters expertly in front of the hungry bowlers.
When I take my second forkful, another customer walks in. It's an old lady with grey hair, white pants, and a turquoise jacket. Mr. Reynolds greets her with a kiss on her cheek. "Mom, why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he asks the lady. "Wait, where's Gladys?"
"I fired her yesterday," the lady says. "She was a pain in the you-know-what. Besides, I don't need a caretaker. I made it here without one, didn't I?"
Mr. Reynolds looks worried. "Mom, why can't you get along with anyone I hire to help you? I swear you just fire them to spite me."
The old lady stands up straight with her chin in the air like a three-year-old. "I don't need any help."
"You have a heart condition," Mr. Reynolds says.
She waves her hand in the air, dismissing his concern. "Who says?"
"Your doctor."
"What do doctors know, anyway? They call it practicing medicine because that's all they ever do. Practice. If you'd visit me once in a while, you'd know I'm doing fine."
"I just saw you on Saturday." He huffs, then says, "Are you hungry?"
"What do you have on special this week?"