Chapter 7 - The Diner on Lexington
The lobby was cold and too quiet at five in the morning. The chandeliers were off and the marble floor I could still see from where I sat on the edge of a velvet chair looked gray without the warm light. My coat was still damp on the shoulders and my boots left a faint wet mark on the carpet.
Evelyn stood in front of me. She wasn't in the teal gown anymore. She had on a cream sweater and a long wool coat, but her hair was still swept up and her earrings were the same dark drops. She held her phone in one hand.
"We can send a car," she said. "My driver and my assistant. They can check the shelters, the hospitals. You should stay here where it's warm and get some sleep."
I shook my head. I didn't mean to be rude. My throat was dry.
"No," I said. "She wouldn't be there."
Evelyn looked at me and waited. She didn't push.
"She waitressed at the diner on Lexington," I said. "The all-night one by 63rd. With the yellow sign. And she goes to the church pantry. St. Bartholomew. That's where she'd go."
It was my mother's voice in my head. If we get separated, you go where people know us. Don't wander.
Evelyn stared at her phone for a second, then slipped it into her coat pocket without calling anyone.
"Then we go," she said.
The driver was already waiting under the awning outside. The air hit my face like ice when we stepped out. It was still dark and the street was empty except for a delivery truck and a man pulling trash bins. My breath made clouds. Evelyn put her hand lightly on my back, not pushing, just there, and guided me to the black car.
Inside it was warm and smelled like leather. The driver was an older man with gray hair who nodded to us in the mirror. Evelyn sat beside me in the back seat. She didn't tell him an address. She looked at me.
"Lexington and 63rd," I said. My voice was small.
He pulled away from the Waldorf and the city slid past the windows. Storefronts still dark, lights flickering on in apartments above. I held the necklace in my pocket. Evelyn had given it back to me after she closed the locket, and I kept my hand around it the whole ride. My legs didn't reach the floor right.
"Did you go there a lot?" Evelyn asked quietly.
"When mom had the early shift, she'd let me sit at the counter and do homework," I said. "They gave me hot chocolate."
She nodded and didn't ask more. I watched the streets change. We turned onto Lexington and I saw the sign before anyone else did. Yellow with red letters, buzzing, one letter flickering.
"There," I said, and pointed.
The diner was mostly empty. A few cab drivers at the counter, a woman alone in a booth. The bell over the door jingled when we walked in and heat and the smell of coffee and grease hit me. The manager was behind the counter, a thin man with a mustache and a white apron, wiping down the grill.
He looked up and his face changed when he saw me.
"Hey," he said. "Hey, little one."
I stepped forward. Evelyn stayed just behind me.
"Is my mom here?" I asked.
He wiped his hands on his apron and came around the counter. He crouched down a little so he was closer to my height.
"She was," he said. "Last night. Around eleven. She came in asking if I had any hours for her. Said she needed a shift bad."
My hand tightened around the necklace.
"Where did she go?" I whispered.
He shook his head. His eyes moved to Evelyn, then back to me.
"She was upset, honey. She was crying and she kept looking at her phone. I told her I didn't have anything till Thursday. She left a thing for you, in case you came. Said you'd come."
He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper, the kind they use for order tickets. It was folded twice and my mom's handwriting was on it.
He handed it to me. My fingers were cold and I fumbled it open.
St. Barts - pantry line 8am - wait for me there - love Mom was written in quick pen. Under it an address on 51st.
Evelyn leaned in to read it over my shoulder. I could feel her breathing.
"That's St. Bartholomew," she said softly to the manager. "The church?"
"East Village pantry," he said, nodding. "They hand out bags at eight. She said she was going to sleep nearby and be first in line."
Evelyn thanked him. I folded the paper back exactly how it was.
Outside, the sky was starting to turn gray-blue. The air was colder. The driver held the door open and we slid back into the warm car. I held the note flat in my lap so it wouldn't blow.
"51st and Lexington would be midtown," Evelyn said, looking at the address, then at me. "But she wrote East Village. That makes sense if they moved the pantry for winter."
May you like
I nodded. "Can we go now? Before the line starts?"
Evelyn told the driver the address. He pulled back out onto Lexington and the diner's yellow sign shrank in the back window. I pressed my hand against the cold glass and watched the city get lighter, block by block, the paper from my mom warm between my fingers.
