I wake up in the wee hours of morning, covered in sweat. The dream I’ve just had is of my mother lying in a hospital bed, weighing eighty pounds, with tubes to keep her breathing until I could get there. In the dream, I stepped into the doorway, but that thing—that horrible thing I couldn’t escape— came over me, and I backed into the hall and left the building.
The problem with the dream is that it really happened. I’m a coward.
She died that night. She gave up on waiting for me.
It’s only two a.m., and I need to sleep. Driving without sleep is miserable, not to mention dangerous, and I have to work today. I have to make my rent money or I’ll be evicted right after Christmas.
The robbery a couple of weeks ago—in which some thug pointed a gun at my head and took every dollar I had—really set me back. I haven’t made it up yet. Emotionally, it helped a little that they caught the guy a few days later, and I had the privilege of identifying him in a lineup. But the money was long gone.
I turn on the TV, the volume turned down low, and try to sleep in my recliner, but it still evades me. Finally, I give up. It’s now five a.m., so I put on a pot of coffee and take a shower.
When I get into my cab and sign in with dispatch, I’m feeling the fatigue.
“I’ve got a call for you already,” LuAnn says in a much too upbeat voice. “They called and asked for you specifically.”
“Great.” I like repeat customers. “What’s the name?”
“Callie Beecher.”
I groan. “No! Not her again. I can’t afford this!”
“She paid you last night, didn’t she?”
“She wrote a check.”
“Well, cash it.”
“I will, but odds are it’ll bounce, meaning I can’t pay you your share, meaning I’m wasting all this time. Seriously, I can’t drive her again today. Where does she need to go, anyway?”
“She didn’t say.”
“So did a family member call again?”
“No, she called herself and asked for ‘that nice young man.’ I thought she was talking about Lamar, but no, it was you. Who knew?”
I brush the hair back off my forehead. “You’re killing me.”
“I told her you’d come.”
“Of course you did.”
I drive to Callie’s, feeling sorry for myself. If this goes anything like it did yesterday, I’ll have to feign a headache and tell her I’ll get her a replacement cabbie.
How did she even remember me? She must have gotten the number off my card.
I don’t bother to honk my horn. Instead, I cut off my ignition and go right to her door.
“Hello,” Callie says through the screen before I can even knock. “Come in, sweet boy.”
Surprised, I open the door and step inside. “Ms. Beecher? You called for me?”
“Please, call me Callie.”
“Okay, Miss Callie.”
She looks much more awake, and she has makeup on. Powder, blush, and a little lipstick. “You look like you’re feeling better today,” I say. “Where did you want me to take you?”
She seems suddenly confused, and looks around for something.
“Are you looking for your purse?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“It’s in your lap.”
She laughs as though embarrassed, then digs through it.
“You were going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She pulls out a sheet of paper. “I try to write things down, but then I forget where I put the list. Here . . . this is it.”
I take the list and see a bunch of words that have no meaning to me. “Uh . . . there are several things here.”
“Yes, I want to hire you for the whole day.”
“Ma’am, that would cost a lot of money.”
“I’ll pay you,” she assures me. “Can you take me?”
I hate to say no to a woman who’s three hundred years old. “Okay, fine.” I do a quick calculation in my head. If I can keep the meter running all day, I can earn enough to pay the rest of my rent. Which means I don’t really have the luxury of saying no. I clap my hands together. “Okay, let’s go.”
I get her out to the car, hook her in, and put her wheelchair in the trunk. “So what’s first on the list, ma’am?”
“Macy’s Department Store. I have to pick up a few more things for Christmas.”
This isn’t going to turn out well. She’s planning to wheel around the store in her chair when she can’t even move herself? I have a bad feeling as I drive the few miles to the mall. I pull in front of the store. “I have to keep the meter running,” I say.
“Of course you do. Where are we now?”
“Macy’s. Christmas shopping.” I get out and get her wheelchair. When I open the back seat and help her into the wheelchair, I ask, “How are you going to get around?”
“Well, I . . . I don’t know. I suppose I . . .”
I can’t believe this. “See, I don’t go in with people and help them shop. I drive. That’s it.”
She gives me a vacant look.
“I can’t keep my meter running if I turn my car off.”
She smiles as if she’s just noticed me. This isn’t going well. “Miss Callie, do you need me to go in with you and push you?”
“Would you mind?” she asks, beaming. “You’re such a delightful young man.”
“That’s me. Delightful. You’re going to have to wait here while I find a parking space.”
“I won’t go anywhere.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumble under my breath. Biting my bottom lip, I move the cab and turn the car—and the meter—off. How am I going to log these minutes?
Shaking my head, I go back to Callie and roll her into the store.