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By Root 468 0

laughing as they wipe themselves off from the rain. Her hair is thick and brown. As she shakes her head, I’m reminded of the fleece of the Shetland sheep our neighbors in Tifton raised. He— tall and muscular—smiles, places a protective arm around her, kisses her cheek. They stand together, waiting to be seated. Inseparable. Able to face anything because love is the strongest force against a world of uncertainty. I wonder if they’re engaged or married. I wonder if he runs his finger along her jaw from her earlobe to her chin and then cups her face in his hands, all the while telling her that there is no one but her in his universe. Has he called her to say that a day without hearing her voice is not worth living?

I have to turn away. Sometimes other people’s happiness brings an ache in my gut so large and deep that I wonder if I’m sinking. Sinking into my own gut—now that’s a medically unsound concept. Sally would dismiss it with a wave of her surgically adept hands. “Deena,” she’d say. “You can’t drown from your own sorrow. I know it might feel like you could, but…” Then she’d smile because she doesn’t like to be serious for too long.

When the waitress refills my iced tea, she stares out the drenched window and asks if I’d like anything else. Oh yes, there are a few more things I would like. Happiness. A fiancé who stays faithful. The ability to forget the car accident. “Peach pie,” I answer. “With ice cream on—”

“We’re out,” she says flatly.

My mouth must be hanging open. “No peach pie?”

She shakes her curls and sticks her pencil into a few loose ones on the right side of her head. This is Georgia, I think. Every car parked in the lot outside this rainy window has a peach on its license plate. How can Good Eatin’ be out of peach pie? How can they call this place good if they don’t have enough peach pie to go around?

“We have chocolate,” the waitress volunteers with a smile.

“Chocolate?”

“Let me make sure.” With her face turned toward the kitchen, she yells, “Hey, Harry! We got chocolate pie back there?” Waiting for his reply, she taps her fingers against the pencil in her hair with one hand and pats her generous waist with the other. She reminds me of one of those wind-up toys where the monkey frantically claps the two cymbals together until he winds down.

“What?” comes a tenor voice from the back, somewhere over the long, empty counter.

“Chocolate?” A louder tone. “Listen to me, Harry! Do you hear me?” Through her frown she shouts, “Chocolate pie!”

A few rows in front of me, the happy couple cover their ears with obvious hands.

“It’s okay,” I quietly tell her. “I’m fine.”

She stops tapping and patting, shrugs. “Our chocolate pie is good. Creamy. Rich.” She keeps going. “We make it with whole milk. None of that skimmed, low-percent, by-product stuff.”

“That’s all right.” I don’t tell her that I don’t like chocolate pie. Waitresses don’t really want to hear about your menu likes and dislikes, anyway. I muster a smile, or something that resembles one. “Thanks, though.” Mom would be proud of me.

When the waitress ambles toward the cash register, I take another look at the journal. This time when I open it, surprisingly I have the desire to write something. This is a moment I can’t let get away. Focusing on the first page, I uncap my pen. I run my finger over the smooth, lined paper. Concentrate on writing as neatly as you can, I tell myself. Such a hard thing for me to do.

April 15th, diner outside Gainesville. I ordered iced tea and fries. I wanted a slice of peach pie, but they were out. They have chocolate, but I am almost allergic to that. The rain acts like it doesn’t want to stop. I’m on my way to Bryson City. I am leaving Atlanta.

Putting down the pen, I think, “That wasn’t too bad.” I have Tylenol to mask my physical pain and this journal to tackle my emotional pain. What can go wrong?

Before leaving, I place two dollars on the table for a tip. Then I add another dollar, and from the bottom of my purse, a quarter, two dimes, and a shiny nickel. I feel sorry for the waitress having to work