I recognized the handwriting before my mind fully accepted what I was looking at.
Michael’s handwriting.
I took the card from Mrs. Patel.
“No.”
She said nothing.
I turned toward Lily.
“Where did you find this?”
“In July.”
“What is it?”
Mrs. Patel pulled out a chair.
“Sit down.”
I stayed standing.
She sighed.
“Your husband used to come here a lot.”
“I know.”
Michael loved diner coffee more than any reasonable person should.
He insisted coffee tasted better in thick white mugs.
I called that ridiculous.
He called me uncultured.
But I never realized Mrs. Patel knew him as anything more than a regular customer.
“Do you remember George?” she asked.
“No.”
“The first name.”
She pointed to the top of the card.
GEORGE.
Mrs. Patel leaned against the desk.
“About seven years ago, Michael came in early one morning and noticed a man washing his face in the restroom.”
“Why?”
“Because George had been sleeping in his car.”
Lily stayed silent.
Mrs. Patel continued.
“He had a job interview that morning. Michael saw him trying to straighten a shirt that looked like he’d slept in it.”
I could practically hear Michael before she even repeated what he had said.
“He asked George if he had an interview. George answered, ‘I’m fine.’”
Mrs. Patel smiled.
“Michael looked at his shirt and said, ‘Didn’t ask that.’”
I closed my eyes.
That was exactly Michael.
If he asked whether your ankle hurt and you answered, “I’m okay,” it irritated him.
He wanted the answer to the question he had actually asked.
“What happened next?”
“Michael bought him breakfast. Took him to a discount store for a clean shirt. Then gave him enough money for the bus.”
Mrs. Patel tapped the date beside George’s name.
“He got the job.”
I exhaled.
“So that’s what the card is?”
“Not quite.”
