All in One Place (19 page)

This time of day the café was quiet, so I figured it would be more pleasant to fill sugar containers by his table than to
drag them all back to the workstation. But if I had known he was going to come at me with both barrels blazing, I might have
opted for working behind the scenes.

“It was… okay.” I watched carefully as the white stream of crystals slid into the jar. Then as I screwed the lid on, wondered
if I was creating a temptation for Cor.

Cor leaned in, narrowing his eyes and flicking his finger downward—a signal for me to come closer. I set down the sugar container,
brushed
my
hands, and leaned over.

“Why did you walk out?” he asked, lowering his voice.

What a surprise. Cor, being discreet.

“I wasn't feeling well,” I whispered back. And that was all I was going to tell him. Monday was my day off, so today was the
first chance he'd had to quiz me.

“Jack said something like that,” Cor whispered again. He sat back with the expectant look of a proud father. “I heard you
met Jack at the VandeKeeres' place.”

This was going to get awkward. “He gave me a ride. When I was
hitchhiking.”
I stressed the last word, hoping to distract him.

A frown beetled his brows. “I thought I told you not to do that anymore.”

Bingo.

“Well, Cor, this may come as a shock to you, but I am all grown up and”—I grabbed the sugar container off his table—“you're
not my father.” I frowned at the five grains of sugar in the bottom, then at him. “And where did all this sugar go?”

He ignored my question. “Well, your father's not around.”

“Truthfully, Cor, my father probably doesn't even know I exist.” I filled the container, gave the lid an extra twist, and
set it as far away from him as I could without making it look obvious.

Cor frowned at the placement of the sugar dispenser, then at me. Busted.

But he got the hint as, with a sigh, he ripped open a couple of packets of artificial sweetener and dumped them into his coffee.
He took a sip, pulled a face, then sat back, his arms folded over his bright yellow suspenders and purple shirt. A Crayola
storm if ever I saw one.

“A father should be with his children. Should be interested. That's wrong.”

“That's my life.”

“Order up!” I heard Mathilde say, glad for the distraction. I didn't want to talk about a father I never knew and, I had to
confess, sometimes wished would come rolling into my life full of remorse. Money wouldn't hurt either.

I brought the order to the three men sitting close to the kitchen, honored the now-standard request to translate my diner-speak,
then returned to Cor's table to collect the sugar container.

“So your father has never contacted you?”

Can you say
persistent?
“Never,” I said, adding a smile to show I didn't care that much.

Cor's glower took over his forehead. “What was your mother like?”

I wiped the last sugar container down and set it on the tray to dry. “I guess free spirit would about cover her description.”

Cor's direct gaze bored into me. “You ever hear from your mother?”

“Not for the past six months or so.”

“And you don't know where she lives?”

“She doesn't know where I am, so it goes both ways.”

“And you probably couldn't go see her even if you did.”

“Why not?”

He held out his thumb. “No car. But I have a car you might be interested in. I've got my truck, so I don't need two vehicles.”

“I'm not really in the market for a car right now. I have debts to pay.” And money to save up. I was getting closer to my
goal, but I still hadn't heard about a court date.

“I'll give it to you cheap,” Cor said, continuing his campaign to prevent me from thumbing rides on the roads of Harland County.
“Don't even have to get a loan. I'll finance it. You should come have a look.” He slapped his hand on the table. “Could you
come tonight? And stay for supper. That would be nice.” The faintly wistful tone of his voice snagged my attention.

I knew he spent so much time at the diner because he was lonely, and going to his place to look at a car wouldn't kill me.
Looking didn't mean buying.

“I could come for supper. But let me bring something.”

“Why don't you bring dessert?”

“Dessert I can do.”

“You don't have to go to a lot of trouble. The co-op has a special on black forest cake. You could just pick one up.”

Or not. I was thinking fruit platter. A healthy alternative and possibly a chance to teach him some better eating habits.
“What time should I come?”

Cor pulled one corner of his mouth down as he thought. “How about seven o'clock? That would give you time to change, and I
could come pick you up—”

“It's gorgeous weather. I'll walk.”

He frowned and waggled a finger at me just as the jangle of the doorbell announced another customer. “You won't hitchhike?”

“Hard to do in town.” I glanced over my shoulder and smiled at Father Sam.

He patted me gently on the shoulder then slipped into the booth across from Cor. “And how was your weekend, Terra?”

“She went to church,” Cor said. “
My
church.” He put heavy emphasis on the “my.”

“It's not a competition, Cor.” Father Sam looked hurt. “Though I'm sorry to hear that the homilies of our resident priest,
Father Jorgenson, don't match up to the thunder-and-lightning sermons of Pastor Hofstede.”

“He preaches the Word of the Lord,” Cor said. “That's what we need to hear in this day and age. Pure preaching of the Word.”

“But does he preach comfort?” Father Sam asked.

“Of course he does.” Cor looked at me for verification. “Does Pastor Hofstede preach comfort? What do you think, Terra?”

Did I look like a theologian? “I think it's time I brought Father Sam his tea,” I said, taking the coward's way out.

Conveniently, a new group of people came in just then, and a few minutes later the restaurant was buzzing again. I filled
orders and refilled cups and tried out some of my own versions of slang to describe food I couldn't find on any of the Web
sites I had checked out. And all the while, Mathilde grew more and more mellow. At least as mellow as someone with a permanent
scowl pressed into her forehead could get.

“So we'll see you tonight?” Cor asked when I brought the bill. He leaned sideways to pull the wallet out of his back pocket,
his expression hopeful.

“I'll be there. With dessert.” Which I could probably buy with the tip I knew he would leave me.

The look of anticipation on his face almost gave me second thoughts about my plan to bring healthy food.

Then I noticed the half-empty sugar container.

And Father Sam didn't take sugar in his tea.

S
o, which pineapple to buy?

I held up two likely prospects, examining them closely, hefting them in my hands as the gentle strains of Muzak threatened
to zombify me.

You have absolutely no idea what you're doing. Just pick one.

I didn't want to get home, cut open the pineapple, find a brown spot, and wish I'd bought the other one. I wanted to get the
sweetest, tastiest pineapple I could so that Cor would eat it and declare himself done with sugary desserts. I wanted him
to be converted to healthy eating habits, and to stay healthy after discovering just how good fresh pineapple could taste.

That was a lot of responsibility to put on a single piece of fruit.

A woman rolled her clattery cart up the produce aisle, reached past me, and with a decisive swipe, pulled a pineapple out
of the bin. She dropped it into her cart and carried on, the rattle and squeak of her wheels following her.

How did she know?

I made a snap pineapple decision, then turned around in time to see a familiar sight ahead of me. I hurried to catch Amelia
as she turned down the cookie aisle.

“Hey there, Amelia.”

She spun around, the look of fear on her face slipping into relief when she saw me. She had Madison in a car seat tucked in
the cart, a few groceries stashed around her. The little girl was sleeping, her head angled to one side, a little pink bow
slipping out of the tuft of hair it had, at one time, been anchored to. Her mouth was pursed in a glistening pout, her stubby
eyelashes a whisper of color on her cheeks.

The frayed blanket that had covered her had slipped down, and I gently pulled it up and very carefully, trying not to disturb
her, tucked it back around her. She was so tiny and frail—I was afraid that even this small movement would disturb her.

Her cheeks were flushed and as I leaned closer, I could hear that her breathing was labored. And I caught a whiff of dirty
diaper.

I thought of Leslie and Kathy's conversation.

“How is she doing?” I asked, brushing my finger lightly over her warm cheek.

“I dunno. Okay, I guess.”

“She seems warm. Did you take her temperature?”

Amelia sighed and fiddled with her earring. “Well… I don't have a temperature thing.”

“Thermometer. Come with me.”

I led her to the pharmaceutical aisle. “Here,” I said, handing her a blister package. “Thermometer. Directions are written
on the back. Make sure you clean it with rubbing alcohol, not hot water.” While I talked to her, I glanced over the contents
of her grocery cart. Wieners, skim milk, Kool-Aid packages, some baby cereal, and macaroni-and-cheese packages. I had already
interfered; I figured I may as well take it one step further. “That milk. Is it for you?”

“No. For Madison.”

“You don't give a baby skim milk, Amelia.”

Amelia chewed her lip as she fiddled with the thermometer. “My mom always gave me that milk.”

Was this part of the reason Madison wasn't growing properly? “You don't give skim milk to a baby.” I took her to the next
aisle, handed her a can of infant formula. “This is what you feed a baby.”

“It costs more, though.”

“But it's better for her. And, Amelia, there's a changing table in the bathroom. You might want to use it to change her.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

I wondered how she could have forgotten something that made its presence known in no uncertain terms. For a moment, I understood
Leslie and Kathy's concerns.

“And if you are really worried, take her to the hospital.”

“But if I go again…” She stopped, her hand reaching up to her earring.

I moved a little closer, touching Madison's cheek again. Her very helplessness clutched at my heart. “If you go again, what?”
I said quietly, sensing Amelia's fear.

“Your sister—Leslie?” Amelia wrapped one arm across her stomach, her other hand flipping her earring back and forth, back
and forth, her nervous movements creating a jangling sound. “She said… she said something about taking Madison away.”

My heart turned to ice in my chest. “Did she say exactly that?”

Amelia's face grew confused. “Not exactly.”

I tried to keep my voice calm and even. I could see I was making Amelia even more nervous. “What
exactly
did she say, Amelia?”

“Well… she said it looked like Madison needed some help, and then she said something about tests. I don't want them to take
her away for tests. What if they don't give her back to me? She's okay, you know. She just needs love, and I love her lots.”

“If you love her lots, you'll take her for those tests, Amelia.” I hesitated, then figured after giving her advice on nutrition
and child care, I could go all the way. “There is something wrong with Madison. She's too small for her age. She doesn't look
healthy. You need to find out what's the matter with her so you can make her better.”

“I'm scared.” Amelia wrapped both arms around her waist, as if protecting herself. “I saw your sister and Rod talking together
the other time I went to the hospital. They were whispering. I know they were talking about Madison and me.”

“They won't take her away, Amelia. I'll help you keep your baby.”

“You promise?” Her desperation leached into her voice.

“I promise.”

She nodded. “Okay. I'll go change her. Except I don't have another diaper.”

I led her one aisle over to the baby needs, picked up a package of diapers, and pulled one out. “I'll pay for this while you're
changing her. Meet me at the cashier's when you're done, and I'll give you the rest.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Amelia took the diaper from me.

“And don't forget to wash her up after you take off the old diaper. You want her bottom completely clean.”

“Right. Clean her bottom.” Amelia stuffed the diaper into the pocket of her coat.

I watched her go, wishing I had my cell phone. I wanted to call Leslie. To ask her what she and Rod had spoken about. I wanted
to give Leslie the benefit of the doubt, but at the same time, when I thought of the conversation I overheard between her
and Kathy I got angry. I gathered my groceries into a bag.

“You have to pay,” the cashier called out just as I was about to leave.

“Sorry, I wasn't thinking.” Which was a lie, I thought as I swiped my card, jabbing at the numbers with my forefinger. I was
thinking too much.