"Goddamn it to hell!!"
The oven pan slams onto the stove with a large clang when I drop it. I've burned my hand thanks to the worn oven mitts I keep forgetting to throw out and replace.
Sunday is when I do a cooking shift at the food bank, helping to prepare lunch for 40 people. It's hard work, but I enjoy it — usually. Today, I'm sweating into my eyes, some of the burgers are burned, my hand throbs and the clock is ticking before a long line of people will be at the door waiting for their food. For some of them, it will be their only meal of the day.
"What did you do?" Jake stops slicing tomatoes and is by my side in seconds. "It hurts like a mother—" I stop myself before finishing the sentence. "It hurts."
"Come here," he says, leading me to the sink where he puts my hand under the cold water while he gets some ice from the freezer.
"That stove sucks. When the money comes in, I'm buying this place a large, industrial stove, restaurant quality. And a new van, those shocks are completely gone. And for God's sake, some new oven mitts."
"You're starting to sound like your mother," he says, returning with the ice and placing it on the burn. "Everything is about the money and when it comes in. Is that any better?"
"Yeah." The freeze of the ice starts to take the sting away.
"We can buy oven mitts at the dollar store — we don't need to wait for a windfall for that," he says. "What's the matter? You're not yourself. The lunch will get done, if it's not ready at noon, we'll just tell folks we need a few more minutes."
"Nothing," I shake my head, anxiety twisting in my guts. I don't want to tell him that I'm nervous about the money.
"Still hasn't arrived?" There's that arched eyebrow again. He reads me like a book.
"No."
I check my bank account every day. Ok, let's be honest: about 50 times a day.
I'm hanging on to the idea that this money is coming. I've had the assurance I need. If Jack says it's so, it's so. It better come soon — I was in debt before the big announcement, now every day I'm digging myself deeper and deeper into a financial hole. We all are.
My faith is wobbling, but it's still there. I'm just confused.
"Maybe there was a tie-up on the legal end," I say, salvaging what burgers I can, popping them into buns and loading them into a serving dish. "If there are legalities involved, that's what's going on. Some judge forgot to sign a paper somewhere — it has to be something like that."
"Ok. But if that's the case and it is a legal tie-up, why are Rob or Kat suddenly missing in action?"
He had a point. Since Thanksgiving, no one had heard a peep from them. Not a "hi guys, sorry you haven't received the money yet. Here's what's going on," or anything like that.
It was weird. But nobody wanted to reach out and ask them about it.
I wasn't the only one feeling the pressure. For those of us who went out and bought brand new cars and trucks, large payments were coming due. Rob's daughter quit her teaching job and had bills to pay. He told his son to go out and purchase all new equipment for his forestry business and he did. My sister and her husband took off to Spain on a long-awaited trip and spared no expense, putting it all on a credit card. Not to mention the new Mercedes SUV they just bought and the travel expenses for Grant to go to Montreal and drive the luxury vehicle back.
People were starting to sweat. But still, no one had the courage to ask what was going on for fear of being labelled ungrateful and cut out of the deal.
I think again of the image of the children at the dinner table, polite, with hands folded, waiting for dessert, no one wanting to be crass enough to complain when it's late. Nobody will risk seeming greedy, or — God forbid — annoying our benefactors.
So we waited. But the tension is starting to get to me.
"Earth to Darcey. I said, how's your hand?"
It was throbbing in sync with the headache in the back of my skull. "I'll live," I say, wheeling the cart over to him loaded with burgers and fries. "We're ready. Open the doors."
There's a lineup already even though it isn't quite noon. Jake and I chat with the regulars as we hand out paper plates of food and greet some shy newcomers. I always wanted to do this kind of volunteer work, but I shied away from it in the past. I thought I'd feel too sorry for people, but that's not the case at all. I realized that yes, people need to eat and that's primarily why they show up, but it's also a social thing.
People need to connect, no matter where they are in life and what hard luck has befallen them. There's a camaraderie here, most folks just want a cup of tea and a chat, a bit of kindness. Some places have rules in place that people must be sober to access food and help but we don't. Everyone deserves to eat, I don't care if they're high as a kite. I don't judge anyone. If my sister and I didn't have a good mother, we might be right here as well.
It's the teenagers that bother me the most; I have to stop myself from bringing them all home and packing my house with them just to get them out of the cold. Some of them act out or have been in trouble with the law, but that doesn't mean they're bad kids. I'd probably adopt them all if I could.
"I can't stand that people sleep on the street in my hometown, Jake. I just can't stand it," I say, when the lunch rush is over and we're cleaning up. "It keeps me up at night, the thought of anyone having to live like that, families that turn their backs on them because of dysfunction or addiction. I don't care what Audrey did, she'll always have a home with me."
"I know. I can't stand it either," he says, washing the last few dishes and putting them away. "What about the addicts?"
"What about them?"
"Do you want to take them all home as well, give them a roof over their heads?"
"Of course I do."
"You extend such kindnesses to strangers, yet when you talk about your father I don't see the same thing," he says, instantly pissing me off.
"My father is a different story." I grasp for reasons why. "Anyway, I don't want to talk about it." I turn to the sinks and start scrubbing furiously.
He sees a lot in me. Sometimes too much.
And there's something else, something I barely want to admit to myself. He didn't notice my makeover.
Sure, I'm not all dolled up or anything, I'm doing hard, sweaty work in a kitchen. But my hair is a whole new colour, albeit tied up in a ponytail and I've done a 'no makeup' makeup look. I know he's not supposed to notice things like that for a variety of reasons, but he is still a man, after all. I would have appreciated a 'new look?' or 'you look nice today' comment.
I probably wasn't supposed to be thinking things like that about my friend; a priest at that so he's extra off-limits. But it wasn't a boy-girl thing, I tell myself. I spend a lot of time with Jake and he's brutally honest, if I do look good, why doesn't he say so? Maybe I don't look so good.
Last week when my car was in the shop getting winter tires on, he picked me up after work. I was wearing my new, green dress, the heels everything, eliciting whistles and comments from the agents all day to the point where I half-heartedly threatened them with HR complaints if they didn't shut it. But secretly, I was flattered by the attention.
When Jake picked me up, he didn't notice or say anything. Here I was thinking I was all glam, but maybe not. I was probably still as frumpy as ever.
"You really are on a different planet today," he says, reaching across to shut the taps off before the sink overflowed. "What's up?"
"Nothing," I say, scrubbing the last of the pots and putting them away. "I gotta go, I'm meeting the rellies for coffee."
"Want a drive?"
"No thanks, I'll walk."
"Okay." He looks confused, like I hurt his feelings or something. "Thanks for coming in today. You're always such a great help, Darcey. I couldn't run this place without you."
It sounds weirdly formal. I don't know what happened to our easy conversation and banter, suddenly things seem tense between us. Probably the mood I'm in, too much in my own head.
"You're welcome. I'll see you later." I take off the apron, bundle into my coat and head out into the wind.
A half an hour later, I'm warming up in the coffee shop with my aunt and uncle. They mentioned my new makeover right away and showered me with complements, I note bitterly as we try and figure out what's going on with the money.
"Jack, you're the oldest. You ask him," Eva says, blowing on her hot coffee.
"I've already gone to see him about this, and the man showed me his bank accounts. I don't want him to think I don't trust him," he says. He has a point.
"Look, I'll ask Kat. I've formed a bond with her since she started putting our family's pictures online. She's really sweet, I don't mind asking," I say. Enough walking on eggshells, we need to know what's going on. "Hey, you'd want to know if you sent people a large amount of money and it didn't arrive, right?" I say, and Eva and Jack nod their heads slowly.
"I'll be diplomatic," I say, pulling out my phone and typing:
Hey, Kat. Hope you and Rob are well! Are you back from New York yet? We'll have to have you over for dinner sometime to say thank you for this wonderful gift. Speaking of which — you said the funds would be leaving your account weeks ago and landing in ours moments after. None of us have received the funds yet. I'm sure it's a banking thing, but just thought you'd like an update that the funds never arrived.
I hold my phone out for Jack and Eva to read, and they nod approvingly. "She was always so good with words," Eva says to Jack before turning to me. "You're such a great writer, I thought you wanted to be a journalist?"
"Yes, but life got in the way," I mutter, looking down at my phone. "With this money coming, maybe it's not too late. Send?" I look at them for confirmation.
"Send," they both say firmly, and I do.
To my surprise, my phone pings right away and I notice a long message. The words don't make sense and so I read the text out loud.
"Oh yes, I meant to get in touch. There was a mix up at the bank. See, there are ten people in the Trust — your money went to my father's account, his money went to Jack's, Jack's went to Eva's, etc. We had to put a stop on the transfers until we find out what happened. We should have everything sorted out in a few days."
Jack and Eva look as confused as I feel.
"What does that even mean?" Jack says. "What would it matter if my money goes to Eva? Aren't we all getting the same amount?"
"That's what Rob said," Eva muttered, shaking her head. She gestures for me to hand the phone over and I do. She takes her reading glasses off the top of her head and puts them on, scanning the text.
"If that's the case, why didn't they reach out to tell us what's happening?" Nothing about this is logical.
"You know Rob, he's terrible at texting back," Jack says, trying to put a good spin on things but he has a faraway look in his eyes. "I get after him all the time about it."
"Right," Eva says, handing my phone back. "But money transfers are very straightforward. As long as you have the account number, you push a button and the money is transferred. Takes a few seconds. I don't know how the bank could have mixed up the accounts if they have the correct numbers," she says. "In all my time working at the bank, I've never heard of such a thing."
Jack's worried look mirrors her own for a second before his face clears. "I'm sure it'll all be fixed in a few days. Who wants another coffee, my treat?"
I beg off, needing some time to think. I'm glad I didn't take my car, the brisk fall day is sunny and I need to clear my head. I hug them and head out the door, lost in thought and worry. My hand still stings; I flex it in the waning sunlight. The burn is a bright patch of scarlet on my palm, the colour of blood.