50¢ for Lemonade

I take in a much needed deep breath, standing up straight and wiping sweat off my brow. I squint towards where the sun is halfway across the sky, hours from setting. This is the last car, I promise myself.

    “Hey!” The driver of the car dips his sunglasses at me. “Hurry up and dry those tires. I’ve got places to be, you know.”

    I sigh before getting on my knees and snatching the rag from my bucket. “Of course, mister.”

    The driver groans, laying back in his seat and crossing his arms. If you didn’t want to wait for someone, you should’ve gone to an automatic car wash. Then again, I am grateful that he didn’t think to go to an automatic. With his fancy sunglasses and convertible, it’s obvious he’s loaded . . . or drowning in debt.

    “There you go, sir,” I say, scrambling to my feet, taking a look at my work. I plaster a kind smile on my face before holding out my hand to the man. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

    He scowls. “Worst fifteen dollars I’ll ever spend.” He scoffs before turning his car into drive from park and taking off down the road.

    I let my smile slip before collapsing into my camping chair. “So hot . . .” I murmur to no one, taking in another deep breath. It’s the first day of summer today, and the sun has decided to prove to me that it can get a lot hotter than ninety here on the east coast. Not to mention the humidity.

    Forcing myself to stand, I fold up my chair and sling the strap across my chest. Then I pick up the blue Lowe’s bucket that I use to carry all of my supplies before making my way down the street towards home. It’ll feel nice to be in air conditioning again.

    The streets of Cape Charles are bustling with people this evening. People scroll on their phones, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, while others walk their children home from school. None of them seem to be uncomfortable in the heat. Then again, it probably doesn’t help that I came straight from Alaska. Virginian heat and humidity was not something I was prepared for when I moved here.

    “Hey, mister!” A small hand grabs onto my shorts, and I’m quick to turn around and face the little girl. Her dark hair is braided over her shoulder, her ears sticking out harshly. Her cheeks and face are red from the heat, freckles dotting her cheeks and arms exposed by her unicorn tank-top. “You look like you could use a drink!”

    “Samantha!” An older girl, maybe in her junior or senior year, takes hold of the small girl. Auburn curls are tied into a fierce ponytail as she scoops up the small girl. She smiles apologetically at me. “I’m so sorry. She’s just trying to sell some lemonade.”

    “Yeah!” Samantha wriggles out of her grasp, running over to a small table beside the sidewalk. “You want some? It’s really good!” She hurries behind the stand, taking a red SOLO cup into her hands.

    “She’s quite the saleswoman,” I say. “You know what? I’d love some lemonade.”

    The older girl laughs. “Mom was right about you after all, Sam. Who could resist the charm of a six-year-old?”

    “Nobody!” she exclaims, grinning as her sister pours a cup for me. “Try it! Try it!” Samantha holds it up for me.

    I smile and take a sip. It’s cool and refreshing against the heat. Not too sweet, but not too tart or sour, either.

    “Mm,” I murmur, rummaging through my pocket. “How much?”

    “Nothing! It’s free!” Samantha practically bounces up and down. “You’re our first customer, so Brigette decided that we should just give it away since no one would buy it.”

    My easy smile slips off my face. “That’s not fair. You two spent all this money and time on making the stand, and you get nothing for it?”

    “I just like serving people,” Samantha says quickly. “Do you like it? Is it good?”

    “It’s great! That’s why I just don’t think it’s fair that I pay you nothing.”

    Brigette holds out her hands as I hold out a dollar bill. “Oh, no, it’s alright, really! As Samantha said, we’re not looking for money.”

    I click my tongue. “Please, just take it. If I pay you nothing, it’ll be on my conscience.”

    Samantha and Brigette both look at each other, hesitating for a moment too long.

    “Here, just take the dollar for now, and I’ll exchange it for fifty cents later. Fifty cents for lemonade seems fair, hm?” I slide the dollar across the table. “Here, give me that paper. I’ll write down my number.”

    Brigette hands over a pen along with the paper, and I write down my number. As she takes it back, Samantha asks, “What’s your name?”

    “My name is Pakak.” Both of the girls stare at me with confusion. I have to laugh. “It means ‘one who gets into everything’ in my native language. I’m from Alaska.” I hold out my hand to shake. “But here, I’ve decided to go by Peter.”

    Brigette takes my hand, offering a firm handshake. “Well, welcome to America. I’m sure the heat is new?”

    I sigh, taking a sip of the lemonade. “Oh, yes. Our summer is a lot like your fall.” I look down at my watch as it beeps. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.” I look up at the girls. “I’ll exchange fifty cents for that dollar as soon as I can.”

    I turn around and walk down the sidewalk. Glancing back, I see Samantha grinning as she waves goodbye. Smiling, I do the same.

    It’s as Brigette said. Who can resist the charm of a six-year-old?

***

I step onto the porch of the small house, the messaged address of Brigette and Samantha. Checking the address again, I knock on the door.

    A woman with grey streaks in her dark hair opens the door. Her eyes are red and puffy, tear streaks lining her cheeks.

    “Can I help you?” She sniffles.

    “Um, I bought lemonade from your daughter the other day. I gave her a dollar, and—”

    “Oh, Peter!” Brigette appears at the door. Her eyes are red too, but she’s quick to wipe her remaining tears away. “I’ll go get a dollar.” When Brigette disappears, I turn to who I assume is her mother.

    “I know it’s none of my business, but is everything alright?”

    The woman’s face seems to sag, her frown deepening. “Please, come in.”

    I step inside, walking into the living room. Everything is tidy, but oddly quiet. “Is Samantha at school?”

    “I homeschool both Brigette and Samantha,” she says. “But, no, Samantha isn’t here right now.” The topic of Samantha seems to trouble her.

    I lower myself onto their couch. “Is there something wrong with Samantha?”

    Silence lingers for a few moments. “She was diagnosed with leukemia yesterday.”

    Each individual word drops like a stone. I imagine Samantha, the small, joyful girl in her unicorn top smiling up at me. She seemed perfectly fine a week ago. So what happened?

    “Are the doctors sure?” My voice is weak.

    All Samantha’s mother can do is nod; any words she has die on her lips.

    Brigitte comes back downstairs, a dollar in hand. She smiles as she hands it to me. "How come you came all the way here to give me fifty cents for a dollar, anyway?"

    I blink, not quite understanding what she means. "Uhm, to exchange fifty cents for a dollar?"

    Samantha's mother laughs. "Fifty cents? Was that really worth your time coming here?"

    They're both laughing now, smiling at me. Expecting me to laugh along with them? I don't know. How can I laugh along with them while still confused as I am?

    I decide to shake the topic. "I'd like to ask if I can help."

    I don't need to specify. Samantha's mother's eyes snap to mine. I can already see the newfound pain swimming in them. "I couldn't ask that of you, Mr . . . uh."

    "Peter suits me fine," I say quickly. "And I want to help. Please."

    I understand how she feels, not wanting anyone to help her in such a situation. But accepting help got me here, to Virginia. Maybe if I can help her like my village helped me, I can put her in a better place than she is.

    Her gaze wavers. She blinks a few times, holding back the tears that pool at the bottom of her eyes. "I won't accept any money, Peter."

    "And I wasn't going to offer any." I can already feel a vision building in my head. "I say we fundraise. Start something that people are going to love and give to."

    "And what exactly could we start?" Brigette hasn't said anything since she came downstairs, but now, she smiles from her seat across the room.

    It doesn't take long for me to think. "A business. How about a bakery? People love those. And I've always loved to bake. Especially if it's a recipe that's been passed down my family."

    Brigette looks about ready to bounce up and down in her seat. "An Alaskan bakery? Thanks sounds amazing!"

    "But the cost—"

    Hesitantly, gently, I lay a hand on the middle-aged woman’s arm. Her eyes meet mine, and I offer her my kindest smile. "Let me worry about the money." I look at Brigette, who has now fallen silent, the ghost of a smile on her face. "You two focus on Samantha. Sound like a deal?"

    "Why are you being so kind to us?" Brigette's mother's voice is but a whisper. Maybe to hide how it waivers.

    "It’s God's miracle," Brigette murmurs, and both of our heads whip around to look at her. "God delivers. He takes care of us and gives us what we need. Even when it seems impossible." Brigette breaks her gaze from me to look at her mother. "The sermon last week, remember?"

    Her mother's eyes snap to mine, and suddenly I feel as if I'm being examined like a fish at the market. "Thank you, Lord" is what I think she murmurs under her breath.

    Weirded out, I stand from my spot on the couch. "I should be going."

    "My name is Genevieve," Brigette's mother erupts from the couch. "Genevieve Gurr."

    "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Gurr—"

    "Please, Genevieve serves me fine," she says quickly, her eyes sparkling with . . . admiration? Or maybe it's just tears. I'm not sure.

    "Alright." My voice comes out tight and strained. Brigette just looks from me to her mother, intrigued but oddly disgusted.

    "I'll get the door," Brigette finally says when her mother doesn't move from her seat. Genevieve nods, smiling softly at me.

    Once we're outside, Brigette closes the door behind us. "How old are you, exactly?"

    "Thirty-five," I answer automatically. Then my eyebrows furrow. "Why?"

    She narrows her eyes. "Don't you think you're a bit . . ." She stops, her expression dripping off her face. "Oh. My mom's thirty-three."

    I raise my eyebrows, still confused. "Alright . . . I'll see you later, Brigette."

    As I turn away, making my way towards the driveway and my car, she calls "thanks for everything" after me.

***

The next morning, I get right to work. I don't know how much time Samantha may have, so I waste none of it. I start by making a Facebook page, which I've never done before. But, texting back and forth with Brigette, she thinks it's a great place to start.

    And in the first, painfully long hour, we make fifty dollars on something called a Go-Fund-Me. The support makes my heart lurch, so much so that I scroll through my computer for hours, looking at places around town for lease.

    Somehow, I find the perfect place. I do as Brigette instructs, clicking the blue button here and typing in some information there. I'm grateful for her help, because without it, surely I would be lost in pages and pages of screen.

    Things just seem to fall into place after that. We rent out a place, someone donates furniture to us. Better yet, the wood is pine—straight from the area around my home village. Everything couldn't be more perfect. 

    I took care of the shop, getting it fixed up and moving things in with some help from Genevieve. Brigette took care of advertising, online and outside the shop. She stood outside the shop for hours without end, turning the sign around and talking to possible customers. 

    And then I baked. Genevieve sometimes found the time to help, arguing her way into the kitchen with me. After all, she would come straight to the bakery after work, insisting that she help me. I've never been good at arguing, so in the end, I caved and let her help me.

    With everyone pulling their weight, things started to brighten. Samantha was able to get the treatment she needed, enough to get some of her strength back. She had wanted so badly to see the bakery where we were making the money for her, and so Brigette and a few of our sponsors got together to surprise her.

    The bakery was decorated with unicorns. The streamers were every color, and Genevieve had even made her daughter a unicorn cake.

    I almost stuffed the whole cake in her face, if only to get her to gain some weight. She was all skin and bones it seemed. She might have been getting treatment, but it didn't seem to be enough.

***

I lay a hand on Brigette's shoulder. She hasn't bothered to wear makeup. Smart of her. If she did, her mascara would've smeared from all the tears rolling down her face.

    I open my arms, and she falls into them, sobbing. I look into the casket, my eyes falling on the skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of skin. Even under so much makeup to make her skin seem normal, she still looks dead. Beyond death.

    Genevieve takes my arm. "She would've been seven today," she murmurs, her voice shaky. She keeps her eyes on my face instead of on her daughter's body.

    "I'm so sorry." I meet her eyes. "I tried. We all did."

    "It's alright, Peter. Everything happens for a reason." Finally, she lets her eyes fall on Samantha; her carcass. I know enough to know that her spirit is gone. "God took her home for a reason. She was suffering. And now she's not."

    Brigette breaks out into even more tears, falling instead in her mother's arms rather than mine.

    "Does this mean you'll close down the bakery?" Genevieve murmurs over Brigette's greif.

    I roll back on my heels. "I'm not sure." I look at the body, wondering what Samantha would say if she were here. I know exactly what. "I don't think she would've wanted me to." I look at Genevieve, and Brigette, who's stopped crying to listen. "And I think she would've wanted me to stick around you two for a little while longer, too." I wrap an arm around their shoulders, smiling.

    Genevieve blushes, tipping her head up so that Brigette doesn't see. "If that's what you think she would've wanted." She fights a smile as we walk out of the room, and into the sunlight of the outside.

    "Of course." I look at Brigette, whose auburn hair glitters in the light of the sun. "After all, who can resist the charm of a six-year-old?"