“Your grandpa did not make that up,” Walt called from the doorway. “That rule is very old. Older than me, even.”
“Nothing is older than you, Grandpa.”
Walt pretended to be deeply wounded and clutched his heart, and Lily giggled until she got the hiccups.
The cake was, I have to say, delicious. Not because it was fancy. It was a simple grocery store vanilla cake. But it was the best cake I’ve ever tasted, because I knew exactly how many couch-cushion coins and tooth fairy dollars and lemonade-stand quarters had gone into it. And four dollars and thirty-six cents from a tired bookkeeper who almost didn’t look up from her phone.
Mr.
Okafor’s pie was also delicious. I told him it was the best in the country. He looked very pleased.
Chapter 10: The Thing About Small Gestures
Later, as the sun went down and the streamers drooped and Mr. Okafor taught Lily how to play “Heart and Soul” on a tiny toy keyboard, Rachel and I sat on the porch steps wrapped in blankets.
“Can I ask you something?” I said. “The note. Lily wrote it before she even got to the store. Did you know?”
Rachel smiled. “Not until afterward. She told me she wrote it the night before. She said she was pretty sure she didn’t have enough money, because she’d seen the price on the sign when she went with Grandpa. But she said, ‘Mom, if somebody helps me, I want to be ready to say thank you properly.'”
I shook my head.
“Who teaches an eight-year-old that?”
Rachel was quiet for a while. “I think she learned it from all the people who helped us,” she said. “When I was on dialysis, people showed up. Neighbors brought casseroles. Mrs. Lindqvist picked Lily up from school for months. Mr. Okafor shoveled our driveway every single snowstorm without being asked. And the donor family. We’ll never know their names, but they gave me this.” She tapped her side gently. “Lily has watched people be kind to us for three years. I think she just wanted to be ready to say thank you when it happened again.”
“It’s funny,” I said. “I thought I was helping her. But I think she helped me more.”
“That’s usually how it goes,” Rachel said. “I learned that in hospice. You think you’re the one giving comfort.
But the people you care for end up teaching you everything about how to live.” She bumped my shoulder with hers. “Your dad taught me that you can find a joke in almost any room, no matter how sad it is. I’ve told about a thousand penguin jokes since then.”
“Oh no,” I said. “He’d be so proud.”
“He’d be unbearable,” she agreed, and we both laughed until Biscuit-level snorts came out of me, which I’m not proud of.
Epilogue: What I Keep in My Coat Pocket Now
That was a year ago.
A lot has changed since then. Rachel is doing well. She went back to nursing part-time this fall, working with a transplant support program, helping patients who are waiting for the same second chance she got. Her doctors are happy with how she’s doing, and she says she has more energy than she’s had in years.
She walks Lily to school most mornings now, which Lily says is “the best part of every single day.”
Walt still wears suspenders. He has convinced me to rent a plot at the community garden, where I grow tomatoes that are, frankly, embarrassing. He says they “have character.” Mr. Okafor has started giving me piano lessons on Thursday evenings in exchange for doing his taxes. I am terrible at piano. He says I have character, too.
Lily is nine now. She still saves coins in a glass jar. Last month she used them to buy a bag of dog treats for the animal shelter, because, of course, the dogs need birthdays too.
And as for me, I’ve changed in small ways that add up. I look up from my phone in line now. I notice people. I listen more than I rush. Gary still emails me in all capital letters, but I’ve stopped minding.
Last week he wrote, “NORA YOU ARE THE BEST,” and I printed it out and stuck it on my fridge next to Lily’s crayon cake.
Oh, and one more thing.
Every morning, before I head out, I tuck a few folded dollar bills into the right pocket of my brown coat. Not a lot. Just enough. Four dollars and thirty-six cents, give or take. It’s my “just in case” money. Just in case someone ahead of me in line is a little short. Just in case someone needs to know that a stranger noticed them.
