Then the call came. Her mother had collapsed at work in Chicago. Diabetes complications, the doctor said. She needed constant care. She needed expensive medication. She needed her daughter. Camille had withdrawn from the program within a week. She had flown home, her dissertation unfinished, her dreams packed away like the books she had to sell to pay for the plane ticket. There was no discussion, no hesitation. Her mother had raised her alone, working two jobs to send Camille to good schools. When Gloria Johnson needed help, Camille came home.
But coming home meant starting over. Her savings evaporated within a month. Medical bills piled up faster than she could count them. She applied for jobs in her field, but everyone wanted someone with a completed degree. The only place that hired her immediately was the Sterling Oak, an upscale restaurant downtown. Mrs. Patterson, the owner, was a stern woman with silver hair and sharp eyes. “You’re overqualified,” she had said, looking at Camille’s résumé. “But you need work, and I need servers. The pay is decent. Tips are good if you smile. Can you smile?” Camille had smiled. She had been smiling ever since, even when her feet ached, even when customers snapped their fingers at her, even when men like Theodore Lancaster spoke about her like she was worthless.
Now, standing in the bright kitchen with its stainless-steel counters and white tile walls, Camille closed her eyes and thought of her mother. Gloria was at home, probably watching television in her favorite blue chair, her medication lined up on the side table. The medication that cost eight hundred dollars a month. The medication that kept her alive. “Table seven is ready to order.” Mrs. Patterson’s voice cut through Camille’s thoughts. The owner stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “Is there a problem?” “No, ma’am,” Camille said quickly. “I’ll take their order now.”
She picked up her notepad and walked back into the dining room. The bright lights seemed harsher now, the murmur of conversation louder. Theodore Lancaster was still holding court at table seven, his companions hanging on his every word. When Camille approached, Theodore looked up with that same cold smile. “Oh, she’s back. Ready to take our orders?” “Yes, sir,” Camille said, pen poised. “What can I get for you?”
Theodore ordered the most expensive steak, making a show of pronouncing everything in an exaggerated way, as if she could not understand basic English. His companions followed suit, each order delivered with barely concealed amusement. When Camille finished writing and turned to leave, Theodore’s voice stopped her. “Wait. I have a question.” She turned back. “Yes?” “Do you even understand what I’m saying?” His associates laughed again. One of them, a woman with short blonde hair and a red dress, looked uncomfortable but said nothing.
Camille met Theodore’s eyes. For a moment, she considered responding in perfect German. She considered explaining that she had spent three years in Paris, that she had presented papers at conferences in Berlin and Vienna, that she probably knew his language better than he did. But she thought of her mother. She thought of the medical bills. She thought of the job she desperately needed. So she smiled and said, “I’ll put your orders in right away, sir.”
As she walked to the kitchen, she heard Theodore’s voice drift after her. “Hoffnungslos. Völlig hoffnungslos.” Hopeless. Completely hopeless. The word followed her through the rest of her shift. It followed her as she served their meals, as she refilled their water glasses, as she brought them dessert. Theodore continued his performance, speaking German exclusively, making comments about her intelligence, her appearance, her worth as a human being. And Camille said nothing. She simply smiled and did her job, because that was all she could do.