Here is the French translation of the text:
The eight dollars and forty-two cents
The card was declined the first time, and the woman tried to smile as if nothing had happened. The second time, the small screen flashed red again, and her smile vanished. Behind her, a man wearing a camouflage cap let out a long, loud sigh. Further down the line, someone whispered, « This is unbelievable. » One of the babies strapped to her chest was crying so loudly that its little face had turned as red as a strawberry. The woman looked at me. Her lips were trembling.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Can you take the diapers off?” I looked at the screen. She was $8.42 short. And without knowing it yet, that number would change my life forever. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning of this day, because the beginning matters. It always does. This Friday had started like any other Friday.
My alarm went off at six. I hit the snooze button once, then lay there staring at the water stain on my ceiling that looked a bit like a rabbit. For two years I’d wanted to get someone to look at the roof, but I’d never been able to afford it. I could hear my mother in the kitchen. The kettle whirring. The radio softly playing old country music, the way she liked it. The creak of a chair. I’m thirty-four and I still live with my mother. I used to be ashamed of it. I’m not anymore. After my father died, it was just the two of us, and over time, we went from being just a mother and daughter living under the same roof to two people who support each other. I put on my work polo shirt, the green one with HOLLIS MARKET embroidered above the pocket, and went downstairs. “Hi, Rae,” Ma said. She was sitting at the table with her coffee and the utility bill. She had a pencil behind her ear, which is never a good sign. “How bad is it?” I asked. She took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes. “It’s not bad. It’s just… it’s a lot for October.” I sat down across from her and looked at the amount. She was right. It was a lot. “I’ll take on an extra shift,” I said. “You already work six days a week.” “Then I’ll work seven.” “Rachel.” She said my full name, which meant she meant it. “You can’t keep this up. You’re going to burn yourself out completely.” “Dad sometimes worked seven days a week.” She fell silent. She always falls silent when I mention it. Not a sad silence, exactly. It was more like she was listening to something in the distance. « Your father, » she finally said, « was a stubborn man who never knew when to stop. » « I know. » « You’re just like him. » « I know that too. » Then she gave a faint smile. She reached out and shook my hand. Her fingers were cold. They’re always cold in the morning. « Go on, » she said. « You’re going to be late. And have a banana. You never eat breakfast. » I took the banana, but I didn’t eat it. It sat on the passenger seat of my car all day, getting browner and browner, like it does every day. My car is a 2009 Honda with a cracked windshield and an engine light that’s been on for so long I consider it part of the decor. That morning, it made a new noise when I turned the key. A sort of hoarse cough. « Not today, » I told her. « Please. Not today. » It started on the third try. I tapped the dashboard like it was a horse. During the drive to work,I did the math in my head. That’s what I do. I do math everywhere. In the shower, in line at the bank, lying in bed at night. The rent we share, the electricity bill, Ma’s medication, the car insurance, what this new noise was going to cost me… My paycheck wasn’t due until next Thursday, and I had exactly sixty-one dollars in my checking account. Sixty-one dollars. I remember the exact number because I checked it twice that morning. Millbrook is a small town. One traffic light, two churches, a hardware store, a restaurant called Patty’s that has served the same meatloaf special every Tuesday since 1987, and Hollis Market, where I’ve worked for six years. When you work the till in a town this size, you don’t just know people. You know their lives. You know who’s on a diet because they don’t buy ice cream anymore. We know who’s broke because they’ve switched from name-brand cereal to store brand. We know who’s pregnant before their own mothers even realize it, because of the ginger ale, the saltine crackers, and the way they look at prenatal vitamins. I parked in the staff lot at 6:52 a.m. Lori’s car was already there. Lori is always early. She’s 63, has worked at Hollis since before I could walk, and knows everything about everyone. She calls herself the town’s unofficial newspaper. « You look tired, » she said when I walked in. « Hello to you too, Lori. » « Just saying. You have bags under your eyes. » « Thank you. That’s very kind. » She laughed and handed me a cup of coffee from the break room. « Drink up. You’ll need it. » Mike says the truck is late again and we’re short on stockers. Mike Delgado is the store manager. He’s a heavyset man with a gray beard and reading glasses he keeps pushed up on his forehead and always forgets to put on. He looks grumpy and speaks gruffly. But I’ve seen him give a gallon of milk to an old man who’d forgotten his wallet, and I’ve seen him drive for an hour through a snowstorm to deliver a cashier’s forgotten insulin. He just doesn’t like people knowing he has a heart. « Hale, » he called when he saw me. He calls everyone by their last name. « Register three today. Lori’s at two. » « Noted. » I headed to register three and went about my daily business. I opened the drawer, counted the cash float, wiped the conveyor belt, and checked that the small photo was still there. It’s a small, wallet-sized photo. It’s taped to the side of the till, just below the scanner, where I can see it without it being too visible to customers.Unless they’re really paying attention. That’s my dad. He’s standing next to his truck, a big blue Peterbilt, arms crossed and a smile on his face like he just heard the best joke ever. He’s wearing his old Carhartt jacket and a baseball cap pushed back. You can see his watch on his wrist, catching the sunlight. That watch was the only nice thing he ever owned. My mom bought it for him for their tenth wedding anniversary after saving up for almost a year. He died when I was twelve. Black ice on Route 9, one night in March. He was coming home early because he missed us. I keep that picture because my dad always had something to say to me when I was little and complaining about how unfair the world was. « You can’t fix the whole world, Rae-bug, » he’d say. « But you can make somebody’s next ten minutes beautiful. » “I touch the corner of the photo every morning before welcoming my first customer. It’s a childish habit, I know. But I’ve been doing it for six years and I wasn’t about to stop. ‘Good morning, Dad,’ I whispered. Then the sliding doors opened, and my day began. Fridays are busy. It’s payday for half the city. By 10:00 a.m., I’d already scanned Mrs. Kowalski’s prune juice and cat food, the Jensen boys’ energy drinks and jerky, and a whole cartload of party supplies for little Emma Tate’s seventh birthday. Her mother showed me a picture of the cake on her phone: it was shaped like a unicorn and slightly wobbly. ‘It’s perfect,’ I told her. ‘It’s a disaster,’ she laughed. ‘A perfect disaster, then.’” “At noon, I’d eaten half a packet of crackers from my bag, without touching the banana. By 3:00 p.m., my feet were aching. At 5:00 p.m., the after-work rush began, the lines grew longer, and everyone became a little irritable, the way it is when people are hungry, tired, and just want to go home. At 6:40 p.m., she walked in. I noticed her immediately. You notice strangers in a town like Millbrook. They stand out like a red sock in a load of whites. She was thin. Not just skinny, but the kind of thinness that comes from skipping meals so someone else can eat. Her hair was styled in long braids held back with an elastic band. She was wearing an oversized gray hoodie and jeans worn down to white at the knees. And on her chest, in a large black double baby carrier, were two babies.” They couldn’t have been more than four or five months old. Two boys, I guessed from their little blue hats. One was fast asleep,His mouth was open, his little fist pressed against his mother’s collarbone. The other was wide awake, and he didn’t like it at all. He was crying the way only tiny babies know how. Not just loudly, but desperately.
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