You just need to get a good meal, maybe a piece of cake, and you’ll be back to normal,” said the driver, who was by now next to us, an ample woman with tight gray curls that she had teased up tall and proud. “You must be Miss Sara.” I stretched out my hand to say hello, but Miss Sara pulled me into her bosom. Feeling ambivalent, I let Miss Sara order for me. She was so excited about taking us to eat.” “Well, you didn’t have to eat everything on the menu.” “She ordered for me!” “Did you notice what she ordered for herself?” I could hear the satisfied smile on Misty’s face. Miss Sara hadn’t ordered a single greasy item. Miss Sara’s feet could hardly reach the pedals—the leather seat threatened to swallow her whole—but she drove the massive SUV like Cruella DeVil, maneuvering around hairpin curves at breakneck speeds.
Miss Sara was a Southerner through and through. Unabashedly proud of her home, Miss Sara saw me as a potential convert. We passed turnoffs for places called Mountain City and Sky Valley before we finally reached our own idyllic-sounding destination: Highlands, North Carolina. Miss Sara owned a restaurant—the Mountaineer—in Highlands, a tourist town of fewer than one thousand residents. By the time we got to Miss Sara’s condo, it was late. That night, on the couch, surrounded by photos of Miss Sara’s cherished “grandbabies,” I slipped into the kind of sleep I hadn’t had for months, waking up only once to a nightmare. Miss Sara and Misty had gone to work. I held my breath as it booted up, hoping Miss Sara was the rare older woman with an internet connection. For days, Miss Sara and Misty came and went while I sat in front of the TV. “Time to go to work, honey,” Miss Sara announced one day, blocking my view of the television. I’ve never worked at a restaurant.” “Claudia called in sick, so you’ll have to figure it out.” She snatched the remote from the coffee table, pressed the power button, and gave me one of her Blanche Devereaux smiles. Miss Sara had a Mississippi twang that could disarm a dictator and said “bless your heart” like a mantra.
After spending the early part of her life working for a Southern Baptist church, Miss Sara had moved to North Carolina and opened the diner. To residents, the diner was comfortable; to tourists, it was quaint; and for Miss Sara, it was a way to help people in need. I was just one in a long line of women she had hired who needed a fresh start, a place to crash, and a paycheck. Worried what the locals might think about an Arab in their midst, Miss Sara baptized me “Liz.” Just an ordinary white girl making some money off the scores of summer tourists and autumn leaf-lookers who poured into town. I was hopeful—my skin is light and my accent non-existent; I think it gave Miss Sara a thrill to be a part of a covert operation. Miss Sara would have made a terrible spy.)
As a Smith graduate, I imagined Miss Sara might ask me to manage the Mountaineer or run the cash register. But when I arrived for my first day of work, she led me through the back door, past the dumpster and the designated smoke-break spot. Miss Sara placed the sprayer into my hand and spoke plainly: “Scrape off the food. “Can she keep up?” Lil mumbled to Miss Sara, as if I couldn’t hear. This one won’t last.” “Get back to work, honey.” Miss Sara’s honey meant something different every time she said it. It was a phrase that she would utter dozens of times a day, I learned, whether the cooks were too slow, a waitress called in sick, or the new girl looked incompetent. Miss Sara refocused her attention on me. Miss Sara counted money from the till, and I slid into the “How are you holding up?” “I don’t have any words for what just happened.” Miss Sara squeezed into the booth across from us, slid her hand into her shirt, and began searching for something in her bra. “Oh, Miss Sara. I looked at the cash, then at Miss Sara.