Shattered by Eric Walters Page B

time in that expensive coat and shoes. You made a better choice this time,” he said.
    â€œI thought I could fit in better this way,” I admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed. “But lots of people own a coat like the one I was wearing. That doesn’t mean my family is rich.”
    â€œMaybe not the coat, but certainly the Mercedes that picked you up. That one probably cost more than a hundred grand, right?”
    I nodded my head. It was one of the top-of-the-line cars. But how did he know what sort of car picked me up? Had he been spying on me?
    â€œI was watching when you left, peeking out the window, to make sure you got picked up safe,” Mac said, answering my unspoken thoughts.
    â€œDoesn’t matter what car picked me up or dropped me off,” I said, feeling a bit defensive. “All that matters is that I have to put in my hours, so I’m here.”
    Mac laughed. “Like I said before, that’s one of the things I like about you, kid. You aren’t going to give mesome crap about helping the poor. You’re here to do a job. Honest. I like that. But you know, there are other places where you could have done your hours. You could have weaseled out of being here.”
    â€œThat’s what my mother wanted me to do.”
    â€œBut you didn’t do what she wanted. How come?”
    I considered giving him a completely honest answer; I hardly ever did what my mother or father wanted unless I had no choice. “I told you I’d be here so I’m here,” I said. That wasn’t a complete lie.
    â€œGood. How about if you continue unloading the truck while I finish up making supper. Unless you want to do the cooking and I’ll do the unloading?”
    â€œI think I’ll do the unloading. Lifting I know how to do. Cooking for a hundred people I don’t.”
    â€œSame as cooking for two people. Just multiply all the ingredients by fifty.”
    I went out to continue unloading. Each time I came in with a box I caught a glimpse of Mac working at the stove. It wasn’t just that I didn’t know how to cook for one hundred people. I didn’t know how to cook for two. Or even one. I’d never needed to. Berta did all of that.
    Berta was my nanny when I was a baby, and then when I didn’t need a nanny any more she became our housekeeper and organizer. She had an apartment in our basement and she was always there. My mother said Berta was sort of like the family’s wife who took care of all the day-to-day business of running our household. I didn’t think of her as anybody’s wife, but she was family. She’d always been there. She was there when I came home from school. Because of her, the house was neverempty, and because my father and mother were always so busy with business meetings and travel and of course social things, it would have been empty without her. Filled with lots of expensive things—but empty. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like without Berta around—thank goodness I’d never known and I’d never have to know.
    I guess it also worked out for Berta. She was originally from Guatemala and that’s where all her family still lived, so I guess in some ways we were like her family too.
    I’d once started to figure out how often I ate with my parents and how often it was just me and Berta for dinner. I looked back for two or three weeks and then stopped. There was no point in quantifying what I already knew. Not that there was anything wrong with eating with Berta. I liked eating with her. I liked being with her.
    She had a soft, gentle laugh, and she always seemed to know what questions to ask and, just as important, what questions not to ask. Those were the times I told her the rest of the story anyway. I knew I could trust her. She didn’t judge me, although she did offer advice— softly spoken with her lilting accent. I loved her accent. My parents told me that