“Yes.”
“Good.”
He opened the box.
Inside was a new bicycle helmet.
Pink.
Not expensive.
Covered in small silver stars.
Lily gasped.
Amy looked at him.
“Ray.”
He raised one hand.
“Before you say anything.”
“This is too much.”
“It's a helmet.”
“She has one.”
Lily said:
“Mine is ugly.”
Amy gave her a look.
Ray smiled.
“This one is less ugly.”
Amy crossed her arms.
“You didn't need to.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Ray looked toward Lily.
“My daughter would've yelled at me for fixing a bike and not checking the helmet.”
Amy's expression softened.
Lily picked it up.
“Emily?”
Ray nodded.
“Emily.”
She put it on.
Too loose.
Ray adjusted the strap.
“There.”
Lily turned toward Amy.
“Can I ride?”
“Helmet first.”
“I have it!”
“Shoes tied.”
Lily looked down.
One lace loose.
She groaned.
Ray laughed.
Amy shook her head.
“She is going to kill me.”
“No.”
Ray's voice came automatically.
Firm.
Too firm.
Amy looked at him.
Ray stopped.
The old fear rose.
Then he corrected himself.
“She'll probably scare you a lot.”
Amy smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
Ray looked toward Lily tying her shoe badly.
“Worth it.”
Amy nodded.
“Definitely.”
The friendship grew without anyone planning it.
Ray became the diner biker who fixed things.
First Lily's chain.
Then a loose bell.
Then a bent kickstand.
Then the front wheel of another child's scooter.
He complained every time.
The children ignored him.
Amy started keeping a small box of Band-Aids behind the counter.
One day she labeled it:
RAY'S EMERGENCY HEART REPAIR KIT
Ray threatened to stop eating there.
He returned the next morning.
Lily eventually learned his motorcycle's name.
Ray called it Blackbird.
She thought that was boring.
She renamed it Thunder.
Ray refused.
Nobody listened.
For his fifty-ninth birthday, Lily gave him a card.
On the front she drew a bearded stick figure beside a motorcycle.
Inside:
THANK YOU FOR FIXING MY BIKE.
Then below:
THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME FIX YOU.
Ray sat in booth seven and stared at it until Amy asked:
“You okay?”
“No.”
Lily looked worried.
“Did you hate it?”
Ray pulled the girl into a hug.
“No.”
His voice broke.
“It's perfect.”
That year marked the first anniversary of Emily's death when Ray did not spend the entire day alone.
Usually October 17 meant shutting off his phone.
Riding outside town.
Going to the cemetery.
Then drinking enough whiskey that sleep arrived without dreams.
This time Lily knew the date.
Amy did too.
Ray had mentioned it once.
He regretted that.
On October 17, he visited the cemetery early.
Sat beside Emily's stone.
Talked longer than usual.
Then rode home.
At noon, someone knocked.
Amy and Lily.
Lily carried flowers.
Pink daisies.
Ray stared.
“What are you doing here?”
Lily answered:
“Emily's birthday.”
Ray swallowed.
“Not birthday.”
Amy gently said:
“Lily.”
“Oh.”
The girl looked embarrassed.
“Emily's heaven day.”
Ray closed his eyes briefly.
Somehow that was worse and better simultaneously.
Amy held up a paper bag.
“We brought lunch.”
Ray opened the door.
They ate sandwiches on the porch.
Lily told stories about school.
Nothing profound.
Nothing about grief.
That helped.
Before leaving, she asked:
“Can we take flowers to Emily?”
Ray hesitated.
Amy immediately said:
“Only if Ray wants.”
Lily nodded.
Ray looked at the pink daisies.
Then toward his motorcycle.
“Okay.”
They drove separately.
At the cemetery, Lily stood in front of Emily's stone.
She read the name.
EMILY GRACE CALLAHAN
1980–2003.
Lily placed the flowers.
Then the girl did something Ray never expected.
She took one pink Band-Aid from her purse.
Placed it gently at the base of the headstone.
Ray laughed through tears.
Amy covered her mouth.
Lily looked up.
“What?”
Ray shook his head.
“Nothing.”
She smiled.
“Still working?”
Ray looked toward the stone.
Then the Band-Aid.
“Yeah.”
“I think it is.”
Years passed.
Lily grew.
The pink bicycle became too small.
Ray helped Amy sell it at a yard sale.
Lily objected for two weeks.
Then Ray found a used larger bicycle.
Blue.
Lily wanted purple.
They painted it together.
Purple with pink stripes.
Ray complained about the color.
Lily reminded him he rode a black motorcycle because he lacked imagination.
At ten, Lily could replace a bicycle chain herself.
Ray watched.
“You're doing it wrong.”
“No, I'm not.”
“You're pulling too tight.”
“No.”
The chain slipped perfectly into place.
She spun the pedal.
Ray stared.
Lily smiled.
“Who taught me?”
Ray grunted.
“Lucky.”
At twelve, she became embarrassed when Ray hugged her in public.
He pretended not to care.
At thirteen, she started calling him Uncle Ray.
Nobody suggested it.
It simply happened.
At fourteen, she refused to wear the pink helmet.
“Too childish.”
Ray stared.
“That helmet saved your skull twice.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“The second time I didn't hit anything.”
“Because the helmet intimidated the ground.”
She rolled her eyes.
He bought her a black one.
She painted one tiny pink heart on the back.
Ray pretended not to notice.
Amy noticed him noticing.
She said nothing.
When Lily was sixteen, she learned to drive.
Ray refused to teach.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I enjoy having blood pressure.”
Amy laughed.
Eventually he taught anyway.
Lily almost hit a mailbox during the second lesson.
Ray slammed his hand against the dashboard.
“Brake!”
She stopped.
Both stared at the mailbox.
Then Ray began laughing.
Lily looked confused.
“What?”
“Emily.”
“The mailbox?”
Ray nodded.
“She did the same.”
Lily smiled.
“Maybe she was helping.”
“Help less.”
The first time Lily drove alone, Ray stood in Amy's driveway watching the car disappear.
His face went pale.
Amy noticed.