I flip the eggs, trying not to think about the multiple days of chemo coming up in three weeks. And then the test results after. I’ve learned to read doctors’ expressions the way I read opposing defensemen—it’s all in the eyes. And they better not tell me something I don’t want to hear.
There’s a knock on the door, then it opens. There stands Janet, waving as she says, “I’m just dropping off Gus. Can’t chat, I’m late for work. Good to see you, Brooks!”
“You too.” I wave.
“Thanks so much, Janet!” Meema manages to say just before the door closes. Janet runs Dickens Diner, and I’m sure her morning crowd is gearing up for their coffee, hash browns, and omelettes.
A hot-dog dog that looks like he sucked on helium and over-inflated comes waddling over to me, looking up with these big, sad brown eyes that beg for food. “Hello, Gus.”
His tail wags.
“Do not give him a bite ofanything,” Meema cuts in.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” I lie because with that face, I was going to “drop” a little something. “Sorry, buddy.”
Meema calls Gus over and gives him a piece of celery, which he spits out. No wonder he doesn’t want to stick with this diet.
With my voice casual, I say, “How are you feeling today?”
“Oh, you know. Like I’ve been run over by the Zamboni, backed up over, and then run over again.” She adjusts her shawl with fingers that look like bones. “But I’m getting some energy back, and I’ve got enough life in me to school you at gin rummy later.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re on, young lady.”
My parents call—but I let it go to voicemail. I don’t need to talk to Dad because I got his email. He just wants to ask about my rehab schedule, whether I’ve been keeping up withthe exercises, if I’ve talked to Coach Barrymore lately. Mom would fill the silence with chatter about her garden club or Dad’s golf game, carefully avoiding any mention of how sick her mother-in-law really is.
The Kingston way—skate around the hard stuff, focus on the game plan. Except the game plan here involves a different kind of mental strength.
I slide the eggs onto a plate with buttered toast and set it in front of her. “Breakfast of champions.”
“You forgot the Tabasco.”
Seventy years old, fighting stage four cancer, and still demanding hot sauce on her eggs.
I grab it from the cupboard where it’s always been—third shelf, next to the maple syrup and the ancient box of Cream of Wheat that I’m pretty sure predates my birth.
The familiar motions ground me. In this kitchen, with these rituals, I can almost pretend we’re just having a normal morning together.
“So.” Meema douses her eggs with enough Tabasco to make a grown man cry. “When are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you?”
I sit across from her, my plate untouched. “Nothing’s bothering me.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She takes a small bite of egg, chewing thoughtfully. “Is it the shoulder? Or something else?”
“Shoulder’s fine.” Another lie.
The pain’s a constant reminder of when I slammed into the boards. When my head smacked the floor. Of the blood staining the ice in front of my eyes.
“Then it’s your parents? You’re not taking your father’s calls.”
I grunt, shoving toast into my mouth to avoid answering.
“He’s worried about you, Brooksie.”
“He’s worried about when I’ll get back on the ice.” I hate the bitterness in my voice, but I can’t seem to filter it. “There’s a difference.”
Meema sighs, setting down her fork after eating maybe three bites. “Your father loves you in the only way he knows how.”
“By treating me like a failed investment?” I shake my head.
