Fancy Breakfast
I tear open the box of corn flakes, nearly causing myself to drop it and spill cereal all over the floor in the process. It's been so long since I've had to make any sort of breakfast by myself that I almost forget that milk goes into the bowl after the cereal. After deciding the liquid-to-solid ratio in both bowls was adequate, I carefully carry them over to the small dining table and set them on opposite sides. Then I wipe up everything that sloshed out the sides with a dish towel.
Any moment I'm expecting to hear the pitter-patter of small feet racing down the stairs. The appetite of a ten year old boy is indeed an unstoppable force. Instead, I'm greeted with feather light steps that barely reach my ears. I'm just pouring him some orange juice when I see him tiptoeing into the kitchen. I bite back a laugh. He likes to think he's sneaky.
"Morning, Hawkeye." I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down in front of my not-so-impressive spread. "Dig in."
Hawkeye grabs the back of his chair and peers over it. His blue eyes mirror his mother's, her curiosity and wonder shining through. He stares at the bowl in front of him and raises a quizzical eyebrow at me. "But...Mom always makes breakfast."
I take a bite as he pulls out his chair and sits, feet dangling an inch or so off the floor. "Ben, your mother isn't feeling well today. She's upstairs, resting."
He pokes at the flakes with his spoon. "Does she have a cold or something?"
I smile at him, but it doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Something like that."
Ben takes a swig of his juice and polishes off most of his breakfast before adding "I didn't think grown-ups could get sick."
"Everyone gets sick sometimes, Hawk," I reassure him. "She'll feel better soon, don't worry. Now get upstairs and get dressed. You can't wear pajamas to school."
He kicks off the table and pushes back the chair, then jumps towards the stairs. "Okay, Dad! I'll be back before you can say 'Benjamin Franklin Pierce'!
I shake my head and chuckle to myself as I gather up the dishes and for a moment, I really believe everything's going to be okay.
---
The smell of eggs woke me up five minutes ago, but I haven't left my bed yet. Usually, the moment I smell food it sends me bounding down the stairs. Then again, usually I can hear Mom and Dad talking about...whatever grown-ups talk about as I'm waking up. The past few mornings I've heard nothing but the sound of cooking. It scares me. A lot.
I finally get up and walk cautiously down the stairs, hoping that just maybe Mom's feeling better. Maybe she's playing a joke and if I'm real quiet, I can catch her before she hides in her room again.
My heart sinks when I get to the kitchen and see only Dad there, cooking some bacon to go with the scrambled eggs. He glances back at me as I sit at the table.
"Hey, Hawkeye! Breakfast is ready." He scrapes some bacon onto a plate covered in eggs and sets it in front of me.
I stare at the food for a minute as he grabs his own plate and sits down. I try to swallow the lump in my throat and ask "Dad? Is Mom feeling better yet?"
He leans back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest. Then he takes a deep breath. "Hawkeye, your mom went to the hospital last night. She was feeling really bad, so she went there to get better."
"But she'll be home soon, right?"
Dad leans forward and scoots his chair closer to the table. "Of course. She'll be okay, it's nothing to be worried about. Now start eating before it gets cold."
I grin and take a bite of the eggs. I feel better now because Dad's always right about these things.
---
I remove the sausage links from the pan as I wipe away a stray tear. Then I arrange them carefully on top of the french toast to make smiley faces. I set the plates down on the table in the same spots as always and sit down.
I rest my elbows on the table and fold my hands together. I lean forward and rest my forehead against my hands. I take a deep breath, then another, and wait.
It isn't long before I hear the now familiar tentative steps getting closer. They stop about ten feet away from me, and I look up to see my son standing in the doorway with a look of fear I've never seen in his eyes before. It's the same look my wife had in hers when the doctors spoke to us last week and it forces me to fight back a new wave of tears.
He stares at me, then at the food, then back at me. "Dad..." he whispers "that's french toast and sausage."
I bring my hands down to the table and give him a slow nod. "Yeah, Hawk...it is."
---
My throat feels so dry I can't help but swallow as I try to speak again. "But, Dad..." I say, not having the strength to be any louder than before "...that's my favorite."
I may still be a kid, but that doesn't mean I'm not smart enough to figure out what Dad's been doing. Every time the food gets better, Mom gets worse. But this means tomorrow breakfast can't be better, so...
"Sit down, Hawkeye," he tells me. But I can't sit down. I can't even move.
"No. Where's Mom?"
He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. I already know what he's going to say, but I wish I didn't. I wish he wasn't, that he didn't have to.
"Ben, your mother...last night, your mother passed away..."
I can't think. I can't even breathe as a sharp pain fills my chest. I sniffle and everything becomes blurry as I slowly turn and walk back to my room. "Ben," Dad calls after me, but he knows I'm not turning back.
When I get to my room I lock the door behind me, stumble to my bed almost like what I've seen people on television do when they've had too much to drink and let myself fall. Then I curl up, hugging my pillow, and I take a deep breath. Before I can let it out entirely, I bury my face in the pillow and start sobbing. I feel nauseous.
I'm not eating breakfast today.
---
"One morning when I was ten my dad made me breakfast. A bowl of cornflakes. And I asked him why Mom wasn't making breakfast that morning. And he said she wasn't feeling well, but it was nothing. A few days later, he made me scrambled eggs and bacon. He said that Mom was in the hospital, but it was nothing to worry about. By the time Dad was up to french toast and sausages, Mom was gone." - Hawkeye Pierce