Chapter 4 Breakfast of Champions
Breakfast of Champions
brOOKS
“You don’t have to hover like that,” Meema says, her voice still carrying sass. “I’m not going to keel over while you’re frying eggs.”
“I’m not hovering.” I’m totally hovering.
Once Meema wakes from her nap, I crack eggs with one hand into the cast-iron skillet that’s older than me; the sizzle fills her kitchen.
The morning light catches the dust on the worn oak table where my grandmother sits wrapped in her shawl—the one I brought her from a tournament in Vancouver four years ago.
She looks small sitting there. Too small. Like someone hit the shrink button while I wasn’t looking.
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 of anything,” 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 with the 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.
“Not everyone can be as perfect as you, my dear.” The sarcasm drips from her voice. “Some of us mere mortals struggle with things like emotions and communication.”
I scoff, but there’s no heat behind it. This is our dance—she calls me on my shit, I pretend to be offended, and somehow, I end up feeling better. It’s always been this way, ever since I was a kid escaping to her house when things got too intense at home.
“Speaking of people who struggle with communication,” Meema continues, a gleam in her eye, “Sydney’ll be back tomorrow.”
I stab at my eggs. “Doesn’t she have her own grandmother to bother?”
“Helen Holt passed five years ago, as you very well know.” Meema gives me the look—the one that makes me feel two inches tall.
“And Sydney doesn’t bother me. She’s my friend, and she helps me.
She makes sure I take my meds, drives me to appointments, brings me groceries, and plays cards with me when I’m too tired to do anything else. ”
Guilt twists in my gut. “I’m here now. I can do those things.”
“Yes, you are. Now.” She reaches across the table, her cool hand covering mine. “But she was here when you couldn’t be.”
I want to argue, but what’s the point? She’s right. It pisses me off—not at Sydney, though it’s easier to direct my frustration her way, but at myself.
“She’s going to help me sort through some old albums,” Meema says, and she’s actually eating. “Try not to growl at her too much.”
“I don’t growl,” I say, which sounds suspiciously like a growl.
Meema laughs, and she looks more like herself—the woman who used to chase me around this kitchen with a wooden spoon when I’d steal cookie dough. “Oh, Brooksie. You haven’t changed a bit.”
But she has.
The laugh turns into a cough, and I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, getting her water, hovering again despite her protests. When the coughing subsides, she looks exhausted, the brief moment of normalcy gone.
“I’m fine,” she insists, waving me away. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
I take her plate, noting how little she’s eaten. A bad sign. “You need to eat more than that.”
“I will later. Just not hungry right now.” She adjusts her shawl again, a nervous habit that’s now more pronounced. “Would you help me to the living room? I want to start with my albums before Sydney comes to help me with them tomorrow.”
I offer my arm, trying not to wince when she leans on my bad shoulder. She weighs nothing, which terrifies me.
The Kingston women are supposed to be sturdy, formidable. My grandmother once carried me half a mile through the snow when I fell and twisted my ankle on the lake.
Now she needs help walking twenty feet to her favorite armchair.
“There,” she says as I adjust pillows behind her back. “Perfect. Now, be a dear and get those photo albums from the top shelf in the hall closet.”
I’m halfway to the closet when my phone buzzes.
I check it to see a text from Donny.
DONNY: I’m scoring the sportscaster position at KBVR! Nice. I got enough backers, and Marcus can’t say no to the $$. ?? Nobody knows yet.
Shit. That means Sydney’s not getting it, and this news is going to crush her. She worked her ass off for the job—and I know because I’ve watched her out in all kinds of wild weather, reporting with a smile. And now, Donny’s rolling in with his big money and star power.
Ugh. I hate to do it, but I’ve got to warn Sydney, right? Meema would kill me if I didn’t.
After typing out a response to Donny, I get Sydney’s number from Meema’s phone. When I add her to mine, I see she did text me about Meema’s treatments, and I feel like shit. I thought it was some medical services spam.
Dammit.
She’s going to kill the messenger, the last thing I need.