Chapter 14 #2
“Shh. I have a bet going on with Old Man John whether the new news anchor says bagel weird or not.”
I raise my eyebrows but quietly shuffle toward the loveseat instantly stopping in my tracks.
Holy—
There, past the back porch and the weathered planks illuminated by the rising sun, is the most breathtaking view. Rolling hills take off for miles, the occasional house on a hill in the distance. Below, a pasture stretches out, the grasses rippling around the poised trees.
I gravitate toward the sliding glass door, unlocking and sliding it open to pad lazily onto the elevated porch. The dark shapes of several horses move through the pale mist of the morning dew punctuated by loud snorts.
The cool dawn skirts up my back, the gentle breeze blowing the oversized shirt while I stare dumbfounded.
The sun crests over the horizon, the golden light spilling across the pasture in time with swishing tails, rustling leaves, and chirping birds.
No wonder why this house is older and not updated—the cost for this view alone must’ve been …
I inhale the earthy grass air, wrinkling my nose at the faint dirt and horse smell, but I don’t care, I’m transfixed. I could write here—want to write here.
I spin, searching the deck for porch furniture I could settle in with my notebook and pen.
A neglected set of wicker chairs, faded and most likely brittle, sit facing the view.
Dark streaks of mold creep along the arms and legs.
The cushions aren’t much better, they’re covered in splotches of mildew and soaked from the rain last night.
Does Ms. Sullivan not want to sit out here? Living here would demand comfortable outdoor seating—this is the kind of place that calls words out of you. This is the place to let go.
A restless energy buzzes under my skin, and my fingers twitch. Words, eager to escape, waltz into the corners of my mind, and I slowly let out a breath.
“Yes!” Ms. Sullivan’s shout brings me back to the porch and the swaying towering oaks beside it. I glance at the cracked sliding glass door and watch as she dials a number on the cordless phone. “She says bagel wrong, John. I told you! You owe me a pie.”
There’s a brief pause.
“I don’t give a damn if your daughter sent it to you. You owe me one, fair and square.”
I bite the corner of my lip. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
She prattles on about pies, and the pronunciation of certain words, and knowing Old Man John from my short interactions with him at the diner, I’m sure he’s goading her on.
I table my thoughts on writing out here on the porch for now and move through the living room and into the kitchen to dig through the fridge.
It’s well stocked: eggs, juices, fresh fruit, and vegetables.
I poke around the freezer searching for frozen waffles or something quick and easy. Maybe Pop-Tarts?
It’s obvious Noah does the grocery shopping.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing but healthy options, and I settle on the organic eggs, feta, and spinach to make an omelet. Hunting for the pans, I dig around the cabinets before I find a skillet and place it on the stove.
I hesitate before turning it on. Should I ask first?
Ms. Sullivan gave me a five-minute lecture on “make yourself at home” and “use whatever you need” last night, but it still feels awkward. My stomach rumbles, and with the knowledge Ms. Sullivan isn’t going to cook, I turn on the stove.
Butter sizzles in the pan as I plop in a dollop and get to work scrambling the eggs and chopping up the spinach.
With the omelet almost finished, I fish two glasses from the cupboard.
The memory of Noah’s hand grazing mine as he helped me flickers long enough to distract me and I smack my elbow on the counter setting down the cups.
“Idiot,” I mumble to myself.
The four egg omelet I made is huge, and I dump it onto a plate and cut it in half.
I sat across from Ms. Sullivan last night, staring at the spoon camped out in her hand instead of using it to eat her soup.
She poked at the cubed potatoes and made a comment about not liking bacon in her potato soup, but mostly, she just left her food untouched.
When Noah encouraged her to take a few bites, she twisted her face into a weak smile, but his words went unanswered.
It made my chest ache. I couldn’t swallow the painful lump in my throat when I cleared cold soup away from the table.
I grab another plate from the cabinet, making sure it’s the biggest one I can find, and slide half the omelet over to it. The larger plate helps make the omelet look smaller, and maybe it’s stupid, but it could help. I don’t know.
Bringing both plates to the table, I set them down and place a fork near each.
I grab some orange juice and march over to the counter to pour it, but the plastic pill container on the edge snags my attention.
I glance toward the living room, then pull the container forward, looking at the filled section marked for this morning.
She hasn’t taken her medicine. Should I remind her?
Behind it, tucked along the back in a long line, are several prescription bottles. I angle one toward me, the medicine something I can’t pronounce. Rose Sullivan. My mind snags on her first name, on the strange, unexpected link it shares with my own.
I sigh, shoving the container back. I know Noah said she needed help, but I’m not a damn nurse. I don’t know what to do or what she needs. How can he put this on me?
Groaning, I fill both glasses and take them to sit next to the plates. I tap my foot against the floor. If I tell her there’s food, she’ll probably just tell me she’s not hungry.
I run to Noah’s room and dig into my backpack for my remaining cash.
It’s barely anything, but I grab a five-dollar bill and tuck it into my waistband, then casually I saunter into the living room and lean against the doorjamb.
Ms. Sullivan is watching the news, a book with a half-naked pirate man on the cover spread out over her lap, like she had to put it down to study the report about several small car break-ins.
“Five bucks says you’ll tap out after two bites.”
She sniffs, turning her head toward me and muting the TV. “Two bites of what?”
“An omelet.”
“Five bucks doesn’t even get me out of this chair,” she says, slowly raising the remote toward the television again.
Oh hell. I only have another ten dollars in ones.
“Fifteen then.”
She smirks. “Deal. But don’t blame me when you’re broke.”
I purse my lips and nod. I am broke, and no I don’t blame her.
Her legs wobble as she attempts to straighten them to stand, and she presses into the arm of the recliner for support.
Her breaths come in shallow gasps while her oxygen tubing lets out those rhythmic hisses.
There’s a pained look on her face as she rises, but when I move to help her, she raises a hand.
It takes everything in me not to say screw it and help the stubborn old woman, but I stand glued to my spot.
Determined, she clings to her tank handle and wheels it behind her, her steps getting surer as she walks into the kitchen.
I beat her to the table and pull out the chair near her.
Her ass lands in it with a light thump and she eyes the omelet. “What the hell is that green stuff?”
“Spinach.”
“My son put you up to this?”
I clamp my lips shut and shake my head.
She studies it wearily.
“It won’t kill you,” I mumble.
She clicks her tongue. “Your cooking might.”
I roll my eyes and pick up my fork to take a bite of mine. Honestly, it’s not bad. Considering I’ve been living on diner food and trail bars—this actually tastes like nutrients.
When she pushes the omelet around on her plate, I say, “Going to make me fifteen bucks richer?”
“Nope.” She cuts herself a forkful and places it in her mouth. Then she takes another bite, and another.
Before long, the entire omelet is gone, and her fork clatters against the plate. “Pay up,” she says, holding her hand out, and I can’t help but let out a sharp burst of laughter.
I stand, moving toward her pill case, holding it up for her to see. “How about double or nothing?”