1. What Do You Call.? #2
“So, no one to bring to breakfast still?” Ethel’s eyebrow is raised in that way I’m sure she developed the moment my adoption was finalised. That parenting arch that says everything while also saying nothing.
She pushes her purse across the floor to me with her foot, and I reach down to surreptitiously lighten it of the pastries, folding them away inside my jacket.
“Just because they’re not at breakfast, doesn’t mean there’s no one,” I shoot back defensively, pouring tea too fast into a small cup. It spills over the side and pools in the saucer.
Ethel offers a paper napkin she already had in hand. “You need a keeper, Milo.”
My jaw hangs open. “I most certainly do not!”
Plunging the napkin into the too-hot tea, I burn my fingers then waft them in the air. “For a feminist, that’s practically blasphemy, isn’t it? I’m perfectly fine as I am: an independent young man making my own way in the world. Besides, I have you.”
She opens her mouth to comment, probably to remind me how she won’t be around for much longer, when a portly kitchen server all but drops a plate of toast and eggs on the table. I’ve never in my life been so glad for rude service.
“Hey! Watch it.” I scan up his stained chef’s whites to his three-day-old stubble.
Ethel calmly collects her knife and fork from where they’re wrapped tightly inside a paper napkin, and with nothing further to do or comment on, the cook saunters back to his kitchen.
“Here,” she shoves the plate across the table. “I lied earlier. I traded Simon in apartment three for some of his son’s slow-cooked brisket from their family gathering this weekend. If I eat those eggs as well, I’ll bloat like a balloon.”
Accepting her plate, I let out a slow exhale, but it’s for show—I knew this was coming.
“I think, when you’ve finished,” she continues. “I’ll have one of my turns if that’s okay? They’re getting wise to me in poker and teaming up against me, but if they think I’m not well, then maybe they won’t play so hard, and I’ll stand a better chance.” She winks conspiratorially.
Shrugging, I tuck in, and Ethel leans against her high-backed chair. Content in each other’s company, she closes her eyes and rests while I finish her breakfast. Under delicate lilac lids, her eyes strafe left and right, and her mouth hangs slightly ajar, as if in deep sleep.
I love spending time with Ethel, despite that she’s pretend sleeping. There’s something so… restorative, about being with family. Even when she’s badgering me to find my someone, to share him with her before she—
“Ethel,” I lean across the table and touch her hand gently. There’ll be no more of those thoughts, thank you very much. “Want to go for a walk and get some fresh air?”
Her eyes flutter open for a second, then close again, as if she’s in such a deep sleep she can’t wake.
“Ethel, come on. Let’s go take a walk.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently.
Nothing.
I know it’s a ruse, we’ve done this before, but my mind immediately jumps to the worst-case scenario, because helpful.
What if she’s in a diabetic coma from the BBQ meat?
She’s not diabetic.
Still, my heart strikes hard against my rib cage, and I desperately claw back the panic that rises.
She’s fine, I remind myself. Fine.
I get out of my seat and crouch low beside her. “Ethel, it’s Milo. You need to wake up.”
Changing my grip on her wrist, I feel for her pulse. Why, I have no idea, because it’s not like I know what anything means beyond “alive,” and when I can’t find one—probably just because she’s old—I have to sit and force myself to watch her breathe to stop from having a panic attack.
“Ethel,” I call her name louder now, uncaring of who hears. In part, because that’s how this charade goes, but also because I’m freaking out and public embarrassment is no longer enough of a prohibitive factor.
“Are people starting to look?” Ethel whispers.
“What?” I whisper yell.
She remains perfectly still, as if asleep. “The staff will be coming any minute. Wish me luck in the poker game this afternoon.”
I fall back on the bones of my ass and stare at her as the on-duty staff come to take over checking her pulse. She’s fine. I repeat it over and over like a mantra. She’s fine—but I’m not.
Ethel’s all I have left, and one day this won’t be a ruse to fleece some old people out of a packet of cigarettes or a quart of rum. One day, we’ll be sitting here at this table, having breakfast, and she won’t wake up again. The eggs threaten to repeat.
I scoot back to the sanctuary of my chair and scoop up the leather jacket that hides my stolen pastries. Ethel’s jacket. Ethel’s pastries.
“Milo, are you okay? You look pale.” It’s Lucy. I recognise her voice before I turn to find her dark red hair and brown eyes full of concern.
I can’t find words, so I nod, and she offers me her hand so she can help me up.
“Likely it’ll be her blood pressure, but the nurse will see her to her room and we’ll call you later, okay? Have you got your phone?”
I check my pocket. “No, I…”
“Here, it was on the table.” It’s cold and hard when she presses it into my palm. “Give her time.”
I don’t hear the piano music I know is playing when Lucy escorts me out through the reception, don’t notice when she takes back the visitor’s pass, nor do I answer when she yells goodbye as I step through the automatic glass doors.
When Ethel… When she’s out of time, I’ll be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I can’t be…
I don’t know how.