Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 93.1: 1995, Georgina

Chapter 93.1: 1995, Georgina

Next to the stove, hearing the frying bubbling sounds of the oil Cha Cha had poured into the pan, I was on the verge of tears. But I couldn’t cry now, because this precious thing before me was happening and I might not have another chance. The oil looked about ready, and seeing the eggs in the half empty carton made my tears come forward faster, but I couldn’t cry.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Cha Cha that I never used oil when I cooked eggs. Maybe they helped the eggs not stick, but one of my favorite things to do was scrape the scrambled eggs off of the pan. Would I be able to do that, though? Would I be able to lift the pan without shaking, would my hands do what I ordered them to, scraping the eggs out with the metal spatula just like I’d done thousands of times…

Cha Cha’s hand slipped into the carton and around an egg. I watched the beautiful colors on top of each other, her coffee milk brown skin against the pure white of the egg. My breath caught, startled but still steady in surprise. She was there behind me, ready for me if I lost my balance. I’d been having balance issues today, my legs not cooperating. Did she know?

Like this, I took the egg from her. My hand was quaking barely, but that was okay. Gently, I tapped the egg against the edge of the pan and immediately a crack formed. My hands starting to shake more, I pressed my fingers against the crack and widened it, and like a wonderous yellow sun the yolk oozed out and with the clear liquid it plopped into the oil, the clear turning white immediately.

Here was the hard part, the part I’d dreaded while in my bedroom. This morning, I’d woken up wanting eggs. Something simple, with a little black pepper and salt. But in the fuzziness of my sleep I’d forgotten how hard it would be. And as I woke up more, I realized how long it had been since I’d cooked. By the time I’d woken up completely, I’d remembered how Cha Cha didn’t like me to cook, and how impossible it would be.

But now here we were. Incredibly, she wanted me to cook and what’s more she’d figured out a way to let me do it. So I couldn’t stall, couldn’t let the opportunity go away. So I was pushing myself. My hand gripped the metal spatula on the counter, and brought it over the quickly cooking egg.

Here I found with ease and surprise that my hand and wrist knew what to do, flipping and digging and mixing. My body remembered what to do, even if I was nervous inside. Of course it did, I had done this so many times, but still the doubt…

To my left I saw an egg quickly get tapped against the edge of the counter and faster than I could say a word the yolk dropped into the pan, its clear liquid becoming white with my egg and mixing with the already broken yolk.

And as I mixed, the most incredible thing of all… Cha Cha’s arm strongly pressed around my waist, embracing me against her body from behind. The tears in my eyes made the eggs fuzzy, all of it turning yellow in the pan, erasing the white spots still showing.

“You’re doing so good,” her breathy voice said so close to my ear, “you’re getting better. I’m so happy. You can do it.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept flipping. Instead, I nodded, my tears dangerously wobbling in my eyes. Instinctively, I sniffed the liquid up in my nose, betraying myself. Her arm tightened around my waist, hearing this of course. I couldn’t hide it. My cheeks blushed, not being able to help it. My gut pinched, tingled.

“You’re crying, why?” she asked gently. “Oh no, are you okay? Is cooking too much?”

I couldn’t see what I was cooking anymore. There was no way to know if the wet spots had gone away. So I did the only thing I could do, blinking hard. This caused the tears to clear, to fall down my cheeks in heavy drops. Finally I could see what I was doing, and now I saw that the wet spots were all gone. But I flipped the eggs around anyway, checking as if automatically, knowing how to do this almost in my bones.