Grandmother Knows

Three

It's morning I gather, as the sun burns into my eyes, causing them to ache and squint in resistance. I want nothing more than to rush to my bathroom, splash cold water over my face, and wash the sweat from my body. But I can't, I'm frozen in place. I try to move my legs to the ledge of the bed, it feels like they're made of lead. My entire body hurts, hit by a train soreness. 
I fall back into my mountain of pillows, staring at the clock next to my bed, watching the seconds ticking. I think about my dream. I've always had strange dreams, or feelings. I once dreamt of my brother being picked on at school; the older kid's circling him, pushing him around, and calling him "Shrimp". The next day he had a black eye when I picked him up from school.

He told me he didn't want to talk about it, when he slumped into the car. The ride home he wouldn't talk to me, but I knew what happened. Somehow, I knew.

But the dreams I've had since Nana died have been as if I were there. In each one I could feel the texture of every surface I touched, and smell everything that put off a scent. I stretch my legs into the air, it seems the heavy soreness is tightened muscles. I stretch until they feel loose, and climb out of bed.

I take a fast shower, and throw on the first pair of jean shorts, and tank top I see in my rummaged closet. Littered with clothes holding on for their lives to hangers. Half on-half off, the result of yanking their neighbors from their hanger.

I peek into Max's room, he's not there so I glide through the house, the morning sun really brings out the cheer in me. My mother loved the morning, I guess I get that from her. I trot down the stairs and into the kitchen. The sweet, sweet aroma of fresh brewed coffee. I pour myself a cup, and lean into the counter.

Magda, our housekeeper stands at the stove, five foot three but her strong presence makes her seem much taller. She's been here since we moved in. It's almost like she came with the house. We adore her, as did my mother. Magda never left her side after her diagnosis. Always shuffling from one room to the next, like doctors rounds. A peek into our rooms, packing lunch boxes, before scurrying back to my Mother.

"Smells good, what is it?" I sip.

"My scramble." She smiles knowingly. I drop my jaw, sitting my coffee on the counter. I stand beside her inspecting the skillet.

"We haven't had. . ." I begin.

"In years. I know. Thought it was a good day for it." She scoops the food into a bowl, as I book it to the dining room. Max is already there, patiently waiting with a fork at the ready.

I eyeball him sitting across the table, and imagine a wild west musical whistle as Magda places the steamy bowl on the table. She places her hands on her hips, giggling at us. "You two." She laughs, but we ingnore her. Max's eyes squint, mine also while we stare each other down. His eyes turn watery, finally he blinks "Ha!" I laugh. "I win." I chime, while taking the first scoop to my plate. His defeated face soon fades to joy.
We bite into Magda's scramble. The flavor of eggs, peppers, steak, onions, and potatoes explodes in our mouths, we harmonize in a hum with each bite. She would make this only on special days, or when we need a good cheering up. As I clear my plate I suddenly wonder why today. What's today's special reason?

My question is answered by the end of my second helping. The doorbell chimes throughout the house, I hear Magda open the door and instruct someone to wait in the parlor. I perk my eye's and look at Max, shoveling his breakfast. Half of it falls from his fork back to his plate each time. He doesn't seem curious about the visitor, so I take one more large bite and go investigate.

In the parlor sits a weaseled like man in a blue scratchy suit. He holds a briefcase on his bouncy knees. The type of man that would live in his mother's basement, and spend countless hours perfecting his comb-over in the mirror.