brood
brood
{bro͞od}
a family of offspring or young
In the past 747 days, I’ve made my 747th breakfasts for my family. I barely have to think about what I’m doing anymore, the eggs just poach themselves. Doing the same thing, day in and day out gives my life the feeling of being stuck in slo-mo. In fact, I’m moving so freakin’ slowly I may as well be standing still. It’s like I managed to step into a vat of cement while everyone around me is coasting along on one of those people movers they have at the airports. Also, my particular vat of cement happens to be on a carousel, going around and around and around. So, sure, there’s movement, only I’m not getting anywhere.
“Damn it.” I bend down to pick up yet another broken glass. My bad. As usual. When my mind wanders, it takes my coordination with it.
“Lauren. Don’t say damn,” my kid sis reprimands.
“You’re right, Sara. Sorry. Finish your scrambled eggs, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Ouch.” I cut my pinkie on a sliver of broken glass.
We’re out of Band-Aids,” Matty informs. “You should get more.”
Gee, thanks, sis. Don’t bother getting up.”
“I won’t,” she tells me as she continues scarfing down the food I made her.
Yep, this is my brood. Not on purpose, though. I mean, I didn’t plan this brood or birth this brood, it just sort of turned out that they’re now, mostly mine.
My eighteenth birthday is in 99.3105497 days away and then I’ll be free. At least, that’s how it should work. But, in all actuality, I will most likely remain so very much—not free. Sure, free from high school, lame dances, excessive homework, and mean kids with inferiority complexes—hallelujah for all that. But as it turns out, there is oh so much more to be free from.
I might have unreasonably high hopes for the magic age of eighteen. It probably won’t feel that different, seeing that as how I’ve been adulting ever since my dad bailed on us two years ago. Still, as soon as I’m a legit adult, I have a plan. I plan on attending The Write Stuff writing fellowship in Santa Barbara. Not that I’ve actually been accepted. Okay, not that I’ve actually applied. But if I did actually apply and if I were to actually be accepted, as an actual adult, I’d be able to actually attend. I bookmarked the website and started filling out the application, but then got sidetracked by my family suddenly imploding and I stopped thinking about my future entirely. The now needs my attention. There was really no choice in the matter because the now began to scream at me at the top of its lungs, claiming that it needed me to stay home and take care of things. The now can be ear-piercingly loud. The now can be super bratty and extremely demanding. So, when the now hollered at me, I caved in and listened.
Still, thoughts of my potential freedom pop up all the time. What it must feel like to be away from home and doing what you love. I want to attend this writing fellowship so badly I can practically taste it. It tastes sweet like raspberry jam and fresh seaside air. I imagine I’d be able to breathe better in Santa Barbara because it’s near the ocean and far from home. In fact, it may not be a simple want at this point; this feeling might have advanced from want to need. I need to go there like I need oxygen. Because if I don’t go, if I’m still in this hectic house, in this hot, lonely San Fernando Valley by the time this summer is over, my feet could very well be stuck in cement going ’round and ’round on this carousel indefinitely. My own personal Groundhog Day.
Fixing & wishing:
Fixing the house + fixing my sisters + fixing my mom + wishing my dad would come back = certain madness.
99.3105497 days.
***
“It needs more salt.” Matty thrusts her breakfast plate at me as I work feverishly to cook up everyone’s eggs, special order, just the way each of them has grown accustomed. I want to argue with my sister that too much salt isn’t good for her, but she’ll only argue back that she’s not a middle-aged man with high cholesterol. Sometimes it can be annoying how smart my tweeny sis is. I grab the sea salt and give a few quick shakes on top of her two eggs scrambled with diced chives and a sprinkle of thyme. Also, just for the record, it SO does NOT need more salt. This dish is spiced to perfection. She knows it irks me when she asks for more of anything without even trying it first.
She takes the plate without so much as a “thanks” and goes over to sit next to Sara, who says, “I need more juice.” Then she smiles that sweet little toddler smile of hers and adds, “pweese.”
Of course, she gets what she wants. She often does. The thing is, I really want both of them to get what they want because that sort of thing—getting what you want—doesn’t always come easy for us Brightons.
Our family may be broken, but our breakfasts don’t have to be.
After Dad left, I’m guessing in an effort to create a new identity, Matty chopped off most of her hair, dyed it purple, and started wearing it all spiky. It sounds nuts, but it doesn’t look half bad with her new nose piercing and the press-on tattoos that she’s “auditioning” for the real thing. All of this would be fine if it wasn’t such an obvious reaction to someone else’s action. She used to be upbeat and bright, but after Dad left she got pissed. Still bright, but these days her fingers rest firmly on the dimmer switch. She’s taken up arguing as her new hobby. If you tell her you like the Pacific Ocean, she’ll tell you that the Atlantic Ocean is way better (even though she’s never been). If you complain about the humidity, she’ll tell you how much she loves the humidity. Seriously, who loves the humidity? Matty says she hates Dad’s guts and she doesn’t miss him at all. Of course, neither are true. She does have one cool party trick, though. If you say, “Tell me something I don’t know.” She will. And it’ll be something you really don’t know and it’ll be true. She likes to act like it annoys her when you ask, but we all know that it makes her feel special.
“Shoot.” I spill grilled potatoes on me as I attempt to transfer them onto the plate I’m making for Mom. I catch my reflection in the kitchen window and I have the urge to reach out and help the girl staring back at me. Or at least give her a proper haircut.
I haven’t had so much as a trim in two years and I’ve given up on makeup altogether. I still shower, so all is not lost. I shower for exactly two minutes and thirty-four seconds. Not because California’s in a major drought right now (we are), but because two minutes and thirty-four seconds is exactly the amount of time needed to get all of the important bits clean on non-hair-washing days. Being shower efficient leaves me enough time to make this breakfast for my sisters, take them wherever they need to go, make sure Mom eats something and also do the laundry, clean the dishes, and maybe, at some point today, brush my teeth and put on some clean clothes.
The TV is blaring from the living room. A commercial about a talking rabbit robot toy.
“I want that!” Sara yells at the TV.
“You don’t need that!” I yell back, making my way into the living room to shut it off.
“Hey. I was watching.”
“No TV right now. Finish your breakfast in the kitchen, please.”
Sara starts to cry as I lift her up to bring her back to the kitchen. Her cries are super high-pitched and almost always right into my ear. I think when you leave the hospital with a newborn, they should also give you a lifetime supply of earplugs. Seems like the right thing to do.
I place Sara back in her chair at the table and bring her an animal cracker.
“Elephant.” she happily exclaims, taking the cookie.
We fostered a puppy once when I was around ten and whenever he did something right, something that we wanted him to do, we gave him a cookie. That’s the way to go with Sara. Maybe taking child-rearing education from my puppy experience doesn’t exactly make me Mother of the Year, but I’m also not exactly a mother.
The doorbell rings. My hands are full, so I look over at Matty for some help.
“Matty?”
She looks up at me, clueless. “What?”
I dry my hands and answer the door.
A girl, a little older than me, stands there smiling. She has a book in her hands.
“Hi. I’m Carolina. How are you today?” “Fine, thanks.”
“Great. I’m in your neighborhood today discussing the Bible.”
“Oh, we’re not really Bible people.”
“I understand,” she says. But she doesn’t go away. She just smiles and continues with her pitch. “With all of the terrible recent events in our world today, you may wonder if God really exists. And if he does exist, does he care at all about the human race? What do you think?”
Whoa. Heavy stuff for eight o’clock in the morning.
“Umm…well, I’m not sure. I mean, I think that if there is a God, maybe he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed these days?”
Carolina giggles a little and her speech relaxes. “Yeah, probably. I often find comfort in an encouraging scripture in the Bible where God explains how he’s going to step in and right all of the wrongs in the world. Here.” She hands me the book and points to a passage. “Would you like to read this out loud? Revelations 21:3-4.
I look behind me, wondering if I left the stove on or if Matty’s eating all of Sara’s leftovers, or if Sara found her way to the cookie jar, or if Mom’s plate is getting cold before we even have a chance to get it to her. But I also don’t want to be rude. This girl is just doing her job. Wait, is this a job? Anyway, the sooner I read what she wants me to, the sooner I can shut the door without feeling like a total jerk.
I read the passage out loud, quickly, The earth attains its celestial glory and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
“I hand the book back to her. “That’s nice. I think.”
“Do you find that encouraging?” Carolina asks.
“I don’t know. I guess, if it actually happened, if someone magically took away all the pain in the world, then, yeah, sure, I’d find it encouraging.”
Carolina looks surprised. There’s a dejected look on her face.
Since I’m pretty sure I’m the cause of her facial contortion, I add, “But…I do like the language. It reminds me of a poem. Shakespeare or something.”
She asks me if it’s okay if she stops by another time and I sort of agree to it, then as slowly and as politely as possible, I close the door.
I head back into the kitchen, but now I can’t stop thinking about God. If there is one, what does he look like? Is he a he? Maybe she’s a she? Maybe neither. Maybe God isn’t like a person at all, but more like a superhero. That would explain why he/she is invisible. At least to me. At least so far. But I’ll keep my eyes open, just in case I run into him/her.
“Here.” I hand Matty Mom’s plate.
“Why can’t you take it to her?”
“She likes to see you.”
“Right. If she even looks up.”
“Just go.” I push her toward the stairs.
I’ve only been on this planet for seventeen years, nine months, and eight days, and I’m already exhausted. But I hate complaining. It’s so whiny. I’m really fine. It’s all fine. My family is fine. Everything is fine. It’s been one thousand, ninety-seven days and twelve hours since Richard left and I have everything completely, totally, utterly handled.
