Breakfast in Bed

Betsy woke slowly, just as she did everything these days. The morning sun weaseled its way through the cracks in the curtains, bathing the room in a muted glow. She lay still and quiet on her bed, doing her morning inventory of her aches and pains. Fortunately, there weren’t too many yet. As long as she wasn’t moving, it was only the weight of her body holding her back, the idea that even lifting an arm would be too much of a task for her time-worn body. Back in her day, that feeling had only come after skiing all day and partying all night with her latest beau and best friends.

She knew she could do it; she could rise and move about if she wanted to. Move about in that pathetic shuffling gait she hated. Like anything in life, that was something that had just snuck up and bit her on the butt. Sure, the logical part of her mind knew she had descended through a progression of micro-degradations that had taken eighty-eight years to bring her to this point. However, it still felt like a mean surprise when, one day, you were shocked to discover faded slippers on your feet, your hands wrapped in a death grip around a walker, and you could only move at a snail’s pace. It felt like you went from striding around with great purpose and lithe energy to suddenly sliding one foot beside the other with great hesitancy and fear of tipping too far left or right.

Betsy moved her feet first. Gently rotating at the ankle and feeling the first mild jolts of pain that she knew would soon be joined by the whole damn orchestra once she rose to greet the day. Slowly, she worked her way up her body, still lying prone but lifting limbs, rotating extremities and trying to work out any kinks that had evolved in the dark of night. She scoffed at the naivete of her younger self, who would leap from bed and joyously bound into the day’s adventures with nary a thought given to the miracle of smooth movement and lack of joint pain. She wished she could go back in time and smack that blissful idiot upside the head and tell her to appreciate her youth a helluva lot more. And don’t even get her started on boobs, butts and bellies!

She called her morning stretch “the Rice Krispie” routine due to all the snaps, crackles and pops.

Finally, feeling as limber as possible, Betsy still hesitated. The following moves would not be pleasant. She could never warm up enough to avoid the pain standing and walking would bring. Besides, she thought, lying on her side and staring at the light beams, what was she in such an all-fire hurry to do?

Work! Oh, my goodness, she was late for work! Her heartbeat kicked in her chest, and she felt that weird sensation, like a tingling wave, that one gets from a surge of adrenaline. She couldn’t believe she was acting like a good-for-nothing layabout—time to get up and get at it. Her parents would tsk at her lackadaisical attitude.

Betsy achieved a sitting position by hooking her foot on the edge of her bed for leverage and walking herself up on her hands. She sat there for a moment, panting and staring rheumily around. The familiar shapes of the chest of drawers, the Lazy-Boy chair with the knitting basket beside it on the floor and her dressing table lurked in the dim light of the room. The bed and the furniture had not changed much in several years. Since she retired, Harold and she could not afford many new things on their threadbare pensions.

She held her hands in her lap, rotating them around one another as she tried to remember what she was sitting up for. Her body felt slightly jittery as if she’d been scared, but what could it be? Everything was quiet and calm. Confusion. Frustration. Numbness. Confusion.

Her stomach grumbled. She was hungry—that’s why she was sitting there. “I have to go make breakfast,” she thought to herself.

She rose to her feet, a wince of pain adding to the map of wrinkles on her face. “Dang plantars”, she muttered. Holding onto her nightstand, Betsy shrugged one foot, then the other, into the pilled, tattered grey slippers on the floor. Not much to look at, but they did the job. Her robe was lying across the arm of the Lazy-Boy, and she donned it after a struggle trying to find the other sleeve once she’d gotten her arm in the first one.

A sudden snore startled Betsy, causing her to twist around quickly and almost lose her balance.

Harold! Of course, it was Harold. Still deeply asleep over there. She could make out his thin form under the white chenille blanket that covered their queen-sized bed. Harold would be hungry when he woke up soon. She’d better get breakfast ready.

Turning to her walker, she wrapped her pale, veiny hands around the chair's support arms and stepped into the metal scaffolding.

Slight lift, forward, thump.

Slight lift, forward, thump.

Slight lift, forward, thump.

Suddenly, her bladder decided to make itself a priority over her stomach’s needs when she saw the bathroom door on her right.

Slight lift, twist, thump.

Slight lift, twist, thump.

Her fingers grappled along the wall until she found the switch. The bright light made her squeeze her eyes shut for a moment. Gradually, she relaxed the muscles of her eyes, letting the light in, in increments until she could open them—goal in sight. There was a pungent smell, as if the maid had spilled some ammonia or something. She would have to chastise that woman for being sloppy. Couldn’t get good help nowadays.

Betsy moved forward, set the walker to one side, and started trying to lift her gown and robe out of the way while struggling to lower her unmentionables. Everything was a struggle now—even something simple like going tinkle.

Job complete, Betsy held onto the strong metal rail beside her on the wall and stood. Someone—who had that been?—had put the rail in for them just after Harold had his stroke. She could sense that she liked this person, loved them perhaps; the idea held a warmth, a comfort in it that told her so, but she couldn’t for the life of her picture who that had been. Ah, well, it didn’t matter now.

Harold. She had to get Harold breakfast. He’d be awake soon and grumbling how hungry he was. He always had a good appetite that man. Betsy smiled as she crept her way down the hall to the kitchen. Her walker caught on one of the piles in the hallway, and she almost fell with momentum. The bar in the front of the walker caught her across her stomach, and the front legs gripped the floor, holding her in place. Slowly righting herself, Betsy toed the pile of papers out of her way, then continued.

At the end of the hall, just before she had to turn left into the kitchen, Betsy was startled to see an elderly woman staring back at her. Who was that? Maybe Mother had a new boarder she hadn’t told Betsy about. They always had someone staying with them to help with the finances. Sometimes, the boarders stayed only a few weeks, and others, like Mr. McGregor, stayed for several years. No matter, Mother would tell Betsy later who this new person was. 

Nonetheless, Betsy had been raised always to show proper manners, so she smiled and waved in greeting. The elderly woman did the same. She had proper manners as well.

Betsy moved on into the kitchen. The darn garburator must be backed up again. The smell in here was enough to gag a goat. She’d get Harold to call the plumber when he got up. For now, she would focus on breakfast. She moved over to the fridge and opened the door, staring into the brightly lit interior. She carefully pulled out the carton of eggs with both hands and set them on the counter beside the fridge. There was a loaf of bread in there, too. Betsy found she and Harold didn’t eat it fast enough, and it would go mouldy. Keeping it in there helped it last longer.

Humming to herself, Betsy thumped her walker over to the drawer in which they kept the frying pans. She stared in confusion at the empty space. What in tarnation? Her mind felt cloudy as she tried to figure out where all her frying pans had gone. Ah yes! The party she and Harold had thrown last night. She had cooked up a big feast for them all, and they had such a grand time. Eating and drinking and dancing till the wee hours. It was such great fun, but it had been late. She had left the dishes to clean today. Sloppy of her, Betsy was sure her mother would tut-tut if she saw this mess, but her mother didn’t live here, did she? Betsy could clean her dishes when she wanted. Harold never complained—he was an easygoing soul.

Moving to the sink, Betsy saw the frying pan stacked with all the other dirty dishes. She managed to extract it and clean it. She left her walker and moved over to the stove. There were a lot of dishes and packages and such. It must have been a big party! Funny, she couldn’t remember who had been there. Perhaps she had drank too much of their homemade wine. Betsy usually didn’t imbibe too much, but it had been a fun and carefree evening with friends—she was allowed to let go occasionally.

Pushing the debris to one side, Betsy cleared space on an element and set the frying pan down. Peering blearily at the dials, Betsy turned it three-quarters of the way around. She then gazed across the counter, looking for the toaster. Her head was beginning to hurt. She couldn’t see it. Everything was a struggle, even something as simple as making eggs and toast. It must be behind some of these dishes and packages. Suddenly, it felt like an overwhelming task to find the toaster. Harold would be okay with bread and eggs. He was an easy-going soul.

Turning back to the stove, Betsy was startled to see a wisp of smoke curling out from the element next to the frying pan. Moving quicker than she thought she could, Betsy swiped the items covering the element to the side. Heart pounding, she stared at the pile, waiting to see if the smoke would turn into flame, but it seemed fine. Turning back to the stove, she saw the element on the left was glowing red. The frying pan was on the right. How had she managed to turn the wrong one on? Betsy slid the frying pan to the hot element and cracked six eggs into the pan. Harold always had a good appetite.

After searching, she found a spatula, two forks and a plate. Once the eggs were done, she slid them onto the plate alongside the bread. Standing at the counter, Betsy ate two of the eggs for herself. Why dirty two plates? Besides, there weren’t any more in the cupboard. She’d have to do dishes after Harold had his breakfast.

The tray was where she always left it—lying sideways, tucked between the fridge and coffee maker. Coffee! She’d forgotten to make Harold coffee. He always liked it strong and black. But the eggs were warm. The eggs would be cold if she made coffee and waited for it to brew. Harold was an easygoing soul, but she didn’t think he’d like cold eggs. She could get him started on the eggs, then make the coffee and bring it to him. He could sip his coffee in bed, and she could lay beside him while he drank it. They could talk about what they should do for the day. Perhaps it was nice enough to go to the park. They hadn’t been to the park in a coon’s age. That might be fun! She could wear her cotton day dress—the white one with the large, bright red flowers splashed across it—Harold had always told her he liked her in that dress. He would put on his red suspenders to match her dress, and with his fedora, he would cut quite the dashing figure. Harold was always so handsome.

Balancing the tray across the top bars of her walker, Betsy secured it with her thumbs while wrapping her fingers around the handlebars. It was much more difficult trying to move with her walker now. Lifting it to move it ahead was complicated due to the weight of the tray. She could do it, though. She had never been a complainer, even when times had been tough for her and Harold. They had just buckled down and got the job done. She could do this, but it was a struggle. Everything now seemed to be a struggle.

Carefully thumping down the hall, Betsy came into their bedroom. My, my Harold sure was sleeping late today. All his hours at the office wore him out. She was happy to look after him and spoil him a little with breakfast in bed. Leaving her walker at the foot of the bed, Betsy very carefully picked up the tray and slowly moved around to his side of the bed.

“Harold. Harold, darling, I’ve brought you some breakfast. Time to wake up, sleepy-head,” she said in a sing-song voice.

Harold didn’t stir. It was dim in the room.

“Harold, come on now, love, you’ve been sleeping long enough. Let’s plan our day after you eat these delicious eggs I’ve cooked for you.”

Still, Harold did not stir. Betsy felt a flicker of concern. Had Harold drank too much last night? Was he okay? His nightstand was crowded with plates and cups. Betsy stared in surprise at the mound of dishes. Harold was never a messy sort. Why had he let his dishes pile up like that? Sighing, she carefully stooped and placed the tray beside him on the bed. The floor was crowded with clothes, pillows, and plates—she couldn’t lay it there.

Reaching out, Betsy grasped Harold’s shoulder and gently shook him. Why was he sleeping with his head buried under the blankets? Wasn’t he hot under there? She eased the blanket back and stared at the nightmare before her. Dark holes stared back at her where Harold’s beautiful blue eyes had been. The skin was dark and leathery, stretched taut across the bones of his face. His lips pulled back in a rictus grin. The thin grey hair stuck out in clumps across his nearly bare skull—the hair that had fallen out lay across the pillow.

Betsy shrieked in terror and spun around, facing the wall, her fingers clawing at the torn wallpaper.

“No. No. No,” she repeated in a trembling whisper.

Slowly, her shaking subsided, and her breathing eased. She stood, facing the wall and stared at it, confused. Why was she splayed against the wall? What was she doing? She had to get ready for Mother’s visit this afternoon. She had so much to prepare. Mother was always such a stickler for having a proper tea.

Betsy pivoted and stared at her Lazy Boy chair against the opposite wall. Without looking down, she grasped the bed cover and pulled it up to the head of the bed. Her mother had told her always to make her bed every day.

Suddenly, a loud alarm sounded from the kitchen and was repeated by the one in their bedroom. The noise was piercing and hurt her ears. Covering them with her hands, Betsy sank to the floor. The first traces of smoke reached her nostrils as she curled into a fetal position. Grandpa must be getting the bonfire ready so she and her sisters can toast marshmallows.