Scrambled Eggs

Only the very worst weather kept Maggie from the beach.  Each day, she spent her lunchtime walking; looking at the waves lapping or heaving or sometimes crashing fiercely against the headland.  She watched the sea’s roll, she listened for the sea’s whisper.  Then she’d go back for a quick sandwich behind the counter, refreshed and secretly justified. 

*

He’d said there wasn’t anyone else.

 “Don’t go,” she said.

He looked down, scuffing his shoe on the faded, once-red carpet.

“It’s all arranged.”

“But… we… us...”

“I can’t let them down.”

“You can’t go.”  She burst out crying.

“I have to. It’s all set up.”

“No.  The thing is…”  She paused.  Then, “I’m pregnant.”  

He laughed.

“You were bellyaching about your period last week.”

“Weeks ago,” she wept.

“Days ago.”

“It was weeks...  You’ve met someone else.” 

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I love you,” she sobbed; shrill, almost accusing.

“You don’t even know what that means.”

She cried louder. Not gentle tears that might have charmed him, might have got him to promise anything. These were messy tears, spreading, mixing with catarrh, turning her face blotchy and trickling to her mouth.

“I love you.” She grabbed his sleeve.  He shook her off.

“I’ll prove it,” she screamed.  The door closed. She shrieked promises as his feet drummed down the wooden stairs.  “I’ll prove it,” she called again, but he was gone.

They’d had a lazy, chilled-out summer. Carl had put a sign up in her shop and when people asked about it, she directed them to the jetty by the Point, where he’d be waiting each day; 12 noon and 4 o’clock, to take them on a boat trip around the bay.  He amused the customers with jokes and sea-lore, they passed the word on to others back at their hotel or in the pub.   

In the evenings, they sat upstairs in the flat, sharing fish and chips.  When funds were low, they’d cook a meal from whatever she had in her small kitchen, laughing over pasta with tinned sweetcorn or beans on toast.

The shop had originally belonged to an old aunt, a pharmacist, who dispensed medicines and old-fashioned advice.  After she died, she surprised Maggie by leaving it to her.  Maggie, not having a pharmacy qualification nor any interest in study, adapted the shop, selling herbs,  spices, candles, books and seeds.  In summer she kept a small stock of buckets and spades, fishing nets and sun hats. It didn’t make a fortune, but it was hers and she loved it.  And she loved that summer, every fizzing minute of it since the day Carl had walked into the shop and they’d clicked instantly.

Then, in August, Carl had begun talking about Spain. Alarm bells sounded, she ignored them.  She concentrated on  making him happy, closing the shop early, taking him to the pub and lovingly back afterwards to the flat where scented candles were waiting to be lit and the curtains were closed against the world.

Carl had enjoyed the summer.  But now the days were shortening, visitors had dwindled and there was this sailing trip to Spain.  Maggie changed the subject every time he mentioned it until it was time to go and he found himself justifying, while she cried and clung.  Eventually he’d pulled away from her, into his new life, loudly closing the door behind him.

Maggie heard the front door bang.  She ran over to the window, pressing her face against it, leaving great smears, as Carl walked away. 

Later that day, moping on the beach, she’d seen the motorboat disappear behind the headland, Carl’s dark curls lively in the wind.  Now she only had this place, her shrine to him, where he would come sailing back someday.

Weeks went by. Daily, she went to the beach. Hoping. It became a comforting routine. Months, then years, passed. She lost interest in social life. Friends drifted away; she barely noticed. Her father died. Her sister married and moved away. Her mother died. She grieved, somewhat.  But the real  focus of her day was the beach. 

Her customers thought her something of a wise woman. They listened when she spoke about herbs and plants, believing she had the special insight of one who lived apart. As for Maggie, after twenty four years, she believed she’d learned from the sea – its constancy and resilience, the rolling waves always different, always the same.  

*

“Hello, my name is Jay.”

He stood at the counter, tall, pleasant, nervous. A student, he wanted a summer job. So many before him had stood there, hoping to earn some money during the holidays. She’d never hired anyone. She didn’t make big money and besides, she felt protective towards the shop and didn’t want anyone else in her little kingdom.

Yet, for some reason, she took to him right away.  There was something about him; still, she didn’t want an assistant.  Starting to say she wasn’t looking for anyone, she found herself instead agreeing to take him on.  The small pay didn’t bother him.  He started immediately and hung on her every word as she explained the stock to him.

Jay settled easily.  He threw himself into the work, attracting younger buyers and delighting the old ones. Despite the rainy, windy summer, customers flocked to ask about plants or flavourings. Sales increased.  There was a buzz in the shop.  He organised shelves and made clever signs, like ‘We’ve plenty of Thyme for You’ and ‘Your Health is Your Wealth.’

Each morning, he’d open up early, leaving Maggie to a leisurely breakfast upstairs.

Soon, she began taking breakfast downstairs, enough for two. They’d sit together in the shop and talk about mixing their own pot pourri or broadening their range. 

Maggie loved these mornings of tea and scrambled eggs on buttery toast.  They laughed and made little shop-jokes like “Their health is our wealth.”

Some older customers mentioned toy boys. She smiled.

“Don’t change your will,” one said.  Others shook their heads and threw meaningful looks.

True, there was a bond.  Having lived on memories,  it was a new experience, this comradeship with another person. But the customers had it wrong - she looked on him as a friend, or the younger brother she’d longed for as a child.  She felt she’d known him always.  It puzzled her sometimes.  She’d catch herself looking at him, wondering.

Then, one morning at breakfast, Jay’s fork fell.  He bent to pick it up.  She saw the small, pale patch on his head.  

Her glob of scrambled egg hung on its fork in mid air.  He saw recognition in her eyes and confirmed it with his.  He knew who she was.  He’d known all along.

“I... didn’t know how to tell you,” he said, like a scared small boy. 

Maggie sat, shocked.  Then suddenly jumped up, clearing the breakfast things.

“Open up,” she said.

“But…” Jay began. 

“It’s time,” she growled, “Open the door!”

She avoided him all day, as much as possible in the small space.  She threw herself into work, talking too loudly, smiling too much, so that people wondered what she was on and whether it could be mixed from her simple herbs and spices.

Inside, she was churning; amazed and angry.  He’d fooled her.

I should have known, she thought. 

At six, she slumped on a chair, worn out from her racing thoughts.

Jay locked the door.

I should have known.

The floppy, dark curls, the easygoing manner. 

Jay was Carl’s son.

*

Carl had sent him.  Despite herself, her heart lifted.

But Carl was dead.  An accident at work left him badly injured, he never came out of hospital afterwards.

“Mum was there for him.  They were devoted.”

Devoted? He sent his son to me.  

Jay seemed to read her thoughts.

“For closure,” he said.

Closure?  What’s that?  He was asking for me…?  

“To settle unfinished business,” Jay explained.

Confined to bed, thinking and praying, a memory had surfaced.

Her pregnancy.  He hadn’t believed her, he’d told Jay.  He’d left, shut it out of his mind. Now he wanted to put things right.  He died serenely after Jay promised to go to Maggie and his child.

“He tried to write to you,” Jay said, “he was too weak.  He sent me… to see him. Or her…”  He looked at her, waiting. 

“There was no baby.”

“You… lost the baby?”

“I was mistaken.  There was no baby.”

Jay looked relieved.  No deserted pregnant lover, no child left without a dad.  A cloud lifted from his dead father.  Carl was free.

Maggie remembered pleading for her unborn child, the betrayal when he walked away. 

Of course there was no baby.  She’d planned to remedy that if she could get him to stay.   But he’d gone, without a look back.  Leaving her alone.  Childless.

She’d carried Carl in her heart, remembering him as clearly as when they’d shared their brief summer. How he laughed, how he walked, how he’d bend his head and she’d see that tiny, vulnerable patch of skin.  The start of baldness.  The particular shape of  that spot told her Jay was his son.

She’d dreamed all the time that he’d come back to her one day.

“He sailed to Spain,” she said.

“His friends went,” Jay smiled. “But he met my mother.” He straightened the smile away.

Maggie did some calculations. Taking Jay’s age, Carl had met his wife shortly after leaving her.  

Jay continued,

“Another guy went in his place.”

So there was a child. Waiting to be conceived. 

Jay’s mother was there.  It should have been her, Maggie.  It was a glitch in the universe. 

She looked back over the years.  Changes. Mobile phones, Internet, satellite TV. People doing things, laughing, living.  And she, at the beach every day.  Just waiting.

Carl had Jay’s early steps and first words,  sports days and class plays; he’d watched Jay grow. While she was here.  Just waiting.

It was a mix-up.  Jay should be our son. It should have been me. 

“It should have been me,” she rasped.

Jay looked puzzled. 

“I’ll go, if you want.”

She spoke savagely.  “Whatever.  Yeah.  Go on.  Just like your father.”  He stood awkwardly. She raised her hand and he flinched, even though he was  across the room.

There would be no motorboat coming back by the headland.  Carl had died without knowing she’d kept her word, proving that she did, truly, know what it means to love.

“Get out!” she shrieked.

The shop door clicked as Jay left.  She stood, lost in the prospect of a Carl-less world; so bleak it made the last twenty four years seem like a carnival.  

Jay’s mother had taken her place.  It should be me, she thought.  I’m his rightful mother.  She looked down at her bare hands, held out before her.  Empty.

The shop, cramped and cluttered with bottles, plants and potions, seemed like a huge cavern, stark and threatening.  Carl was dead.  He’d lived happily without her, only thinking at the last about the child.  Hungry as she’d been to hear about Carl, the words had wounded her.

She’d given Jay a job and friendship and cooked breakfasts. And he’d stung her with words, not thinking what those words would do to her.  Gabbling truth tactlessly, like a child. 

Just like a child.

She threw on a jacket and ran out, looking up and down the street.  She turned left, towards the street where Jay had lived all summer.  She ran, barely noticing her hair clinging to her head in the pelting rain.  She’d find him.  She would catch him up, talk to him.  She’d take back her harsh words, make things right. She’d bring him home. 

Because, no matter what happens or how you feel, that’s what you do for your child.

Frances O'Keeffe