G.K. Adams lives on the Texas Gulf Coast with her husband and two cats.  She writes short stories, essays and nonfiction of general interest, has served on the editorial staff of an allied health journal in the District of Columbia and as a technical editor for industry. 

Mystery Ingredient (January 20, 2011. Issue 24.)

Gary scooped coffee to fill the coffee maker. How much, he wondered? Two scoops? Three? His hand quivered, his insides roiled. He never felt so alone. He filled the reservoir to the top with water and punched the button.

Cold dawn filtered through the large window in the breakfast nook. Beyond the window, the light silhouetted bare branches of the oak tree in the backyard. Little Michael’s swing – the one Gary had tied to the strongest branch – hung listless in the dewy air. It seemed only yesterday that dear Marian had been out pushing the boy in that very swing. Now he had started high school. The two younger grand kids were in school, too.

The coffee maker gurgled and sloshed with increasing urgency.

He was glad the others were gone. He had a hard time getting rid of them. They wanted to “be with him,” they said. “He shouldn’t be alone,” they said – even the kids, John and Catherine, not kids anymore, of course – wanted to stay. They had their grief, but it wasn’t his. None of them understood. He wanted his cave, not their empty comfort. And he wanted her, his Marian. A heavy weight pressed down on him. A soundless voice screamed inside.

Maybe a piece of toast. He plopped bread in the toaster, pushed the lever, watched the wires begin to glow red – and he inhaled the aroma of coffee, permeating the room. He spun around and, to his horror, coffee was cascading over the pot and on to the counter and then to the floor. He grabbed a dish towel and began sopping up the spilling coffee, but the towel saturated almost immediately. He reached for the roll of paper towels and mopped more. She’d kept everything so neat and clean.

In due course, the coffee pot fell quiet. The counter and floor were left with a thin brownish film. He poured himself a cup, took the now cold toast from the toaster, sat at the table, and gazed out the window. He sipped the coffee. It tasted like tea. He began to cry then dropped his head to his arms. How would he live without her?

The phone rang. He jerked upright. That would be Catherine, he thought. She knew he’d be up by this time. He always was. He blew his nose on a napkin and reached for the phone.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” said her sweet voice, not unlike her mother’s. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing this morning.”

“Ok, I guess.” He didn’t want to mention the coffee pot, didn’t want her to know. “How about you?” Stupid question. How would she be?

“I’m fine. Randy and I’ll be over around eight. ”

“That’s awful early,” he said.

“That’ll give us a little time before we have to go to the funeral home,” she said.

“We don’t need to leave so early.”

“We won’t have to leave right away.”

She chattered on a few moments, like someone desperate to plug the hole in a leaking dike.

After he said good bye, he took a sip the impotent coffee. Marian’s coffee had been full, invigorating, like Marian herself. His mind wandered. Yes, they had had their ups and downs, but in the beginning, after John was born, it was bliss. He was a happy, fulfilled man. Then he got laid off and she found out she was pregnant again. Even though he got another job after four months, it had never been the same. He lived with the knowledge that bad things could happen – would happen – to him.

He shuffled to the microwave to warm the coffee.

They had held it together, though, he and Marian. And through it all she had been a bastion. She changed the diapers, got the kids to school, took them to soccer practice, kept the house. Had he ever thanked her? He couldn’t remember. She had been there when he had the heart attack. Called 911 herself. Sat by his hospital bed day and night. The unpalatable diet the doctor had insisted on? She enforced it and magically made it palatable. Even salads – with apples and oranges and walnuts tucked mid the lettuce and cucumbers.

“What’s in this salad dressing?” he’d asked.

“Oh, a mystery ingredient,” she teased.

And cauliflower, who can stand that? But her cauliflower disguised as mashed potatoes? “How do you make this so good?” Same answer.

He lingered at the table. Sunlight now illumined the nook and glanced off his white coffee cup. She never did tell him the mystery ingredient.

The doorbell jarred him. “Oh, my God,” he thought. “It’s Catherine and Randy, come to pick me up.”

He hurried to the door, still in his baggy pajamas. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted as he opened the door. “Time got away from me.”

Catherine hugged him and walked in. “Don’t worry. We have plenty of time.” Her voice was strong, reassuring.

Her husband entered behind her, with Michael, dressed in his Sunday clothes. His eyes were fixed on the carpet. Making the briefest eye contact, Michael said, “Hi, Gramps.”

This would be hard for him. He’d never been to a funeral. And he loved his grandmother. Gary put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and gave a hug. “Hi, Michael.”

Catherine said, “John and Lisbeth can hold down the fort till we get there.”

As Gary shuffled off to shower, he wondered if Catherine might know Marian’s mystery ingredient. He stopped at the hall door and turned. “Catherine,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about my diet.” He hesitated.

“Yes?” she said.

“Well . . . uh . . . you don’t by any chance know Mom’s mystery ingredient?”

Catherine’s eyes met his for moment, then she said, her voice cracking slightly, “Yes, I know it.”