“You might as well have breakfast.” You exit my bedroom without a backward glance.
I follow. Everything is as it was. My books. Empty mantel, no TV, no radio, no computer. My library, the case with my antique books and signed first editions. The paintings—Portrait of Madame X; Starry Night. The breakfast nook. A single simple white porcelain plate, half a grapefruit, vanilla-flavored Greek yogurt, a mug of Earl Grey tea imported from England, a single square of organic wheat bread toast with a thin scrim of farm-to-table butter. I stare at the food, and my stomach rumbles. I want scrambled eggs with cheese, a Belgian waffle piled high with whipped cream and strawberries drowning in processed syrup, crispy brown bacon, white toast slathered thick with jelly.
I ignore the breakfast you’ve provided. Put four pieces of bread in the toaster. Find a container of cage-free eggs and an unopened rectangle of Dublin cheddar cheese. I set about making scrambled eggs, and I’m not sure how I know how to make them. But I do.
I crack four eggs into a bowl and whip them while the pan heats.
I’m struck by a memory:
? ? ?
Mama is at the counter, a white bowl in one hand, a fork in the other, whipping eggs in a smooth circular motion of the fork. Music fills the kitchen from a small radio on the counter near the stove, guitar and a man singing in Spanish. Mama’s hips sway and bob to the rhythm. The morning is bright. Waves crash. I sit at a table, running my thumbnail in a crack in the aged wood, watching Mama beat the eggs. I wait for my favorite part: the liquid bubbling hiss when she pours them into the pan.
A seagull caws, and a boat horn goes BWAAAAAAAANNNNHHHH! in the distance.
Mama smiles at me as she scrapes the fluffy, cheesy eggs onto my plate, and then kisses me on the temple. Her eyes twinkle. “Coma, mi amor.” Her voice is music.
? ? ?
The memory is so visceral that I can smell the eggs, and her perfume, the salt of the sea, hear the seagulls and the boat horn. Tears slide down my cheek, and I hide them by ducking over the bowl as I finish whipping the eggs. I pour the beaten eggs into the pan, and the bubbling hiss makes the memory roar through me, making me feel as if making these eggs somehow connects me to my mother. A simple but powerful thing.
I add a generous amount of cheese as I fold and stir the eggs, soaking in the memory of Mama, eggs, and a breakfast by the sea.
The toast pops, and I spread butter thickly onto the squares of toasted bread. When the eggs are cooked, I slide them onto a plate, pile the toast onto the plate, retrieve the still-steaming mug of tea from the table, and take my breakfast to the couch. I am careful to make sure the sheet remains tucked around me, keeping me covered.
You watch from the kitchen, anger boiling in your gaze. I ignore you and eat my breakfast.
As I eat, I remember the note I saw beside Logan’s laptop.
When I finish, I set the plate on the coffee table and lean back on the couch, sipping at the tea. “Caleb?”
You saunter toward me. Take a seat on the Louis XIV armchair, cross one ankle over your knee, drum fingertips against the armrests. “Yes, X?”
You are trying to rile me, and it won’t work. “Who is Jakob Kasparek?”
You pale, your eyes widen, your lips thin. You cease breathing. “Where—where did you hear that name?”
“Who is Jakob Kasparek?” I repeat.
A hesitation. “No one. I’ve never heard of him.”
I eye you across the rim of my teacup. “Liar.”
“X—”
“Tell me the truth, Caleb.” I am proud of how even my voice is.
“I told you—”
“Lies, you bastard! You’ve told me nothing but fucking lies!” I lean forward, shouting. “TELL ME THE TRUTH!”
You seem rocked by my spittle-spraying scream.
I feel feral. Violent. “Just tell me the goddamn truth. Tell me what happened to me. Tell me who you are. Tell me how long I was in the coma. Tell me what year the accident happened. Admit there was no mugger. Tell me—just—just fucking tell me, Caleb!” I sob the last part. “I need to know. Why do you feel like you own me? Why can’t you let me go? Where is Logan?”
You shoot to your feet. “You sit there demanding answers. But I owe you nothing. Nothing!” You stalk toward the door.
I hurl the teacup at you, tea dregs spraying across the room. The delicate porcelain smashes against the door beside your face, and you halt, spinning in place.
“Are you crazy? You could have hit me!”
“I was aiming for you, you fucking asshole.” I clutch the sheet to my chest. Stand behind you, seething. “Who . . . the fuck . . . is Jakob Kasparek? Because Caleb? That’s who signed me out of the hospital, not Caleb Indigo.”
Your shoulders slump. “Fine. I’ll tell you.” A glance at me. “But go put on some clothing.”