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Breakfast at McSnelly’s
“Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.” – Jennifer Yane
“Mum! Are you all right?”
Warm hands patted my cheeks as I opened my eyes to the concerned faces of two men hovering above me, one apparently my husband, the other apparently my…
No way! I had a son?
“No, I’m not all right! Yesterday I was young, unmarried and… firm, and now I’m old, married and… saggy,” I said with a quivering lip, as the men each hooked an arm under my armpits and lifted me up, leading me towards a chair at the dining table.
“Your mother’s just having a few issues around turning fifty, Ryan,” William said to his son in hushed tones, before looking at me with a hopeful smile. “But you’ll be right, won’t you, honey? Once you’ve had breakfast you’ll feel better and then you can get started on the birthday of your dreams!”
Birthday of my dreams? Not in this body.
My stomach grumbled as I buried my face in my hands and the young man, Ryan – my son – placed a plate of food next to me on the table. A warm, buttery aroma wafted into my nostrils and I lifted my head from my hands. Ryan quickly shoved the plate in front of me.
“Eat up, Mum.”
Two boiled eggs, shiny curls of smoked salmon, toast and grilled tomatoes. My stomach grumbled again at the sight and without thinking I slid a curl of salmon into my mouth. Yum. Maybe I was just experiencing a severe bout of low blood sugar. It wouldn’t be the first time. Once, a swimwear photo shoot had taken three hours longer than planned, due to unforeseen weather changes and faulty equipment, and I’d collapsed on the beach not having eaten anything since the bowl of blueberries I’d had for breakfast. The last thing you wanted when you’re modelling swimwear was a bloated stomach from a hearty breakfast.
But could my low blood sugar really be severe enough to cause a realistic hallucination like this? Unless I’d collapsed and was in a coma, having some sort of coma-dream. That might be what’s going on. Soon I’d begin hearing the caring voices of hospital staff around me as I slowly woke up and Grant would be there holding my hand.
“Buuurrrrp!”
My fork dropped to the table with a clang as the loud, revolting sound escaped Ryan’s mouth.
“Ryan!” William scolded.
“Sorry, those eggs do it to me every time,” he said, sitting down opposite me and scooping the rest of the boiled egg into his mouth, swallowing it in one gulp.
“If you took smaller bites and chewed more thoroughly, they might not give you any problems,” William suggested.
Ryan shrugged, tipping his head back and dropping a sliver of smoked salmon down his throat, before releasing an encore performance of even greater intensity.
“Sorry, Mum. I really can’t help it.”
Strangely, it didn’t bother me. I was preoccupied with my breakfast and couldn’t believe how hungry I was. I picked up a slice of toast but then hesitated. Normally I’d never eat this much, maybe I should go easy on the carbs. Then again, this wasn’t really my body and if it was just a dream then I’m sure calories didn’t count in dreams, right? I tore off a corner with my teeth and chewed the crusty bread till it disappeared down my throat. I then tapped the side of the egg and peeled off the shell, before digging my spoon into the smooth white flesh. Hopefully the burping problem wasn’t hereditary. I dug the spoon in a second time and then paused, my eyebrows drawing together.
“There’s no yolk in my egg,” I remarked.
“So?”
“So? Eggs have yolks. Why doesn’t this one?”
“You always prefer to have the yolkless eggs, Mum,” Ryan said.
Yolkless eggs? If I wasn’t so confused and distraught at my predicament I’d jump for joy at the brilliance of it. “Oh, um, of course. I just thought with it being my birthday and all…”
“Oh, you wanted a treat. I should have thought, sorry,” Ryan said.
I shuddered at the mention of the word… Mum. I wasn’t a mum. I’d never been pregnant, or been through childbirth and yet here I was having breakfast in the McSnelly residence with the young man who was apparently my son.
I wolfed down the rest of my breakfast, hoping somehow the rising blood sugar would reach a magical point and turn me back into my normal self. I clenched my eyes shut and opened them several times, hoping for the best, but without any luck. Swallowing hard to quench a developing burp (yep, hereditary!), I pushed my chair back with a grating screech and stood, glancing around the open-plan house. Coffee-coloured walls merged with coffee-coloured carpet on the living room floor, on which sat a semi-circular couch of muted aubergine. An odd-shaped lamp stood in the corner and multiple tiny light fittings hung like stars from the ceiling. A variety of ornaments, vases and candles decorated the room, and a bulky multi-coloured blanket hung heavily on the couch. The room was subtly stylish in one way and irritatingly homely in another. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not, but either way, it wasn’t the sort of decor I’d choose.
“Dad, while you’re up, do you mind making me another egg?” Ryan asked, as William took his mug and put it into some sort of chute on the kitchen bench. A moment later it popped out of another chute and William put it away in a cupboard.
“You’ve got to be kidding, right?” he replied.
