Mac-N-Cheese

It was a typical weekend morning. The kids were already up and about playing rowdily in the living room, my son, wearing an eye patch, standing on the couch, my daughter on the floor begging him to let her read her book and stop pestering her. My fiance was off in the kitchen gulping down coffee in a futile attempt to keep up and I - I was soaking in the spring air on the porch (I already knew better than to try and pretend I had energy to deal with those two). Life was good, better than it had been in a long time. Sure my fiancé and I argued from time to time, a situation usually remedied the next day with MacNCheese and a Dr. Pepper (who needs flowers). And yes, the kids were definitely a handful too, but most of the time they were handfuls of joy. I had fought and clawed and sobbed through foster homes, abusive partners, and nasty break-ups to be sitting right there on that porch smiling at the sound of my fiance lecturing the kids in the other room. What sweet, totally normal, bliss it had been...and then the phone rang.

It was my best friend of 8 years, she lived 3 hours away in a small railroad town. I, of course, picked up the phone, excited for the unexpected chit-chat, only to be met with tears.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"John died."

I stared at the hedges in the yard and choked. John was her younger brother, he had been mentally and physically handicapped since birth with a spinal disorder that left him in a wheelchair. I had lived with him and his mother the previous summer when I was trying to get back on my feet and since then had spent many impromptu movie nights and holidays with him. I teased him over our favorite shared meal (MacNCheese), listened to music with him, and took care of him when his mother worked. He was my brother too. "How?" Was all I could sputter out but she didn't know, no one did.

Months before, John had to go to surgery to treat a large bedsore. The surgery itself had the potential to present challenges, possibly even death due to the chance of infections. He had been wrought with worry over it for weeks beforehand. While he normally had a very cheerful disposition (something that was inspiring for all of us) he had been irritable in the days leading up to his surgery, and once he even proclaimed to me and his mother, "I don't want to die." I had confidently, ignorantly, told him, "John, you're going to be fine. Now eat your food and tell me three things you're happy about." He did in fact survive the surgery and spent weeks moving from one hospital to the next; John hated the hospital, who could blame him after spending so much time in them his whole life, but he was smiling again after that. At last, the doctor gave us the green light to move him back home to finish healing and just days after that his mother found him in his bed, passed away in his sleep.

It was a mystery, theories were tossed around but the conclusion was that it was simply his time to go, as little sense as that made. There were no more words after that, my friend and I simply wept together over the phone, feeling each other's anguish before she had to politely excuse herself and I was left alone in a yard that was suddenly spinning. A thick, heavy buzzing filled my head as I stood and staggered over to the door and when I opened it so too did the flood gates. I sobbed and immediately sank to the floor as my fiancé and my children, confused, ran to my side in a clamor of worried questions, sweet kisses and little hugs..."He was fine, the doctor said he was fine. He's dead, John is dead."

Fast forward a few days, me, my fiancé, and a few of our good friends sat at a Denny's table for lunch. I don't care for Denny's, I was outvoted, and in my sour mood, I was certain they would mess up my order again. Lately I felt that the shoe was always going to drop somewhere, I couldn’t possibly enjoy a nice lunch with friends, something bad was bound to happen. I was stubbornly zoning out on the conversation, thinking about how burdensome my life suddenly had become, when the waitress began delivering the food. Everything seemed to be going fine and then she came to me and quietly placed a bowl of MacNCheese in front of me. I looked up at her in alarm as she smiled at me and said "I know you didn't order it, I don’t even know why I chose this, but I felt like you needed it. It's on me." I sat there, mouth agape, eyes watering in disbelief as the young woman walked unknowingly away. It was the best MacNCheese of my life.