Brookhaven Diner - A Story About How Love Heals

I was never a guy who got sappy and sentimental, which is why when my oncologist gave me the news that the bone marrow results were back (two months after my last infusion of chemo) and there were zero viable blood stem cells in my body, I just stared ahead blankly and counted the time I had left in single digits.

A few days later, I went to my favorite Brookhaven Diner, for some homemade chicken soup. Years ago, that diner on Old Cutler used to be just an ordinary old barn full of hay and cows.

I drove down a winding dirt road flanked by large shady trees, turned into the driveway, and pulled up in front of an old building that had weathered considerably but still looked good.

Walking through the heavy doors, I was hit with the smell of home cooking, fresh coffee, and vanilla. It like they were baking a cake.

For some reason, the place reminded me of my grandparents' farmhouse back in Upstate New York. Maybe it was because of Nellie, one of the two cooks behind the counter, she had this kind of don't-mess-with-me look about her.

She wasn't tall or fat or anything like that — she had a very normal shape for a woman her age. It was the way she carried herself that made you think that if anyone messed with her they'd get what was coming to them.

She had beautiful brown eyes that were golden around the edges. I'd estimate she was in her eighties, but she had a much stronger-looking body than some of the women half her age that you see running around town wearing tank tops and shorts.

Her grey hair was always tied back with a bandana, and she wore an old t-shirt, and depending on how the day was going, she had different rings of sweat under her arms.

“Welcome to Brookhaven, Luke,” Nellie said in her friendly voice. “We have a table for you, if you want one.” We were old friends who through my years of frequenting Miami from New York before I finally retired in South Florida.

She grabbed a rag and started cleaning up some tables. I stood there like a dummy. It was strange seeing someone so old as youthful and nimble as Nellie move around the diner.

She reminded me of my grandma — a straightforward and honest woman, one who knows how to treat people well.

Nellie's husband, Harry, was by the stove at the corner table pouring batter into a dozen round cake pans. I cold hear his voice booming from across the room: “Nel, where did you put my cocoa?”

“Oh Harry, don't you worry, I'll get the cocoa,” she said in a voice that told me she'd been working with him for years.

Harry was a big jovial man with kind eyes and an easy smile. He reminded me of my grandfather because he had that same raspy voice, but it took him forever to say anything.

“It's been a long time since I've seen you,” Nellie said as she took my order. “How have you been, Luke?”

I didn't know how to reply. My response should have alluded to my illness, but the reality is that telling anyone I'm terminally ill and only have a few months left would be bleak even by my own standards.

So I said, “I've been fine, Nel. I'll have the soup and the chocolate cake, please. Thank you.”

“You got it.” And she moved on to the next table.

A while later Harry zipped out with my soup and then a minute after that Nellie came over to my table.

She stood there with her hands on her hips and said, “You know what's funny? This is the first time in years you've been here. You were always coming around when you were younger.”

“Do you remember?” I asked.

“Of course I remember,” she said, “My mind isn't going that bad yet. You've gotten old though.”

I was so surprised by her comment that I almost spit out the soup I had in my mouth. She saw my face and gave me a weak smile like she was sorry for what she'd said, but it was clear to me she didn't mean it.

Nellie bent down to hug me, and Harry eagerly brought over a large slice of my chocolate cake. It was still warm from the oven — a creamy, thick, rich, moist and delicious cake — that again reminded me of the time when my grandma was still alive and used to bake just the same.

I dug into the cake with the spoon and looked up at Nellie. I think she read something in my eyes.

“I'll let you eat in peace,” she said.

I watched her walk away, and my thoughts turned to all the things happening in my body that couldn’t be stopped. Not medicine, not wishes or prayers, not time travel even if such a thing existed.

It made me wonder if I had already been traveling to the end of my life for years and nothing really mattered because it was all going to happen anyway. My life was over, but my body was still walking around and doing things.

I felt so cheated out of the chance to say goodbye to everyone and everything. If there really was an afterlife, I knew I would be waiting for my loved ones when they showed up in whatever form that takes.

I finished the cake, got up and paid, thanked Nel and Harry and walked out.

The heavy door slammed behind me as I looked around. The green light shone through the trees and down into a small marigold flower in the long grass that seemed to be smiling up at me as if it were saying “good luck.”

I didn't know where I was going to go or what I was going to do but suddenly my future seemed completely open to me — I felt rejuvenated.

I couldn’t say if it was the chicken soup or chocolate cake. Maybe it was simply Nel and Harry who made me feel like my grandparents were still around.

All I knew was that I was ready to fight, and push, and enjoy what life had left in store for me. What would happen next was beyond my grasp — all I knew is that it isn’t over until it’s over.

Dear Readers, thank you for reading! Feel free to ask any questions. Special Thanks to Pam Mayer — my tireless friend, editor and collaborator.