Dessert is Breakfast Today

The sweet song of crickets is now overshadowed by the harmonizing of cicadas. Responsibility and uncertainty sit on my shoulders as I run the tap of the kitchen sink. Hot tears roll down my cheeks and go down the deep sink.

'This cry wasn’t supposed to happen,' I think grimacingly. I hate the unplanned and the emotions burned in my belly.

“Damnit,” I say in heated passion. I splash water in my face and rub roughly. “Let’s just get this over with,” I sighed out.

Feeling nostalgic, I grabbed Gram’s recipe box that’s stored in her vintage china cabinet. I caress the walnut wood lovingly, thinking of all the great times Bella and I had running around her house. Selfishly I smiled, remembering how I nearly broke my ankle on the leg of it by running from my little sister.

A moan, muffled in sleep, is heard coming from the bedroom down the hall, bringing me back to reality and my mission ahead. “Cross my heart,” I whispered as I get the ingredients from the different cupboards, thinking of my sweet Bella that is in pain.

She’s all that I got left. Gram died just two years ago, and our parents have been gone since my pre-teen years. We were already inseparable before; knew each other’s crushes, sneaking mama’s good perfume. Neither of us broke when mama came looking for answers. Every secret, kept. We’d crossed our hearts, making a sacred pact; lips sealed and blood bonded.

I got to mixing the ingredients. Chocolate cake for breakfast. It’s my specialty and what I always made it for the family since I was eight, no matter the occasion, and today was no exception. Bella would call me to bake her a cake when I moved away for college, nearly 400 miles away, then later when I was working. Whether it was her birthday, holiday, or heartbreak, I’d always come. That’s just us. So, when Eric, her boyfriend of nine years, left her when she needed him the most, I stepped up.

She was getting sick, and she said nothing to me. “Aaaarrrrggghhhh!” I wailed in frustration. In the midst of my emotions I threw the whisk I was mixing with across the room, gasping for air as fresh waves of grief soaked my borrowed top. I know I was ‘busy with work,’ but damnit! She could have let me known sooner. We are all we have, yet she let me just live my life thinking that she was healthy and happy. I tried to fight through the feeling of betrayal, but I can’t shake the rattling anger it left in its wake. No walk with Lily, her bulldog, or swimming in the lake out back was going to take that feeling away.

She told me a month ago. Stage four breast cancer that wasn’t going away. No doctor would try treating because there was no hope. I take a fresh spatula and stir in the very last ingredient, Belladonna. Bella thought it was quite fitting for the occasion, thinking that the plant I had brought so long ago: a perfect end. Her name and partially mine in one. 'She’s symbolic', I’ll give her that, I thought carefully stirring.

About 12 years ago, right before I went to college we traveled to Europe. Our Gram told us we deserved to go out of the country before the “real world” took the glimmer out of our eyes. Her words, not mine. I studied to become a pharmacist and Bella a herbalist. We brought a few plants back that caught our eyes to plant here on Gram’s farm. In her studies Bella found that one of the many plants we brought was poisonous, named Belladonna. We got a kick out of that little fact, and we laughed about our youthful mistake over the years.

Her wheezing cough brought me out of my musing. I shook my head in half disbelief. She sat with that knowing for two months, and that loser she called a boyfriend bailed. I knew he was trash since she met him her freshman year, but him leaving still pulls me into astonishment. I can’t wait to find him. I’ll tear the treacherous bastard apart.

'If I make it past today,' I think gloomily. I may not be able to live in this world without her; being alone chills me to the bone.

I walked down the hallway, grazing nearly ancient floral wallpaper as I do, making sure to bypass the squeaky planks, not wanting to wake her a moment too soon. I peeped into the open door of her bedroom. The pastel blue of the room made her look even more sickly than I’d like, and the noise of her breathing machine has become part of the room. She was in her college shirt and baggy shorts, a damp rag on her pasty forehead. I walk into her childhood bedroom, being my most quiet as I tip-toe over to change her rag.

The nightstand is sparsely decorated, only three beautifully framed pictures. One of us, one with us and Gram, the other of her and Eric. The only reason I hadn’t chucked it is because when I did try, she went into a frenzy. She had worked herself into an awful coughing fit, yelling his innocence, saying there were just too many changes for him to adjust to, that no human was perfect, that I couldn’t understand him how she does. When I noticed she still viewed him as hers, see the desperate spark in the depths of pale blue eyes that had, for days been feverishly muddled , I backed down. She needed to uphold that fantasy; she didn’t need me to unveil the unrelenting reality of Eric. She needed her sister to protect her. If that meant I shut my trap, I could handle that. For her.

I dipped the rag in the iced water bath next to those pictures, patted her too thin hair, kissed her sunken cheek, held her hand, and took her all in. I can’t look at her when she is awake without gawking. In the three, nearly four weeks I’d been by her side it still startles me, the great change she had undergone. Sun-kissed and freckled skin is long gone, along with her muscle tone and. And. And...

I could feel myself slipping, so I made a run for it. I ran to the porch for well needed fresh air, breathing greedily. Life is brimming outside those walls. Cicadas are singing, Lily comes up to me from the wrap-around porch. Birds chirped, the Mississippian, early August morning breeze cooled my now sweat-drenched skin, and the porch door swings shut behind me. After a few minutes, Lily’s licks bring me to the forefront of my own mind, to the cruel peace of the land in which I grew up. I gave her a few pets, walk back into the house, and washed up.

I floured the cake molds, poured the mixture, and placed them in the oven. I paced the kitchen floor, mind in an uproar. We’re both in our thirties with no children. That’s no surprise for me, but now it made sense for Bella. She was apparently barren for some years. We have no other relatives, and our single neighbor, Bob, will be stopping by later this week to drop off courteous milk and eggs as per tradition. As my mind whirls, I can smell the decadent cake waft to me from my perch in the middle of the floor of the simple kitchen. In my crouched position, I decided then and there, no turning back.

Resolutely, I got up and cleaned off more berries. Then, I checked on Bella because the light of the sun began to peek in the skyline. To my shock she is awake, and I rushed to her side and begin the process of propping her up in practiced movements. I pull up the rocking chair that I usually camp in while I watch her at night. She smiled at me, to comfort me and to greet me. She weakly reached for me, and I grabbed for her hand. I told her of my progress, and she nodded. Unable to take the space and to hide any rouge tears, I rose to bury myself at her side. She giggled and petted my head that made itself home in her lap. She told me how happy our little movie marathon last night made her. I nodded so she knows that I am listening, unwilling to reveal my emotionally cracked voice.

I moved to get up, and she halted me by grabbing me at my face. “You okay, Dawn?” she weakly rasped out. She searched my eyes, and after seeing my red eyes and dark circles she places her forehead to mine. We just sat there. “The cake is gonna burn, kiddo. I’ll be back,” I break from her. Before I tell her all that is on my heart and mind as I have time and time before. She’s my best friend, and I am sure she already knows what I’m thinking; we’ve been reading each other all our lives.

I took the cakes out to cool. Mechanically, I get out the cocoa and cream for the icing. As I stirred, I looked over to the glistening berries. Out of contemplated compulsion I grab up a few berries, threw them back, chewing quickly, and finish whipping the icing. I washed down all evidence of my act and go back to her room. I turned on the jukebox she’s had since high school and smoothly waltzed to her bed. I entertain my little sister as best I could, dancing enthusiastically, internally rejoicing for her life. She clapped, grinning and cheering.

“Alright, I’ll be back with breakfast.” I say with faked cheer. Her face falls, hands dropped, and we grown solemn. “Shit, Bella! I’m sorry. I can’t pretend to be okay with what you’re asking! Not fully anyways.”

She just nods. We make eye contact and then I turn from her. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, walking to go decorate my creation. I could barely hear it, but for sure she said, “I know. I’m the sorry one.”

I make it the prettiest I’ve ever made it. Topped high with cream and berries and dark chocolate. I felt a wave of nausea and nod to myself. The poison’s working; we’ll both be gone soon. I left a note for Bob, burn down the barn and take the extra land for his family. I looked at the deed and documents he’d need, stationed on the kitchen table. Untouched since the first week when I’d arrived. I even took a slice and laid it on the porch for Lily. I guessed we can all go home today.

I grab up Bella's slice and entered the room, singing to the music. She smiled as tears ran down her face. No tears for herself, Bella’s not selfish. She cried for me. She knew I can’t face the world truly alone. That when she had asked me to kill her this way, that she was asking me greet death with her.

“Cross my heart,” she says to me smiling as I sit and take off her oxygen.

“Cross my heart,” I say as I spoon feed her.

I placed the cake in the chair when she’s done, got in the bed, and held her close. Her favorite song is on. Cicadas are singing, the sun is blazing, and her breathing is raspy but even. The cake is loaded with the berries, and in almost no time, she’s gone. Less than thirty minutes, and I’m alone.

I kissed her temple. Here I come, kid. I finished off her cake; she’d only ate half of the slice. I latched our hands and connected our foreheads. Together in this life and I’m praying for the next. “Heaven’s having one hell of a reunion today,” is my last conscious thought.