The Egg

“That’s, er, that’s 20,000 dollars.” Disbelief didn’t even come close to describe how Misch felt, the lump in her throat hard to swallow through. Going into the lawyer’s office hadn’t been by choice, though most of Misch’s peers would agree it wouldn’t be surprising she found herself on the rougher end of a legal scuffle.

Nevertheless, the gentleman—whose name escaped her the minute they’d been introduced—pulled out a nondescript black book, its edges worn as if passed through many hands. He began reading, words she barely understood fell from his crooked lips. She held her breath when he stopped to lick his finger for each page turn, ignoring whatever unspoken agreement the world had made about doing that exact same thing.

Misch kept her grimace at bay, already finding it difficult to sit still, much less find the energy to control her face. Her eyes wandered around the room, stopping by each interesting piece of the man’s life, thinking most of those trinkets could pay off her car. His assistant stood beside him, a tall, spindly woman, superficial wrinkles encroaching on her youth like a vintage photograph. She’d been the one to meet Misch by the front door, made her wait on one of the rickety chairs with the scuffed suede and mysterious stains.

Misch thought it best to continue standing.

“Indeed, it is,” the lawyer affirmed, tapping the number on the weathered page, “were you expecting more?”

“I wasn’t expecting anything at all,” Misch breathed out, balling her hands on her thighs before their clamminess forced her to wipe them clean. Her eyes darted between the lawyer and his assistant, their stares devoid of any jest, of any indication that this was some cruel, practical joke. “Are you sure you’ve got the right person?”

“You are Mischaela Rodriguez, daughter of Aurora and Edwin Rodriguez?” he asked, his dry tone drilling Misch’s anxiety further into her stomach. She hadn’t meant to question the man’s intelligence, nor his ability to find her—but her inability to wrap her head around the situation couldn’t be overstated.

“I am, I just—” Misch bit her lip, forcing each stuttering breath through her clenched teeth, “these things just don’t happen, I mean, I’m—I don’t.” She closed her eyes and held her head between her hands, massaging the rising heartbeat in her temples. “I didn’t even know Mrs. Burtson that well, couldn’t she have just made a mistake?”

The lawyer—who pinned Ms. Rodriguez with an unimpressed stare over the rim of his glasses—turned the black book so she could read the print, underlining her name with his finger. “Mrs. Burtson was of sound mind when she made the addition,” he said, his tone the perfect sleep-aid.

Misch leaned over the desk, screwing her eyes over the words, each line making less sense the more she went over it. Mrs. Burtson had been one of her last stops on her daily commute. Noticing her first as an elderly woman struggling to carry her groceries up the few steps to her apartment. She’d been startled by Misch, letting out a worn squeal and dropping her eggs in her haste to escape the sudden intruder. Misch gave a matching yelp, holding her hands palm-up in quick surrender.

“Damn child, are you trying to make me see my husband?” Mrs. Burtson had reprimanded, lamenting her runny eggs with a quick tsk. Misch did apologize, though she wasn’t sure if her mumbling helped her case. She’d made quick work of picking up Mrs. Burtson’s remaining groceries and helping her inside, leaving just as fast.

It’d been a few weeks before she saw Mrs. Burtson again, struggling just as she had been. This time Misch called out before approaching, giving an apologetic wave, and offering her help. After a few weeks of aiding with her groceries, Mrs. Burston—sorry—Eleanora invited Misch inside, offering a cup of tea for her help.

Misch wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but she entertained the idea for the night. Opening the door to her apartment, Misch wasn’t expecting the glinting of a thousand glass ornaments, each hanging delicately from the ceiling. She ducked out of the way, begging her ancestors’ spirits to grant her supernatural grace and dexterity. Eleanora returned with a matching teacup set, the same ornate glass that adorned every other inch of her home.

Misch wouldn’t ask, and so Eleanora wouldn’t tell her, how or where these things came from. It wouldn’t be until after she’d passed that Misch developed the courage to ask.

It’d been a shock—the same shock that takes all of us when we know we’ll move on from this world to the next, we just don’t know when. Misch was on her commute, expecting Eleanora to stand by the steps as she often did these last few weeks, timing her grocery shopping with Misch’s schedule—she might even offer another one of her homemade Bundt cakes, or remind her not to lean on her elbows when she drank the tea, or to sip, not slurp, or—

“Are you that girl that’s been visiting Elly?” A rough voice asked, startling Misch out of her thoughts of sweet things.

“Y-yes,” Misch replied, lowering her head, expecting another reprimand.

“I figured,” the man said, his voice cracking. It forced Misch to look up, to meet his eyes, wet and red with hard-fought tears, his nose already buried in his handkerchief, blowing deeply into it. “You’re a—sniff—you’re a good kid.”

Misch cocked her head, two and two not quite making four until more tearful friends left the building, hands over mouths, restraining sobs.

“Mrs. Burtson had no children at the time of death, and her husband passed ten years prior,” the lawyer reminded, “you were the only name in her will.”

Air whistled through Misch’s teeth, her eyes round and far too wide. She felt like a child again, indecision and responsibility both daunting and irrevocably steadfast.

The lawyer decided to continue despite her silence, explaining the taxes involved in accepting, the potential changes to her income-driven aid—if she had any—and her options for refusal. Misch nodded along, accepting Eleanora’s gift as one would a weapon.

She walked in a daze the rest of the day, aimlessly touching things in her apartment, adding them up and finding that even if she sold all her earthly possessions, she would never be able to pay back Eleanora’s generosity.

Days traipsed into weeks before Misch made up her mind to visit Eleanora. She’d declined going to her funeral, regretting her decision despite knowing she wouldn’t fit in. Shaking her head, she tried not to overthink it, shoving her hands deeper in her pockets, protecting her keepsake from the elements.

Mr. Burtson’s grave stood in stark contrast to Eleanora’s, as moss clung to each side of the stone, and reached across his name to form a bridge of green. Misch had seen one or two photos of the man in Eleanora’s apartment, but didn’t think it polite to bring him up—wouldn’t have known how.

She shuffled for a moment, looking around to see if anyone was paying her any mind. Sighing, she went about composing herself, Elly's tombstone staring back at her. “I, uh, I wanted to say thank you, for you know, everything.” Misch huffed a little laugh, awkwardness hanging on her shoulders, trying to move past the one-sided feeling of their conversation. “I didn’t even know you knew my name, much less…” Misch stopped, the first set of tears taking her by surprise.

Digging deeper into her pocket, she grasped the oval object, bending low to place it by the edge of Eleanora’s grave. “I never got to buy you back those eggs, so, here,” Misch said, standing back up, “I hope you got to meet your husband again.” Running out of things to say, Misch took a few steps back, looking at both Mr. and Mrs. Burtson. “I guess we’ll talk later, oh! And I won’t forget the tea next time.”

The wind rustled through a nearby tree, almost as if it were chuckling at her—Misch would like to think it was with her. She gave a small wave, watching her step as she navigated the maze-like cemetery grounds, the mid-afternoon sun high above her head, kissing her skin with promises of warmth and life.