Page 7 of Run Omega Run
We set the bags down on the scarred wooden table with a sigh of relief, flexing her fingers and rolling her shoulders to work out the knots from carrying so much.
"Right then," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose in a gesture I'd come to recognize as her way of preparing to tackle a project. "Let's see what we've got."
She began pulling items from the first bag, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. A gallon of fresh milk, so white and pure it seemed to glow in the light. Real milk, not the thin, bluish liquid that Bobby sometimes brought us when the store was getting rid of nearly expired stock. Behind it came another gallon, then a third.
"The children love their cereal," Becky said, noticing my wide-eyed stare. "And I thought they should have choices."
Choices. When was the last time we'd been able to offer choices for anything?
From the second bag came box after colorful box of cereal. Not the generic, off-brand kind that came in plain packaging, but the real thing! Bright cartoon characters grinned from every box, with promises of prizes inside. Flavors that ranged from chocolate to strawberry to something called "Planet Pops" that changed the color of your milk. I counted them as she set them on the table: six different kinds!
My hands shook as I reached for one of the boxes, turning it over to read the ingredients.
"There's more," Becky said gently, and continued unpacking.
Fresh bread came next, not day-old but actual fresh bread that still held warmth from the bakery ovens. The tiger crust crackled softly when I touched it, and the smell... it was to diefor! I breathed it in and held it for a second before exhaling with a smile that went from ear to ear.
Behind the bread came wheels of cheese, the kind with waxy red rinds that meant quality, not the processed slices we occasionally splurged on when money was less tight.
"For lunch," Becky explained. "The children need protein, and I thought grilled cheese sandwiches might be nice with some of that tomato soup you've been stretching."
But she wasn't finished. The third bag yielded packages of ground beef, red and fresh, and enough to make a proper meal for all of us. Real spaghetti noodles followed, not the broken pieces we bought when they were marked down, but long, perfect strands that would twirl properly around a fork. A jar of marinara sauce that promised herbs and garlic instead of the watery tomato base we usually made do with.
"Spaghetti bolognaise tonight," Becky said, her voice matter-of-fact as if she were discussing the weather instead of describing what felt like a feast to me. "I thought it might be something everyone would enjoy."
The fourth bag held smaller treasures: fresh apples that hadn't been bruised or spotted, bananas still green at the tips, a bag of flour that would let us bake real bread and cakes. There were eggs, a dozen of them, perfect and uncracked; and butter that was still firm and yellow.
I stood there staring at the table, now covered with more food than I'd seen in our kitchen at one time since before Mom got sick. How long had it been since we'd had enough of anything? Since the children had gone to bed with truly full stomachs instead of just satisfied enough to sleep?
"Heather?" Becky's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you all right?"
I realized I was crying, tears sliding down my cheeks without my permission. "I’m sorry, I, just... It’s been a lot to cope with since Mom fell ill.”
"She nodded and placed down the groceries she was putting away, pulling me in for a hug. “Never apologize for feeling overwhelmed. It’s perfectly understandable with how much you’ve had to cope with!”
I nodded, pulled back, and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
“And Heather...”
“Yes?” I said, sniffling.
She placed her hands on my shoulders. "You’re not alone, honey. This is what people do for each other. This is what family does."
Family. The word hit me like a physical blow, knocking loose something that had been held tight in my chest for so long I'd forgotten it was there. Because that's what she was, wasn't it? This young woman, who showed up without being asked, who saw our needs without being told, who loved our children as if they were her own.
"Now," she continued, her voice taking on the no-nonsense tone I'd heard her use with stubborn toddlers, "you're going to go upstairs and take a proper shower. Spend some time with your mother. Let me handle breakfast."
"But I should help—"
"You should take care of yourself for once," she interrupted, already moving toward the stove with the confidence of someone who knew her way around our makeshift kitchen. "When's the last time you ate a full meal? When's the last time you sat down without worrying about who needed what?"
I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up one finger in a gesture that brooked no argument.
"Go," she said. "I've got this."
Before I could respond, the sound of feet in the hallway announced the children's awakening. Loubie Lou appeared first, Bunny dragging from one hand as she rubbed sleep from her eyes with the other. She took three steps into the kitchen before she spotted Becky, and her entire face transformed.
"Miss Becky!" she shrieked, dropping her rabbit and launching herself across the room with the fearless abandon that only a three-year-old could manage.
