Page 9 of Run Omega Run
Mom smiled, and there was something wistful in her voice. "They should have choices."
I lifted a spoonful of the softened cereal, waiting for her to open her mouth. It took three tries before she managed to swallow, her throat working visibly with the effort. What should have been the simplest thing had become a monumental task.
"The chocolate kind makes the milk taste like dessert," I continued, filling the silence while I waited for her to be ready for the next spoonful. "Loubie Lou was so excited she could barely stand still."
"Dessert," Mom said, and suddenly her eyes brightened with memory. "Do you remember that little shop? The one with the red-and-white striped awning?"
Of course I remembered. The Ice Cream Parlor, with its checkerboard floor and the bell that jingled every time the door opened. The owner, Mr Morrison, had been a thin man with kind eyes who always gave children extra sprinkles when their parents weren't looking.
"Every birthday," I said, offering another spoonful of cereal. "You'd save up for weeks so we could go there."
"Waffles with chocolate ice cream and strawberries," Mom said, her voice growing stronger with the memory. "And those rainbow sprinkles that got everywhere. You always wanted extra strawberries."
I could picture it perfectly: the red vinyl booth we always sat in, near the window that looked out onto the street. The way the waffles came out warm from the griddler, golden and crispy, with perfect square wells that held pools of melted ice cream. The strawberries had been fresh and sweet, cut into perfect heart shapes that seemed magical to my five-year-old eyes.
"You'd let me order first," I remembered, "and then you'd get the same thing, even though I knew you wanted the mint chocolate chip."
"I wanted what made you happy," she said simply. "Your face when that plate arrived... it was worth more than any flavor of ice cream."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment; both lost in the memory of better times. I could almost hear the gentle hum of conversation from other families, the soft music Mr Morrison played from his radio, the contented sounds of people enjoying simple pleasures without having to calculate the cost.
"Seventeen birthdays we went there," Mom continued, and I didn't correct her that it had only been sixteen. Close enough. "From the time you were six until—"
She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to. Until the earthquake. Until the ground split open and swallowed half the city, including the Ice Cream Parlor and the man who'd made magic with frozen cream and sugar.
"I ran past where it used to be last month," I said softly. "There's just an empty lot now. They cleared away all the rubble, but no one's rebuilt anything."
"Some things can't be rebuilt," Mom said, and there was infinite sadness in her voice. "Some things, once they're gone, they're gone for good."
She was talking about more than ice cream shops, and we both knew it. The earthquake had taken buildings and businesses, but it had also taken something less tangible... themagic of the city. We had lost the sense that the world was stable, that the places we loved would always be there when we needed them. It had taught us that everything could change in ninety seconds. That safety was an illusion, and nothing was promised beyond the current moment.
"But the memories are still real," I said, offering another spoonful of cereal. "Those seventeen birthdays happened. No earthquake can take them away."
She managed a small smile. "Sixteen," she corrected gently. "But who's counting?"
I laughed, surprised by the sound in the heavy air of the sickroom. "You always counted. You remembered every single birthday, every candle, every wish I made."
"Did any of them come true?" she asked.
I thought about it, looking around the small room with its cracked walls and faded curtains, listening to the sound of children's laughter drifting up from the kitchen below. My wishes as a child had been simple things: a new dress, a day without rain, and for the scary dog down the street to stop barking at me.
"Yes... the important ones," I said finally. "The one about having a family. The one about having somewhere to belong... and the one about having someone who loved me enough to save up for strawberry waffles."
Tears gathered in her eyes, but she was smiling. "Then we did something right."
Outside her window, I could hear the distant sound of construction crews beginning their day's work. Hammers, drills and the rumble of heavy machinery tore at the delicate silence. The city was still trying to rebuild itself, still fighting to rise from the ruins.
Maybe Mom was right that some things couldn't be rebuilt. But maybe that was okay. Maybe what mattered wasn't thebuilding that housed the Ice Cream Parlor, but the love that had motivated a struggling single mother to save her pennies so her little girl could have strawberry waffles on her birthday.
Maybe some things were stronger than earthquakes after all.
The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window as I measured flour into our largest mixing bowl, the white powder puffing up in small clouds that caught the light like dust motes. There was something deeply satisfying about the ritual of baking, the precise measurements, and careful timing that promised a sweet treat at the end of it.
Becky's flour differed from what we usually scraped together. It was finer, whiter, and without the gritty texture of the discount brands I'd grown accustomed to. It sifted through my fingers like silk, and when I added the eggs and butter she'd brought, the batter came together with a richness I hadn't tasted for so long.
The children had volunteered to help of course. Loubie Lou stood on a wooden crate beside me, her small hands covered in flour up to the wrists as she "helped" crack eggs with more enthusiasm than skill. Manny had appointed himself chief bowl-scraper, his broken truck parked carefully out of range of flying batter, while Susie attempted to supervise everyone from her perch at the kitchen table.
"Not so much sugar," she called out as I measured the white granules. "Remember what happened last time when Dylan tried to help?"
