Brunch and Coffee

There’s a knock at the door. My arm jolts, splashing hot coffee over the side of the mug, down the table leg, and onto the carpet. Mom’s hand, heavy and now wet with coffee, uncurls from the handle and thuds onto the table.

The TV goes to commercials. Today is Sunday. On Sundays my parents come upstairs for brunch and coffee. They get so lonely down there. No one is supposed to come today.

Through the peephole, I see a short, balding man with thick glasses and a clipboard. He wears a suit jacket and tie. Maybe he’ll go away.

He thumps his fist against the door again and I step back. Dad’s head hangs heavy to one side. His left hand rests on Mom’s, but I can’t move his fingers anymore to clasp their hands together. They used to sit that way for hours. I imagine how Mom used to smile at him, project that image onto the pillowcase I’ve used to cover the cloudy eyes and cold, shrunken skin beneath.

“Mr. Millner,” the man calls, his voice muffled through the door. “We’ve been trying to contact you about your homeowner’s association fees. Is anyone there?” The doorknob jiggles.

My heart pounds in my ears. I drag the coffee table, as quietly as I can, to block the door.

“Mr. Millner? Is everything all right?”

It’s unceremonious, not the way I’d like to do it, but there’s no time. I pull Mom by the shoulders, tipping her forward until her weight carries her onto the floor.

“Sorry!” I whisper. I grab her ankles and pull. Moving six inches at a time, I drag her to the closet, hoist her up against the wall, and slam the door before she can collapse. It takes even longer to move Dad to the bathroom.

Brunch and Coffee has been published in the Palatine Hill Review and Hexie.