Marshmallows for Breakfast

by Dorothy Koomson

  I watched Kyle pace. He hadn't mentioned that he and his wife were separated during our phone calls and e-mails. Not once. I didn't realize as I'd signed the tenancy agreement that it would just be him and the children living over here. But then, how do you mention that? How do you explain to a perfect stranger that your life had an “under deconstruction” label on it? Now I understood why they had to go to New York. Now I understood why he looked so tired. It wasn't just jet lag, it was life lag. Kyle was playing catch-up with the events of the past few weeks.

  He'd been knocked out by his marriage going wrong. He hadn't expected any of it, I suspected. He hadn't even thought it a possibility until it was happening. Did anyone think divorce was a possibility, though? Did you say your vows and think for even a fleeting moment it was going to end with your spouse living a seven-hour flight away while you stared down the double barrels of an irretrievable breakdown?

  Kyle's face closed down in a scowl at something the person on the other end of the line said. He took the phone away from his ear, threw his gaze up to the ceiling, raised his hands as if asking the Lord for strength, then returned the phone to his ear. If anyone did think divorce was a possibility as they said “I do,” Kyle certainly wasn't one of them. And having been floored by the derailment of his marriage, Kyle was obviously still reeling, hadn't worked out how to steady himself. In fact, he was probably still trying to clamber up to his feet.

  Knowing that the conversation had probably begun with Mrs. Gadsborough ringing to check they'd gotten back OK, despite it being the middle of the night over there, I stopped watching Kyle pace and scowl, returned to the table and took my seat. “What's your name?” Summer asked as I clattered the spoon into my bowl.

  “Erm, Kendra,” I replied. “But most people call me Kennie.”

  “Kendie,” Summer said. “Kendie.” Summer nodded. “I like Kendie. It's a nice name.”

  Kendie. I smiled to myself at that, a private joke. I didn't bother to correct her, either, because it'd do no good—even if I did she was going to call me Kendie. That's what children did with names. If they decided to rename you, it was pretty much a done deal.

  “My name is Summer,” she said. “That's a season. Did you know that?”

  I nodded. “I did know that. I like your name, Summer.”

  “He's called Jaxon,” she said, pointing to her brother. “That's not a season. It's just a boy's name. My mumma chose the name.” Summer elongated the word mum before she added the “a.” I hadn't heard anyone say it like she did.

  “I like Jaxon's name as well,” I said and smiled at him.

  He glanced up for a moment, then glanced down again, a ghost of a smile on his face.

  Silence came to us. I wasn't sure how long we should wait for Kyle. If we should wait for Kyle at all or just get on with breakfast so I could leave, and this could end. “What's your rabbit called?” I asked, for something to say.

  Summer looked down at the blue toy in her hand, shook it a little. “Hoppy,” she replied. “She hops.” She showed me how her bunny hopped around the table, and how the toy managed to survive a few death dives into the smooth white depths of her bowl.

  I smiled at her. “That's nice,” I said. “Is she your best friend?”

  Summer stopped Hoppy midhop, raised her navy-green eyes to me as she used her free hand to push the non-bunched part of her hair out of her face. She seemed surprised by the question and frowned a little at me. Then she pointed at her brother. “My best friend is Jaxon. He's my brother. And he's my best friend.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, feeling suitably stupid. “So, does Hoppy like to eat carrots?” I asked to redeem myself.

  The little girl's eyes narrowed slightly as she stared at me, then she pressed her pink lips together in genuine concern. She put down her bunny, reached out and patted the back of my hand in a comforting gesture. “Hoppy isn't a real bunny rabbit,” she said quietly and gently, as though worried what revealing this news might do to me. “She's only pretend. She doesn't eat anything.” Pat, pat went Summer's hand on mine. I bit my inner lip so I wouldn't laugh at her serious tone. She was genuinely concerned for me; her face was knitted with the worry that I was an idiot. I stared at her small, white hand as it patted mine and sadness unfurled itself in my chest. It was followed by the familiar kick of pain, the agony from connecting with another child.

  “NO! YOU LISTEN TO ME!” Kyle shouted suddenly, causing all of us to jump a little in our seats and our eyes to dart to the doorway. His body was rigid with anger, his face filled with red rage, his eyes on fire. “YOU LEFT ME, ASH-LYN! NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND! YOU LEFT ME! SO YOU'VE GOT NO RIGHT TO SAY—”

  I shoved back my chair, leapt out of my seat, strode over to the kitchen door. As my fingers closed around the doorknob, Kyle saw me, suddenly remembered where he was, who was listening. His voice stopped shouting and our eyes met. He raised a hand of apology, his face grimacing in regret, but I broke eye contact and shut the door in his face. I didn't want his apology. He shouldn't have done it in the first place. Not with his kids in hearing range.

  Kyle's silence continued on the other side of the door, and almost immediately his footsteps were on the stairs. Then a door somewhere upstairs shut, sealing him away from us.

  I spun back to face Jaxon and Summer. They were still fixated on the doorway, their mouths pressed flat with worry, their eyes brimmed with dread.

  A spike of pain twisted inside me as I remembered being in Sydney: A phone ringing. The awful silence afterwards. That voice… I snapped back to the present. I'd left all that behind and I had to live in the present. The present where two children were terrified by their father's anger. Won dering if he was OK. If that anger would be directed at them.

  “Right, so, about breakfast,” I said, trying to put a little jolliness into my voice.

  The pair of them watched me with trepidation. Summer's sadness, her unhappiness at her family situation, was painted across her pale little face in broad strokes; Jaxon's fear, the worry of what would happen with his parents, was pressed onto every inch of his face. Neither of their parents seemed to have remembered the pair of them in all of this. Their mum had taken off for New York; their dad was shouting at their mother. Summer and Jaxon were sitting at a table waiting for breakfast.

  I had to do something. Anything. They needed to have their minds taken off their parents. My eyes scanned the room, looking over the sleek lines of the units, the expensive gadgets, for something to entertain and distract them. “You know what I really love for breakfast on a Saturday?” I asked. My eyes settled on my coat, a spray of crinkled cellophane peeking out of its pocket. I'd worn the coat on the plane home, and had been mainlining sugar for most of the journey. The bag in my pocket was the last packet of sweets that I'd opened as we came in to land.

  They said nothing to my question.

  “Well, looks like I'll have to tell you, seeing as you're both so interested,” I said with a smile. “No, no,” I raised my hands to ward off their nonexistent protests, “don't pretend you don't care. I can tell you're both desperate to know but you're just too shy to ask.” I widened my smile as I looked from one twin's face to the other. They were so similar, the same mouth, same eyes, same small nose.

  “I love to have marshmallows,” I explained as I sat at the table. “You know what marshmallows are?” I knew I wouldn't get an answer—they'd both retreated into their shells and it'd take more than a little joviality to coax them out again. “They're those little squashy sugary things. They're usually pink and white. And sometimes, I eat them for breakfast. But only on a Saturday and only on very, very special occasions. Although that's my little secret.” I nodded at them. “I've only told you two about that.” I could have taken the scrunched-up bag of marshmallows out of my pocket to show them, but I didn't want to give them sweets for breakfast.

  The pair of them continued to stare at the babbling fool at their table. “Anyways, so most Saturdays what I do have for breakfas
t is cereal. Just like this one.” I pointed to the box of Weetabix. “But I like to make it special, because breakfast on a Saturday has to be special, don't you think? Monday to Friday can be special if you want, but Saturday always has to be special. Otherwise, what's the point of having a weekend?

  “To make it special, you have to do this. You have matching bowls, like we've got. Then you have to pick up your bag of wishes, which is always sitting beside you. You pick up your bag of wishes and dip your fingers into it like this.” I reached into my invisible bag and took a pinch of its contents. I sprinkled it into the empty cereal bowl in front of me. “The first dose of wishes is always love,” I informed them. I reached into the bag again, took another pinch. “Now this second dose is always happiness. Because that makes you smile in your tummy.” They weren't saying anything but they were paying attention. I took another pinch. “And this dose is sunshine to warm you up inside.” I took another dose. “Do you know what dose this is?” I asked, then waited. I had to wait. I had their attention, but I had to engage them to make sure they put their dad's row behind them, even for a little while. I carried on waiting. Time ticked past. I was starting to feel stupid, holding the next dose of invisible wishes, but I had to wait them out.

  “Magic,” a small voice said. Reluctant, but offered.

  I grinned at Jaxon, pleased that he'd spoken. That he was paying attention, and was engaging. “You're so right, Jaxon,” I said, still grinning. I sprinkled it in the bowl then took another dose. “And what's this one, Summer?”

  “Fun,” she said and grinned.

  “That's right!” I said and added it to the bowl. “OK, now that we've put in the wishes, we can add the cereal.” I dropped in a couple of Weetabix. “It can be any cereal but this is my favorite. And once it's in the bowl, we add another wish. This is the most extra, extra special. Because what we sprinkle on top is a secret wish that we don't tell anyone. You can wish for anything. Absolutely anything. So, do you want to give it a try?”

  Summer moved first. She put down Hoppy and looked down at her bag of wishes. She dipped into her bag and began sprinkling her wishes in the bowl. “Love,” she said after the first one. “Happiness.” Jaxon picked up his bag of wishes. He didn't speak out his wishes, he did them silently, and soon all three of us had a bowl of cereal in front of us— them cornflakes, me Weetabix.

  “Now it's time for the extra, extra special secret wish,” I said. I picked up my handful and waited for them to do the same.

  Summer closed her eyes, said something that moved her pink lips slightly and then opened her eyes to sprinkle on her wish. Jaxon went next. His face became a picture of concentration as he held his secret wish in his hand, looked briefly but longingly at the door and then sprinkled his wish on his cereal.

  I took my sprinkle in my hand, closed my eyes and allowed the wish to form in my mind and then to solidify. Suddenly I realized I actually believed in this. I'd started this as a way to get two children's minds off their father, but now I was believing it a little. Believing if I wished hard enough for what I wanted, it might come true.

  My wish was to make things right. For everything I'd left behind to right itself and for no one else to get hurt. And for those who had been hurt to survive. Survive. I just wanted to make things right. I opened my eyes, smiled at the kids as I coated my cereal in the wish. Even if it didn't work, at least I was thinking it. Hoping for it. Trying.

  I poured milk on the cereal in our bowls, poured orange juice into glasses and unintentionally we all took the first mouthful of our cereal together.

  “This tastes nice,” Summer said as she chewed, showing us the orange mush of cornflakes.

  Jaxon nodded as he chewed.

  “It tastes like marshmallows,” Summer said, revealing that she had yet to taste marshmallows.

  Jaxon nodded.

  “A little bit,” I said, not wanting to contradict her. For all I knew, cornflakes would taste like marshmallows to Summer.

  “I like this special Saturday breakfast,” Summer informed me through another mouthful of masticated cereal.

  Silent Jaxon nodded again.

  “I like it, too,” I said.

  “You're nice,” Summer said.

  Jaxon didn't nod. He just stared down at his food, as though he hadn't heard.

  “Thank you,” I said to Summer.

  Summer looked at Jaxon until he raised his gaze to her. They stared at each other for a few seconds, communicating through some sort of secret, silent sibling code. Summer turned to me. “Jaxon thinks you're nice, too. He can't talk,” she explained.

  “I heard him talk earlier,” I replied.

  “He can't talk much,” she amended.

  “Oh, I see.”

  The door opened and Kyle wandered into the kitchen. His complexion was the color of whey, his eyes were dulled and troubled, every muscle and sinew tensed by anger. He stopped, looked momentarily surprised to see me. “You're still here,” he said.

  “Yeah, course,” I said with a slight scoff, trying to lighten the moment. “We're having breakfast.”

  “Special Saturday breakfast,” Summer added.

  “Right, right,” he said distractedly. He hadn't heard what either of us had said. He went to the kettle, flicked it on. Started running his hand over the bristles of his hair as he stared at the kettle. He opened a cupboard door, took out a mug. Opened another cupboard and took out a jar of fair-trade coffee, spooned two heaped teaspoons of the brown granules into the mug and doused them in boiling water. Without turning around, he started to sip his strong black coffee. Scratching his hair, Kyle walked out of the room. It must have been a vicious row to have him so ensnared in his misery that he only noticed us as ornaments in his kitchen, not living breathing human beings who wanted to be communicated with.

  Jaxon started to rapidly spoon cereal into his mouth. He was eating as though he meant it, as though if he ate all his cereal his wish would come true.

  “My mumma isn't very nice to Dad,” Summer informed me.

  “Oh, I see,” I replied.

  I'd guessed her mumma wasn't very nice to Dad, that Dad probably wasn't very nice to her mumma.

  I also suspected that if I wasn't very careful, I'd become involved in this mess of not very niceness.

  CHAPTER 4

  The neighborhood was alive with children.

  The sounds of them came fluttering into my flat from everywhere. Playing, screaming, laughing, fighting, making up, splashing about in paddling pools, running towards the jolly tinkling of ice cream vans. Every one of them enjoying the gift of an unexpectedly warm, sunny Sunday in late February. Everyone except the Gadsboroughs. The courtyard that separated our two buildings was conspicuously quiet. Still. Dead. It was the type of silence that held no peace; it was the unnerving hush of a graveyard at night. The still after a bereavement. A deep, penetrating silence that made anything potentially happy—even the air— wither as it passed over the garden.

  It had been bothering me all day.

  When I'd been cleaning and vacuuming with a CD playing loudly, I heard the silence. When I was watching television I felt it. When I was flicking through newspapers it haunted me.

  I glanced out of the window beside the sofa that overlooked the main house's upper floors and dark slate roof. As I stared, subconsciously searching for any signs of life in the upstairs windows, a thousand little scenarios of what the silence might mean played across my mind.

  I didn't want to get involved with them, with anyone, but there were children involved. Did my resolution extend to that? To ignoring them and what was potentially happening to them? Yesterday, Kyle had forgotten them at breakfast. He'd actually, genuinely forgotten.

  After we'd finished breakfast, Summer and Jaxon both wanted to go to bed. They didn't say anything—to me or to each other—they simply seemed to come to the same decision at the same time that this was what they were going to do next. Summer moved first, climbed down from her chair. Jaxon did the
same. They were both paler than they had been when they were in my flat, and the dark shadows under their eyes had become purple-red bruises. God knows how long they'd been awake. They'd just returned from another country, it was a miracle they were still standing. Jaxon came around to Summer's side of the table and she turned to me. Close up I could see that a ring of mahogany outlined her navy-green eyes.

  “Good night, Kendie,” she'd said. She was going to bed, so even though it was light outside, it was night in her mind. Jaxon didn't say anything; he looked at me, studied me in that way he had in my flat for a few seconds, then his gaze fell away. Despite what Summer had said, he wasn't sure if he liked me or not, so was reserving judgment for the moment.

  “Good night, guys,” I'd replied. “Thanks for breakfast.”

  “Kiss?” Summer had asked and presented the smooth white curve of her right cheek to me.

  I'd hesitated. I didn't know this girl very well but she was determined to push this relationship into closeness. It was only a kiss, though, it wouldn't hurt. I'd leaned down and pressed a good-night kiss against her cheek. Jaxon's eyes were still lowered, but, surprisingly, he'd presented his face to me as well. I'd dropped a kiss on his cheek. I'd watched as they walked out of the kitchen and disappeared into the heart of the house. How could anyone not pay attention to these two? I'd wondered as they'd rounded the banister of the stairs, Summer in front. How could anyone not think they're the most important things on the earth and spend every spare second staring at them?

  Before leaving I'd cleared the table, washed up the breakfast things, wiped over the surfaces with the pink sponge. I'd also flipped the latch on the kitchen door, took one last look around at the smart, stylish kitchen before leaving them to it.