“Just had a workout. I need the protein.”
She shook her head. “That doesn’t stick to the ribs and give you energy. Stew chicken is also protein. I left you plenty last night.”
“Mmhmm. It was good.”
“Was. You ate itall?”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to portion it out. I was hungry.”
She tugged the refrigerator open, peered inside, then clicked her tongue, already disappointed in whatever she saw. “Did you make that grocery list I asked for?”
She already knew the answer. I took a long sip of my shake and tried not to grimace. Thank goodness I’d tossed in some fruit; otherwise, it would have been straight-up chalk.
“Cole…”
“I’ll do it,” I said before she could get rolling.
She folded her arms and glared. “I’m going to the market today, and if you don’t tell me what you want, you’re getting what I think you need.”
“That’s fine.” I set the glass down.
“No, it’s notfine,” she shot back, planting her fist on her hip. “Because you’ll complain that I bought the wrong kind of chicken, or the ground beef isn’t lean enough, or the bread isn’t the kind you like—even though you never tell me which kind you like.”
She pointed straight at a chair and demanded, “Sit. I’m making you breakfast, and you’re making that list before you leave.”
“I have to be at the hospital by seven,” I tried.
She raised her eyebrows. “Then you had better get to it, hadn’t you?”
Ms. Patricia had spent years running a household with four kids, six grandkids, and a schedule that would break most people. For the past few years, she’d been coming to clean, do laundry, and make sure I didn’t forget to eat. She was old enough to be my aunt, if not my mother, and she did not play.
I sat.
She cracked eggs into a bowl one-handed, whisked them with hot sauce and black pepper, and poured the mixture into a buttery pan.
I opened my phone and checked the day. Rounds with interns, ICU coverage, then the weekly department meeting. The evening was wide open, which meant paperwork.
“You’re frowning at that phone like it hurt your feelings.”
I looked up as she slid a plate in front of me with eggs, fluffy and golden, and toast just the right side of crisp. It smelled like actual food, not the shake I’d been choking down.
“Work,” I said.
She placed a glass of orange juice in front of me. “You need a little sugar and some citric acid. Eat. And write that list.”
A notepad and pen appeared, sliding toward my elbow.
I picked up the pen, tried to think. “Eggs. Bread. Chicken. Ground beef…”
She stopped me with a look. “Don’t be an asshole, young man. What cut of chicken? Breast? Thigh?”
“The kind you usually get.”
She was relentless. “Boneless? Bone-in?”
“Whatever’s on sale, Ms. P. You’re the one cooking it.”
She made a little disgusted noise that said I was beyond help. “You’re the one eating it, Cole! Be specific or I’m buying you turkey bacon and almond milk.”
