Page 95 of The Man I Hate

Marge lowered her eyes to the table. “It’s disappointing they can’t tell you more. Hopefully, the prognosis will change soon.”

“It’s been over two weeks.” Braxton shoveled another bite in his mouth. “There’s been no improvements as far as I know. No deterioration to his health, either. I guess that’s good. It’s tough, for sure. I feel helpless.”

Braxton was on a mission to gain the 18 pounds he’d lost. From the looks of things, he was going to do it entirely on Marge’s chicken and noodles.

“I’m going to start emailing the hospital’s staff tomorrow, asking for a more thorough explanation of his father’s condition,” I interjected. “Hopefully, I’ll get someone to respond. My dad always said, ‘the squeaky wheel gets the grease.’ If I make enough commotion, hopefully someone will give a response better than ‘he’s stable.’ That’s a pretty poor answer for someone’s condition.”

“It amazes me that they haven’t come up with a medication yet,” Braxton complained. “I understand they haven’t had time to develop a cure, but it would be nice if they’d come up with something that could help out with the breathing.”

“I agree,” I chimed.

Marge reached for her glass of tea. “When I was a child, I thought chicken and noodles were as good at curing ailments as any medicine.”

“I’ve never heard that,” I said.

Shoveling noodles into his mouth at a breakneck pace, Braxton shook his head. “Me, neither.”

“It was my mother’s claim,” Marge said, seeming as if she truly believed what she was saying. “Chicken and noodles were a cure for everything. If someone was sick, she made chicken and noodles. If a neighbor fell on financial trouble, chicken and noodles was the answer. When the Zander couple down the street began talking of divorce, chicken and noodles was the cure. I was convinced she was right. Chicken and noodles could fix anything.” She glanced at Braxton. “Maybe you should take your father some chicken and noodles.”

Braxton shook his head in frustration. “When I went to the doctor this morning, I drove by there. I couldn’t get past the lobby. Hell, I was lucky to make it that far, to be honest. They’ve truly got the place locked down.”

“It’s hard to comprehend,” Marge said. She picked at her food. “A son can’t go visit his ailing father in the hospital.”

“They told Braxton if he tried to go any further than the lobby, they’d arrest him,” I said.

Marge looked up. “That’s awful.”

“It is, but I guess it’s for the better,” Braxton said. “I wouldn’t wish this disease on anyone.”

Marge glanced at Braxton and then did a double take. “Don’t make yourself sick.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re going to give yourself stomach cramps.” Grinning, she gestured toward his plate “Slow down. No one’s going to take it from you.”

“I haven’t eaten a meal like this in I don’t know how long,” Braxton admitted, mid-bite. “This is amazing.”

Marge beamed with pride. “Thank you, Braxton.”

Marge’s home was a step back in time. Golds and greens were abundant throughout the living room. The kitchen was as neat as it could possibly be. The white Formica countertops and seafoam green cabinets gave the place the feel of an era long since passed. Seeing it flooded me with childhood memories from my grandmother’s farmhouse.

“This kitchen reminds me of my grandmother’s,” I said. “Your food resembles hers, too.”

“Was your grandmother a hack in the kitchen?” Marge asked, straight-faced.

“A hack?” I laughed. “Making noodles like this isn’t the work of a hack. It takes years of experience.”

“Eggs, flour, milk, and salt,” she said. “A monkey could do it.”

“Did you hear that Braxton?” I scooped up a perfect portion of noodles and mashed potatoes. “Sounds like you could add this to your arsenal.”

“I’ll have you know I can get by in the kitchen,” Braxton said between bites. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

“You two had a little cooking lesson before you went sick, didn’t you?” Marge asked.

“We did.” Braxton replied.

“I thought that was the sweetest thing,” Marge said. “She was really looking after you, wasn’t she?”