Walking on Eggshells, Leah Skay

Mother makes pancakes on Sundays per your father’s request. Some of those Sundays are blissfully uneventful: a calm breeze comes through the window above the farm sink, and she sits across from you at the table with a cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle. Relish those Sundays like a warm meal on a cold day; this is not one of those Sundays.

She stands at the countertop with a brown-shelled egg in her bony hand. Don’t stare at the tan-line on her ring finger. Ignore the way her silver manicure turns her fingers into polished, serrated blades. Try to forget her hands entirely until she cracks the egg on the edge of the countertop. The shell splinters and halves in her hands. It is not gentle. On other Sundays, she kisses the corner of a scalloped bowl and breaks the egg between careful fingers; she hums to the radio playing in the living room, channeling the spirit of happy housewives past. This is not one of those Sundays. Try to forget her hands entirely until you hear this crack again with another egg. Thin egg white leaks from the countertop and drips to the floor. Try, fail, and give in. She is imagining that egg is your father, but you know the egg is you.

Sit at the table in your pajamas. Mother glances occasionally to make sure you’re still there. You don’t get to run away and hide like your father does. You’re a family: happy together, hateful together. Twirl the threads from the fraying placemat around your finger until the skin turns white. Don’t wonder why he’s late or if he’s coming at all. The fact that he suggested it doesn’t guarantee his commitment. It’s a futile attempt at reconciliation, a plea deal to escape the harsh punishment of a divorced family. Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing left you can do but sit at the table and cut off the circulation to your finger.

Mother holds another egg. Hold your breath. A car locks outside with a faint electronic chirp and a flash of headlights. The recipe only needs two eggs. One is in the bowl, another dripping to the floor. Mother holds the third egg suspended in stillness. Don’t look at her hands. Don’t look at the front door. Watch the floor and wait to hear the next egg crack.

LEAH SKAY is a student at Ithaca College in Ithaca, New York, where she is majoring in Writing. During the summers, she lives with her mother, father, and little brother in Dover, Delaware. She writes that the origins of her story, “Walking on Eggshells,” comes from “the concept of subtle abuse: when someone isn’t explicitly violent, verbally or physically, but expresses their discontent with something/someone through indirect action. Washing dishes, folding laundry, household maintenance—all of these tasks seem harmless, until you can almost hear how much the person performing the chore wants to hit or yell. Here, a child sitting at a table while Mom angrily fixes breakfast signifies both potential abuse and the subtlety of such a thing.”