Brick, by Emily Hoover

1.

Dad slips the brick of instant noodles into boiling water. I sit at the table, my feet not yet touching the floor. We use past-due hospital bills as placemats. Dad pushes Mom’s vase of fake flowers aside when he hands me the steaming bowl. The canned chicken is rubbery, like always. He makes me eat the frozen peas he sprinkled in and when I ask to be excused, he drinks my broth. 

2.

He’s fixing roofs again. The gravel driveway is empty most of the time. Only one patch of snow, orphaned by the sun, remains under the pine tree in the backyard. Even though I’ve grown three inches this year according to the pencil marks on the wall, I still have to climb on the counter to reach the canned chicken. I watch the seasoning packet swirl as I stir and remember Mom’s bird-like laugh when we rode the carousel, shaded by the Space Needle. This was before she became bones and eventually ash. I drink the broth in silence.

I watch the seasoning packet swirl as I stir and remember
Mom’s bird-like laugh when we rode the carousel,
shaded by the Space Needle.

3.

Althea has reorganized the kitchen since she moved in. The newspaper no longer lives in a pile on Mom’s chair in the kitchen; she’s replaced the juice jars we use as glasses with cheap plastic cups; and the pantry is full of Wheat Thins, rice cakes, and fancy peanut butter. The Days of Our Lives theme plays in the living room. Althea sits on the couch, painting her nails blush pink, the same color as my homecoming dress. I place the packet of ramen on the counter, stand on my toes to reach the canned chicken, but find endless cans of beans instead: kidney, black, garbanzo, pinto. Fresh sunflowers rest in Mom’s vase. At the table, I eat rice cakes smothered in peanut butter. Althea examines how the nail polish accentuates her wedding ring and tells me to take care of the dishes before Dad gets home.

4.

Althea keens in the bathroom. I sit in the kitchen, picking at the loose thread on my black turtleneck. The sink is crowded with dishes. Dead flowers wilt in the new vase. I can’t remember the details of Mom’s face without seeing a photo of her. I wonder if it will be the same with Dad. I toss the flowers into the trash can and walk to the sink to wash the dishes. There’s a Fred Meyer receipt on the counter dated before the stage-four cancer diagnosis. On the grocery list, beneath Althea’s Wheat Thins, a bucket of cottage cheese, and a bag of apples, I spot two cans of chicken and three packets of ramen. I slip the receipt into the pocket of my slacks.

5. 

The fellow grad student I am matched with wants to go out for ramen; there’s a new place in downtown Boise he wants to try. I have plenty of packets at home, I say. He laughs, shocked that I haven’t been to a ramen restaurant. Later, as he tells me stories about teaching English in Japan, I stare at the soft-boiled egg and sliced scallion tops in my steaming bowl—the mushrooms resembling wood-colored tulle underskirts in the cloudy broth. With both elbows on the table, chopsticks in one hand and spoon in the other, he picks up the noodles, mixing around the contents in the bowl before sampling the broth. If Dad was here, he’d make a joke about this being the best canned chicken he’s ever had, then wince at the bill. When the server refills our iced matcha, which tastes like grass, I ask her for a fork.

~~~

Emily Hoover is the author of the forthcoming poetry chapbook, My Mother as a Serrano Pepper (Zeitgeist Press, 2023). Her poetry, fiction, and reviews have been published by Sundress Publications, Maudlin House, The Citron Review, Cleaver Magazine, Necessary Fiction, Ploughshares blog, The Rupture, and others. Find her: @em1lywho on Instagram. 

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