He put his fork down and looked at me from behind his glasses, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. Like lead, they dropped from my eyes and cracked against the plate below, dancing with the scrambled eggs and making them runny. He spoke first.Īlmost instantaneously, I felt my chin start to quiver, and I knew the tears were close behind. She was on the board of trustees for the university I attended and was in San Diego for their fall session. My dad and I were in the restaurant of the hotel where they were staying, and my mom was still in the room getting ready for her day of meetings. Since my parents were in town, though, and they wanted to meet in the morning, I was sitting in front of a hearty, All-American breakfast and slowly feeling the panic surface. Smile so people don’t think anything’s wrong.
Now that it was November, I was used to the routine: stick to something light - fruit or granola a bagel, if I was feeling steady - and eat it slowly. I remember having to dart from the shower one morning after trying to stomach apple-cinnamon oatmeal, making it to the trash can just in time to watch it all come back up. I hadn’t been able to keep down breakfast since summer. The smell of potatoes and sausage was rushing up from my plate, catching itself in my nostrils, and - like fetid milk - making me nauseous.