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My parents hate me.
It’s all a young Elliott can think as his frustrated mother storms out of his room. Her parting words? If you can’t get over your flu by tomorrow, you can stay behind with the help.
A ski trip has been planned now for over a month. A busy week away with several families that his mother has been very much looking forward to.
He doesn’t mean to cry – truly, he doesn’t – but every time they do this, he thinks it a little more. At age twelve, he’s all but given up on trying to get someone to stay, and take care of him. Has learned to self-soothe and mask his symptoms, but sometimes he simply can’t. His body and his cough and his red cheeks and heightened temperature are just too much to hide this time.
Resigned to his fate, Elliott watches the next morning as they ready to leave. All the while his mother regards him as more of a burden than her sick son. His sister, Celeste has sympathy in her eyes, but she’s younger than he is and not allowed to stay behind.
His older brother Alistair merely shakes his head, leaning in the door frame to taunt him before heading on their trip.
“I swear, Elliott. Sometimes it feels as if you plan your illnesses around our holidays,” he says smugly, idly winding the gold Patek around his wrist. “Well, at least you have the decency to keep your germs to yourself.”
Those are the final parting words anyone in his family offers, before leaving him to fend for himself.
His father hadn’t even bothered saying goodbye.
Elliott spends a miserable day in bed, until his fever breaks some time the following night. When his chills suddenly turn to sweats the morning after, he wakes and sluggishly forces himself to draw a bath, not wanting to be a burden on the staff left behind to care for him.
Though, if he was being honest, they treated him far better than his family did when he was in need of care.
By the time he manages to weakly emerge from the water and throw a robe around his shivering frame, Elliott returns to his room to find fresh sheets and warm, clean pajamas folded neatly for him on the edge of his bed.
As Elliott picks them up, a small note flutters down from his shirt pocket, landing squarely on the mattress in front of him.
Intrigued, he unfolds it and reads:
Mr. March,
You are cordially invited to supervise the preparation of today’s lunch menu if you are so feeling up to it.
Sincerely,
Maggie
Elliott smiles, blinking back the tears as he folds the note and tucks it between the pages of his journal. Maggie has been the March family head chef since before he was born. Probably in her mid-60’s now, she runs a tight ship, effectively shooing everyone other member of his family out of her kitchen, except for him.
Elliott would never turn down a request from her. Especially not when his other option was sitting alone in his room all day feeling sorry for himself. Sliding feet into slippers, he tentatively pads down the stairs to the familiar sounds of the kitchen below.
Maggie is already standing there, chopping carrots at the island as Elliott let himself in, pulling up a stool across from her.
“Greetings Mr. March,” she grins, pausing in her chopping to pour him a cup of hot tea. She adds a few cookies next to the teacup on the saucer and slides it over, before resuming her meal prep.
Grateful, Elliott takes it, breathing in the warmth of the steam caressing his face. “Thank you, Maggie,” he says weakly, blowing across the hot liquid to cool it down. “What are you making today that requires my supervision?” He asks with a smile.
“Chicken noodle soup,” she smiles. “And if you’re up for it, I could use the help, Mr. March.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Mr. March is my father,” he laments with a sad smile. “I am nothing more than Elliott.”
Cocking an eyebrow, she looks up at him. “Tell me, nothing more than Elliott. Are any members of your family present right now?”
There’s a distaste to her voice that lets him know exactly what she thinks of the other members of his family with regards to the care they show him.
“No. It’s… it’s just me. You know that, Maggie.” He says, wilting at the sadness in his own voice.
“Then you are currently the head of the household,” she says matter-of-factly, taking a moment to rest a hand on his arm and give it a little squeeze. “Besides,” she continues, a gleam of mischief in her eye. “It’s so much more fun bossing around Mr. March than it is my sweet, kind, wonderful nothing more than Elliott, don’t you agree?”
Elliott blinks, taking in her words before he bursts into laughter, coughing into his napkin in the process.
“Oh child, I’m sorry to strain those lungs of yours right now,” she tuts. “Have a sip of tea and let me know when you’ve recovered. I must put you to work!”
Elliott smiles gratefully. She doesn’t treat him like a pest or a burden. She relishes in his company and is one of the few people currently in his life who seems to genuinely enjoy spending time with him.
“I’m okay,” he says. “How can I help?”
He’s eager. Always enjoys the impromptu cooking lessons she gives him, and has never made something as complicated as soup before. In the past, he’s assisted with simple things like assembling sandwiches or decorating cookies – child’s play, as far as he was concerned – but soup? That seemed like a step up in responsibility that he was eager to try.
“The broth has been made ahead of time and is already on the stove simmering. It’s just waiting for the ingredients.” She says, steady hands making quick work of the carrot under her knife before it winds up in the pot. “In the future, I’ll show you how to make the broth from scratch, but since it’s already made, I’ll get you to help me set aside the scraps for the next batch.”
Elliott follows her lead, collecting the ends of the carrots and other vegetable trimmings, placing them in a bag to freeze for future use. He then helps Maggie pull a small roasted chicken from the oven, watching as she separates the meat from the carcass. The chicken breasts are minced and added to the simmering broth, along with a parsnip and some herbs, while Elliott helps freeze the carcass for future use.
“The soup is looking like all chicken and no noodle,” he jokes as Maggie pulls out a bag of egg noodles.
“The secret to good chicken noodle soup is to understand cooking times, Mr. March.”
Elliott puffs up at that, paying close attention as she continues on.
“The carrots and other root vegetables go in first, as they’ll take the longest to soften. The chicken, we were able to throw in closer to the end since it’s pre-cooked. We just want to give it long enough to soak in the flavours of the broth. But the egg noodles? They’ll cook in minutes. If you put them in too early, they’ll absorb all the broth, and all you’ll have to show for your hard work is soggy noodles instead of actual soup.”
Elliott watches, fascinated as she pours the noodles into the pot, turning down the element to a low simmer. “Go take a seat Elliott, and choose whatever crackers you want from the cupboard over there, if you’d like to add some to your bowl.
He does, snatching the bag of goldfish crackers out of the cupboard before returning to his stool. A place mat is put in front of him, along with a spoon and a fresh glass of water.
“We’ll have you feeling right as rain in no time, kiddo,” she says protectively, as that old familiar ache in his chest threatens to burst forward as Elliott wishes that Maggie was his mother. That he was born into a family that loved him instead of treated him like a burden.
By this point, he’s expended most of his energy on making soup and is getting sleepy. Still, Elliott manages to put a dent his bowl, listening as Maggie talks about how her own son helped in the kitchen when he was around his age too. How Elliott reminds her of him, how his observant and thoughtful nature will take him far in life.
“He sounds nice. Like we could have been friends if we were the same age.”
She nods in agreement, joining Elliott on the free stool next to him with her own cup of tea.
“There is no doubt in my mind you would have been. He’s all grown up now. Has a family and three daughters of his own.”
Elliott smiles into his bowl, pushing a goldfish cracker through the remainder of his broth in quiet thought. “When I grow up, I’ll make my kids soup when they get sick.”
Elliott doesn’t fully realize what he’s saying, only that he’s so far away from that future, it feels more like a daydream than a promise. A wish for something he never thinks he’ll get. He doesn’t expect when Maggie sighs softly, blinking back – wait, were those tears?
“You’ll be the best father to your little ones someday, Elliott,” she murmurs. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
He can tell she wants to say more. Knows she’s warring with herself, walking a delicate tightrope of personal feelings and frustration towards her employer. Instead, she bites her tongue, smiling sadly at him, and collects his empty bowl.
“I know you’re a wee bit old for it these days, but if you like, I can read you a story as you fall asleep. Something tells me you’re the type who will never grow out of the appreciate for a good story.”
He perks up at that, smiling wearily with a nod. “I think I’d like that very much.”
Maggie smiles, satisfied that her assessment was accurate. “Up you go. Pop into that posh home library of yours and grab whatever tickles your fancy. I’ll be up as soon as the kitchen is clean.”
Elliott slips form his stool, making his way to the hall. He stops at the door one final time to look back. “Thank you, Maggie. For today. The soup… and well, for everything.”
She stops what she’s doing and looks up. “Always a pleasure, Mr. March. Always.” It’s said with a smile, before she shoos him out the door to bed.
Elliott doesn’t think he’ll ever forget her kindness, or the fact that now soup and love have been joined together so thoroughly in his mind. And even though he’s young now, he understands on some level, the gravity of the promise he made to himself that day.
His children would always have soup. Bowls of love whenever they needed it the most.
Of that, he was certain.