Invasive Procedures Read Online Free PDF Page B

mixing bowl.
    She found that rather quickly, but couldn’t find a whisk, so she settled for a fork. After five minutes of stirring, she convinced herself that the batter was
supposed
to be lumpy and poured the first pancake into the pan.
    Several minutes later she was fanning the smoke away and wondering how something so brown and so liquid could have gotten so black and so hard so quickly.
    “What’s that weird smell?” Wyatt said, crinkling his nose as he came into the kitchen.
    “Have a seat, Wyatt, Mom stayed home and made pancakes for you.”
    He climbed up into a seat at the table.
    He was short for a six-year-old, but Monica didn’t worry. Boys sprouted at the most random of ages. His sandy blond hair, still wet from the shower, hung limply across his forehead. He wore a pair of dark blue cargo pants with far too many zippers and pockets on the sides and a yellow T-shirt Monica didn’t recognize.
    She scooped the pancake up with the spatula and laid it deftly on Wyatt’s plate. She might not know how to cook, but she was always deft.
    “This is burnt, Mom,” he said.
    “It got a little dark on one side. But the other side is fine.”
    “I can’t eat just one side of the pancake, Mom. Where’s Rosa?”
    The question she didn’t want to hear and didn’t want to answer. Rosa was Wyatt’s nanny. A better nanny the world had never known. Despite a weak grasp of the English language, Rosa seemed to have ESP at times, knowing precisely what Wyatt wanted or needed and having it ready for him before he even asked for it—not to the point of spoiling him, but in a way that made him feel involved and special. “I told her I was fixing your breakfast this morning,” said Monica. “I think she’s doing the laundry right now.”
    As if on cue, Rosa came into the kitchen, carrying dishcloths and dish towels for the linen cabinet.
    “Rosa!” said Wyatt. “Buenos días! Mom burnt the pancakes.”
    Monica playfully shook a finger at him. “Hey, be grateful I only burned one side.”
    Wyatt grinned and took a big, drippy, syrupy bite. Immediately his face went sour. “This pancake is weird. It’s like there’s dust in it.”
    “Dust?”
    “Dry places. Uck.”
    Before Monica could stop him, he spat a half-chewed mouthful back onto his plate.
    Monica’s shoulders sunk. “Well, so much for that.”
    “I make him eggs?” said Rosa. “He likes the scramble egg.”
    A moment passed before Monica said, “Yes, thank you.”
    Rosa must have understood or sensed something of how bad Monica felt. Because she reached over and patted Monica on the forearm—not condescendingly, but kindly, reassuringly—and said, “Oh, no thank me, Señora Owens, is
my job
. I should be thank you. If you no give me the grocery money, we would have no eggs and Wyatt go school hungry.” She smiled. “And you have nice frying pan, good stove—easy to do right because you have everything ready.”
    Monica nodded. She would have answered, but as she was about to speak, she could feel in her throat that it would come out as a sob.
    Again, Rosa apparently sensed not only what Monica felt, but why.
    “You are
good
mother, Señora Owens, very good. Wyatt is lucky little boy to have mother like you.”
    Monica wanted to say, Yes, what a fine mother I am for having a frying pan I can hardly find myself.
    Soon Wyatt was eating a plate of scrambled eggs with shredded cheddar cheese on top. Just like he liked it. Cooked by Rosa, of course.
    “Just so you know, Wyatt,” Monica said, “I am secretly an excellent cook. I used to cook all the time for your dad.”
    “Maybe that’s why he left,” said Wyatt.
    The words froze her to the heart.
    Rosa, too, understood what this meant. She was already washing the frying pan, but she stopped at once and turned to look at Wyatt, probably unsure whether it was her place to rebuke him when his mother was present.
    Only Wyatt was clueless. He turned around, grinning. He must have thought he had