Bea flipped on the coffee maker right away, having prepared it the night before while washing the dishes from supper. Her slippers slapped and smacked against the kitchen tiles. As the coffee brewed, Bea shuffled over to the cabinet that held the frying pan. She moved the small yellow foot-stool, stepped up and retrieved the burnt black pan that sat beside the cast-iron stew pot, her cookie sheets, and muffin tins. She stepped back down, nearly dropping the pan onto the stove. She then reached for the matches, turned the dial that controlled that gas, struck the match with her gnarled thumb, and moved her arm away just in time to avoid the flame that burst from the element.

Bea had always been the chef in her family. Even as a little girl, she’d wake up early just to help her mother make breakfast for the rest of the family. Now, as an old woman, her children and their children would rave about her cooking whenever they stayed over. They joked about how she should open a restaurant. Or how everything - even the food they didn’t like - tasted better at her house. Bill and Jenny would always marvel at how their youngest boy Sam, who refused to acknowledge the vegetables on his plate at home, but would shovel one after another into his mouth when Bea made them.

As the pan heated, Bea bent down and grabbed the yellow step and placed it by the sink. Her back was still stiff from sleep and ached as she moved. She hoisted herself up over the sink and slowly cranked open the three windows on the opposite side that squealed as she spun the bronze handles. The day floated in, the smell of her Dogwoods, Snap Dragons, Wesmorelands, and Chrysanthemums breathed life into the aging wooden bungalow.

Bea dipped her finger in the dishwater and flicked a drop onto the pan that sizzled and danced as it landed. She felt like ham and eggs, a good summer breakfast.

The coffee maker beeped as the last drips of warm black brew trickled into the pot. Bea kicked the stool toward the cabinet that held her dishes and cups. Once again she stepped up and pulled the cupboard door that stuck on the first try, and made a loud, creaking noise as it opened on the second attempt.

Inside, her cup sat waiting upside down. It was Bea’s favourite cup. She called it Tom’s cup though it wasn’t even his. But it did have his picture on it, the picture of him taken in the backyard the summer before the illness. He had a big laughing smile on his face; his head was turned slightly away from the camera so his big grey eyebrow that he’d raised to the center of his forehead sat directly in the middle of the picture. It was silly, but Bea liked it. She thought he looked handsome and it reminded her of the person he was. Bea loved Tom; Bea loved his cup.

Bea poured herself a cup of coffee. A thin wet string of steam rose in the shining daylight that swallowed the room. Bea loved summer; she loved gardening; she loved putting on her old pedal pushers and kneeling down in the cool rich soil as she tended to her carrots, cabbages, cauliflowers, and tomatoes.

By now the pan would be plenty hot, so Bea walked over to the fridge for the butter and eggs. The seal on the white door made a kissing noise as it opened. Bea reached in and grabbed the light-brown carton of eggs with still half a dozen left. But when she flipped up the plastic cover for the butter, she found that the small white plate was empty.

Bea stepped softly on the off-white carpet outside the kitchen on her way to the garage, to Tom’s old beer fridge, where she now kept the items that didn’t fit in the kitchen fridge. She passed by the framed school pictures of Bobby, Leanne, Jessica, and Susie that hung in the living room. She passed by the fireplace decorated with candles, cards, and flowers. Bea never used the fireplace anymore. Tom was the only one who’d ever really used it. After he died, Bea got out her dust pan and hand broom and spent an entire afternoon sweeping up the ashes, and doing the best she could to scrub off the soot from the walls. After that, she put a big potted plant inside the fireplace. Even on Christmas morning, when Bill and Jenny would come with the kids, Bea still left it alone.

Bea descended the stairs one foot at a time, slowly and carefully, because there was no hand-rail. It had broken off years ago, and all that remained were the plaster scars on the yellow wall. At the bottom of the stairs, Bea paused by the giant pine garage door. On the wall just beside the door hung Tom’s old black cap, still on the hook where he used to keep it.

The gold-plated lock on the garage door made a powerful ticking noise from inside as Bea spun the knob. She opened the lock on the handle by pushing in and turning at the same time. The door swung open letting a rush of cool air blow against Bea’s wrinkled face. She lifted the small metal latch on the screen door. Bea stepped into the garage letting the screen door slap violently back into place.

The cement floor was cold against the rubber soles of Bea’s slippers, which quickly lost their heat and began to chill Bea’s feet. She undid the catch on the side of the old, faded yellow fridge, pulled on the shimmering silver horizontal bar and retrieved the plate covered in crinkled tinfoil that held the butter.

But as Bea made her way back to the screen door – butter in hand – she discovered something as peculiar as it was alarming, something that sent a small shock of panic through her entire body. Somehow, when the screen door had slammed closed, the metal hook had jumped back into the small loop drilled into the door frame. Bea stood in awe, old eyes fixed on the tiny device barring her from her own house.

She was trapped. Trapped in the garage with all of Tom’s old tools and ladders and his cross-country skis and the oil stains where he used to park his car. She was trapped with garbage bins and the patio furniture she hadn’t put out this year.

Bea tried to stay calm, took deep breaths and held them, before she sighed them back out again. Then she remembered Tom’s old sheet cutters. The big metal scissors covered in chipped red paint with the big jagged teeth. Bea walked over to Tom’s old workbench and slid open the right hand drawer that held his socket wrench set, as well as a few other loose tools that Bea couldn’t identify. Sitting on top were the scissors. She picked them up, strained under their surprising weight. But when she got back to the screen door, the scissors didn’t work.  The holes between the woven wires were too small and the sharp metal teeth were too big to fit in. Just as well, thought Bea. She didn’t really want to ruin her door anyways. It would have been too big of a hassle to get someone down there to fix it once Bea was free.

It was then that Bea remembered something that made her feel foolish, that made her feel like an old woman. She remembered the garage door with the automatic opener attached securely to the wall. She reached up and pressed the big grey button. The noise of metal and gears and chains and humming motors started all at once.

Bea walked as swiftly as she could manage up the old beaten driveway which somehow felt steeper, up the three stone steps to the walkway, past the big oak tree in her side-yard, through the green wire fence and into her backyard. Her knees creaked as she made her way across the lawn, past the broken old stone grill, across the patio and past her many bushes.

The metal door to the shed scraped against the pavement as Bea dragged it open slowly. Inside the air smelled like wet spiders. Bea stepped on the front of the lawnmower and took down the old orange pill bottle that held the spare keys to the back door. But as Bea pressed down and twisted, the lid refused to turn. She tried again, this time pressing harder than before. But it still didn’t come off. The cap was warped from seasoning too many winters hidden on that rotting wooden shelf. A wave of desperation came over Bea. She was beginning to feel as if the whole ordeal might never end.

She placed the small bottle on the ground and went back into the shed to get her spade which she rested delicately on top of the container. Then, as the birds chirped and sang, Bea lifted the hem of her night gown to her knee and raised her foot high into the air. After turning her head away and closing her eyes, she stomped down as hard as she could on the face of the spade, which shattered the bottle, sending an explosion of plastic shards in every direction.

In her pink nightgown, which shone brightly in the morning sunlight, butter in one hand and rusted keys held tightly in the other, Bea scurried back across her yard. When she got to the door she put the butter plate down on the ground. She opened the metal and glass door and rested on her back as she undid the big pine one. After unlocking both the handle and the bolt, Bea bent down and picked up the butter and stepped inside onto the cool carpet hidden in the shade.

She was glad to be home.