13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days

What We Drink at Brunch Besides Mimosas

8 min readJun 24, 2021

Mary and Becky had come a long way in the years since the bad thing happened, but the scar on Mary’s forehead still burned every time she heard her best friend scream.

She grabbed her head and ran into their living room to find Becky shivering on the hardwood floor.

“How could this be happening?” Becky cried.

Mary looked around the room. The windows were intact. The mirrors unbroken. Probably just Becky being Becky. Still, she always worried. She resisted the urge to touch her scar.

“What happened?” Mary asked. “Tell me every last detail.”

Becky held up her phone without blinking.

“Did you get a text from a murderer saying he’s already inside our house?” Mary asked. Mary ran to the front door and pulled out the baseball bat she kept in the umbrella stand for emergencies. “Oh my God. We’re not even allowed to leave the house.”

She watched as Becky used all her strength to shake her head, “No.”

“The plague is back,” Becky whispered.

Becky lowered the bat.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “It actually never really left. We just got complacent. And the government didn’t exactly make it easy to stay home.”

Becky blinked a few times.

“I got a text alert,” she whispered, her voice sounded hoarse. “The mayor just banned brunch. For ‘The foreseeable future.’”

Becky burst into tears.

Mary, who thought brunch was pointless, overpriced, and overhyped, rolled her eyes.

“Don’t scare someone like that,” Mary said, putting the bat away “I thought something bad happened like when we were kids.”

Becky leaned back and went catatonic.

Mary and Becky were best friends forever, bonded eternally despite their differences by the bad thing that happened during that fateful sleepover. Mary grew to become a young woman who loved working in her garden, reading books, and doing the right thing. Becky grew to become a woman who loved brunch.

As the lockdown restarted, Mary returned to her old quarantine habits of tending to her house plants, trying to finish Moby Dick, and calling their elderly neighbors to see who needed help going to the grocery store. Becky attempted to make banana whipped cream French toast and set off every smoke alarm in the house.

Mary came running into the kitchen and opened a window.

“The brunch industrial complex has convinced you that a meal exists between breakfast and lunch,” Mary said. “It’s fake. French toast was invented as a way to sell old bread.”

“I’ll do anything for a frittata,” Becky said, crying into her charred pan of challah bread. “I would kill for something red velvet. Even someone wearing red velvet.”

Mary looked at her uneasily.

“We’re not becoming who we were as children,” she said. “Get it together. This plague will pass. Then we’ll go to brunch every day. I promise.”

On the seventh morning of lockdown, Mary sat in bed and finally finished Moby Dick. She looked out the window and thought how nice it would be to leave the house and go on a three-year whaling voyage. How freeing it would be to eat whatever the galley cook made, and not worry about vanilla peach waffles. She was still daydreaming about the south seas when she smelled burnt toast. At first she thought it was a stroke. Then she realized it was her roommate.

She raced downstairs and found the toaster on fire. She unplugged it and threw it in the sink. Becky was nowhere to be found. Mary looked at their damaged toaster and suddenly felt sorry about everything. Quarantine was easy for an introvert who only ate when she was hungry like Mary. Becky had other needs. Mary looked through the freezer, found the last of their frozen fruit and decided to surprise her best friend with blueberry pancakes.

She put the pancakes on the griddle, poured orange juice into flutes and hoped a non-boozy brunch would be enough, considering the circumstances. She grabbed a couple of frozen strawberries and plopped one into each flute. Then she stacked the pancakes onto the last clean plates and went looking for Becky.

The bathroom door was closed, but the light was off. Mary’s scar started to hurt. She knocked the door

“Becky?” she said. “Everything OK?”

Silence.

She banged on the door, harder this time.

“Becky,” she said. “I made us brunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Becky answered back, softly.

If Becky was turning down brunch, even a bootleg sober brunch in their living room, something was very wrong. Mary jumped up and dragged her hand along the ledge above the bathroom door. The little tool the landlord left them for when the door accidentally locked itself popped down. She slipped it into the door and stepped into the darkened bathroom.

The blood rushed to her ears. The room smelled of apple orchards and pumpkin spice. Becky sat on the floor, in the middle of a circle of scented candles. Mary looked into her best friend’s darkened features and saw the scared little girl she thought she’d left behind all those years before.

“What are you doing?” Mary asked.

“I need brunch,” Becky said. “Please.”

Mary reached out her hand.

“I made us brunch,” she said. “Come on out. There are mocktails. We can do this on our own. We’re not kids anymore.”

“I need her,” Becky said. She pulled her hand away, then rolled over and kicked the bathroom door shut.

Mary tried to scream, but Becky put a hand over her best friend’s face. Mary felt like a small child, wide awake and terrified at Becky’s house, texting her parents to pick her up in the middle of the night, but receiving no answers.

Becky had that old look in her eyes. Mary pleaded for mercy with her own. Becky leaned in close.

“I need this,” she whispered.

Then Becky turned to the mirror. Mary bit her lip and closed her eyes.

“Bloody Mary,” Becky started. “Bloody Mary. BLOODY MARY.”

An autumn wind swept through the bathroom. Every candle went out. Mary fell forward and hit her head on the mirror. The last thing she heard before she passed out was a fabulous voice saying:

“Girls … I’m back.”

Mary awoke in a darkened bathroom. She felt dried blood on the top of her head. She stood up slowly and turned on the lights. The candles were gone. She looked at the mirror. Cracked, but not as broken as she had feared. Aside from the blood, her reflection looked the same. Maybe it was all just a brief psychotic break and Becky would be back to normal. But something felt different. Deep in her soul, she yearned for a bottomless mimosa. She shook the thought away.

She washed the blood from her forehead and saw her old scar had opened back up. She went into the medicine cabinet and grabbed Becky’s makeup palette. She covered up the scar and then kept going. She hadn’t worn makeup since the plague began, but it would be foolish to have brunch without looking amazing. She grabbed Becky’s most expensive brush and a straightener and ironed the curls out of her hair. She looked at her perfectly straight blonde hair and liked what she saw. She blew herself a kiss.

Then Mary went upstairs and changed into a long white sweater and tight ripped jeans. She pulled on a pair of riding boots that she’d worn a few Halloweens earlier. Her room felt suddenly chilly. From deep within her closet she retrieved an oversized scarf and a red velvet bolero hat.

She looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. Amazing. This could be a perfect day. But something was missing. She went into her closet and hauled out an old leather trunk. She rooted around through old pictures and heirloom jewellery until she found what she was looking for. An expensive bottle of champagne her mother had given her shortly before she died. They were supposed to drink it together on Mary’s 21st birthday. Mary had been saving it for her future daughter’s 21st birthday.

She walked into the kitchen holding the bottle of champagne.

“What’s brunch without a real mimosa?” Mary asked.

Becky grinned maniacally.

They poured the champagne into the flutes of orange juice.

“To the brunches I won’t remember,” Mary started.

“With the lady I’ll never forget,” Becky answered.

They cheersed and downed their drinks. Then they took a selfie. Soon the entire bottle of champagne was empty.

The doorbell rang. Becky had ordered apricot scones and fresh fruit from their favorite bar using Mary’s credit card.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Mary said.

Mary poured them the last of the champagne. She went to their cabinet and retrieved a half full bottle of Tito’s. She realized they needed more.

“Let’s invite the dude bros from next door over,” she said. “I’m looking for a Sunday Funday.”

“They don’t believe in masks. Aren’t you worried about the plague?” Becky said, already pulling out her phone.

“No plague is going to stop me from having a boozy brunch, biatch,” Mary said, in a voice that was not exactly her own.

Becky grabbed tomato juice from the fridge and handed it to Mary. They mixed it with vodka and held up their glasses.

“Bloody Marys,” Becky said, grinning. “How appropriate.”

Mary caught her reflection in the window. Her scar had opened back up, blood was trickling down her forehead, but she looked fabulous. She hadn’t felt this good since they were children.

She watched as the dude bros from next door appeared on the sidewalk, carrying cases of White Claw and their homemade cornhole set. She reached down and picked the perfect piece of honeydew. She knew in her heart this was going to be the best day with the best people.

Becky came up behind her and gave her the biggest hug. The kind she used to give when they were kids. Mary leaned back and accepted it.

“Welcome back Bloody Mary,” Becky said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever leave this time,” came the reply.

13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days

What We Drink at Brunch Besides Mimosas

Written by Mark Macyk