Remember That

The following short story contains sensitive information regarding miscarriages and addiction.

1

Crossing the street toward Bayshore Drive, a gust of fresh-cut grass and dog’s poop greets me. 

Classic Margaret Pace Park. I marvel at the early risers jogging by - three miles at seven in the morning is beyond me. The only reason I’m here this early is to see what those parrots are up to these days. 

Today, after what felt like forever, I arrived a good ten minutes early, set on claiming the prime bench. It's crucial for my first day of slow-living and birdwatching, away from the chatter of sweaty commuters discussing their family dramas during yoga breaks.

The hippies don’t count as disruptors, though. They’re deeply immersed in meditating, a joint dangling from their lips. Their eyes shut, bodies swaying as if they're riding invisible, electric waves. It's quite the sight. 

Really impressive things you witness around here!

I get a few stares and I wonder if it's due to my socks-and-sandals combo, my untamed curly hair, or my ripped joggers. But comfort above all things, right? Or perhaps it's not every day you spot a 20-year-old silently observing the trees, phoneless and absorbed. But my focus is on the flock of parrots above, who appear to have their day meticulously planned out.

Some unsavory disruptors have asked for my name with a tone that repels me. Each time, I serve them a look paired with a random name. Some names feel like a perfect fit, while others are my sly nod to wanting to stay incognito.

For the curious old fellow who inquired last, I went by Mary. For the approaching homeless guy, maybe I'll morph into Rebecca, though that name paints a picture of a freckled, red-haired girl with impeccable manners. My dark hair and sun-kissed complexion might be more in tune with an Asha. But then again, behind my stoic facade, there's a hint of sweetness, making Emma the real winning ticket.

Thanks, Mom.

My neck has grown a bit sore, but I'm determined not to give up my spot. Besides, I'm intent on proving my theory that these mischievous birds are total mockers. I've noticed a pattern in the people they choose to poop on. A compilation of ponytails, workout outfits, lip fillers, Chanel perfume, and occasionally, the alo cappers. 

Go figure.

Taking a break from observing the birds, I pull out my pocket book of American and English Poems. I admit, delving into Geoffrey Chaucer seems like a good idea, especially after binge-watching seven Netflix series in two weeks. I needed this change: the sun, the breeze, the parrots, and the poetry. But after 45 minutes of quiet observation and reading, I could use a drink.

2

I pull out my phone to search for a juice place, after all I can’t have coffee or alcohol for at least another 30 days. Sadly, my choices are limited. 

I soon come across a tea bar- leaving me feeling both relieved that I wont be getting any sugar-packed juice, and intrigued. But what's with the kooky tea names? Freckled Ginger Fizz, Taka-Tuka Tropical Twist, and Seafarer's Sweet Brew? 

As I continue to scroll through their Instagram feed, a reel catches my attention, unveiling the owner's motivation for starting her Herbalist Tea Bar. Cancer.

She was on the brink of leaving this world behind when she began exploring every holistic remedy available. But, it was the teas—a fusion of ancient herbs and modern leaves, along with a strict routine—that healed her. Now, she's opened a tea bar inspired by Pippi Longstocking, her favorite movie character. I guess the tea names make sense after all. 

As I swing the door open, a chuckle escapes me. The place is a carnival of socks! Every nook boasted long socks, each with its own quirky tale to tell. From the mismatched stripes and polka dots to the patchwork patterns, and even Villa Villekulla-inspired socks, it was like stepping into a sock enthusiast's wonderland.

The staff are clothed in Pippi's world, each playing their part with gusto. There’s a guy dressed as Mr. Nilsson, the monkey, standing tall with an unmistakable presence. His deep blue eyes locked with mine, sending a thrilling jolt through me. His shirt clings tightly to his sculpted muscles, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the strength beneath.

It becomes clear why he is cast as Mr. Nilsson - his arms, noticeably hairy, perfectly fit the part.

"Can I get you anything, dear?" came a voice.

There stands Pippi, only she seems to have time-traveled from the future, her eyes twinkling with the secrets of the ages. Her hair, rebelliously sprayed orange, refuses to conform, drooping in defiance of gravity. And, true to her legendary style, her socks were a mismatched pair, each as lively and unique as she was.

"Oh, yeah. Mhmm... I'm a bit undecided on what to pick, to be honest," I say with a hesitant smile.

"First time at our Pippi-inspired tea haven?" she asks with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Yes! But I bet everything here is absolutely delightful," I respond, looking at the old woman. 

Her Instagram photos don't do her justice – she's way prettier in person, exuding a warm, grandmotherly aura. With a gentle pat on my back, she guides me to my seat. Lucky me, I snag the treasure chest stool!

"Well, for a first-timer, I highly recommend our Pippi Oolong-stocking tea," she suggests with a laugh. "It's a charming blend of Oolong Tea, orange peel, and a sprinkle of secret ingredients – all caffeine-free!" she adds, as if reading my mind.

I order the tea, and voilà, it arrives accompanied by a sugar-free, gluten-free biscuit. And guess who comes along for the ride? Mr. Nilsson, of course!

"A Pippi Oolong-stocking?" he questions, setting the tea down in front of the bar. Noticing my puzzled expression, he lets out a warm laugh.

"It tastes like heaven, I promise."

"Well, how would you know?” I say playfully. “I’m sure it tastes good,” I continue, “it's just, well, I've never really been to a tea bar before, especially one as unique as this."

"Yeah, we hear that often. Some folks find it quite cozy. I think it's convenient," he says, collecting some cups around the bar and moving back to the sink, which faces my spot.

"Convenient? How so?" I ask, taking a sip. The tea is a surprising mix of smoky flavors, citrusy undertones, and a hint of brown sugar. Much more enjoyable than I anticipated.

"Well, we get a lot of ex-drinkers here. It's their spot to hang out at a bar but without the downsides of alcohol."

"That makes sense," I admit. "But I have to ask... why the theme?" 

I know full well that the owner has a thing for Pippi, but I'm up for a good conversation with this guy.  

He laughs, his face lighting up with a sense of pride. "That was actually my idea."

That catches me off guard. So, he wasn't assigned that costume; he chose it himself. Interesting. 

"Grandma wanted something unique, and she's always buried in those Pippi books. Reads them cover to cover every year without fail. She adores them. So, I suggested we add a twist to this tea bar, make it a bit more engaging, maybe take people's minds off things, you know?"

His words trail off, and I find myself lost in thought, gazing into the near-empty cup of tea before me. My reflection wavers in the liquid, and I feel tears threatening to spill. But I hold them back. Not now. Not here.

He picks up on the change in mood and, with a hint of concern, offers a complimentary refill.

"It's okay, I can pay," I replied quickly.

"No, please, let me. I didn't mean to upset you." He utters this with a teasing, playful tone, evidently trying to draw a smile from me. I comply, offering a slight laugh, more to humor him than for anything else.

It strikes me then that I don't even know his name. 

"Emma," I say suddenly.

"Pardon?" He looks at me, a bit puzzled.

"My name," I clarify.

"Oh, right, I was just about to ask." He smirks.

I return the simper, reaching into my tote bag to pull out my pocket book just as his grandmother calls out for assistance.

Ethan. I overhear. It suits him. 

3

I realize I've been lost in my book for an hour when my stomach starts to protest – quite a surprise, considering I had a bite before going to the park. My rule is to eat every three hours, like clockwork.

Glancing up, I see the bar has filled up. There's a small crowd outside, some eagerly requesting seats at the bar.

"The mushroom danish is a must-try – it's our specialty and a personal favorite of mine," Ethan suggests, appearing seemingly out of thin air. His blue eyes lock with mine, sending a playful spark through the air.

I respond with a nod, and as if by magic, he swiftly serves the warmest, most inviting mushroom danish I've ever encountered. I devoured seconds after he’s off to serve newcomers. 

From the other edge of the bar, Ethan gestures towards my face. I pause, puzzled, until I realize his smirk has transformed into a comical display of him wiping my mouth with a napkin. A bit of cream cheese had lingered on my lips.

In a daring move, I lick it off, noticing Ethan's posture stiffen slightly. I can't help but wonder what other reactions I might provoke with such a simple gesture.

"Nice dot," he mouths softly.

I touch the tiny black spot just above my lip, feeling a sudden warmth rush through me. I try to shake off the sensation, shifting uneasily in my seat.

I've dated just three guys to be exact, but this feeling is new to me – a deep, almost instinctual attraction. Being the center of so much attention is both thrilling and a tad melancholic. Thoughts of Jack fleetingly cross my mind, but they're quickly interrupted by Grandma Pippi's reassuring touch. 

"Yes, thank you..." I start.

"Marcela," she gently offers.

"Right, thank you, Marcela. This tea is fantastic. And the mushroom danish? Divine!" I reply with a genuine smile. 

Marcela's warmth is so inviting, it almost tempts me to break my usual reserve and give her a big hug. But I've never been one for overt displays of affection; they always feel a tad awkward to me.

As time slips by, I wonder when it might be appropriate to leave. I've lingered far longer than planned, but the tea bar, with its cozy ambiance and fun vibe, is hard to part with. They even have a small TV playing Pippi episodes near a set of comfy sofas, reminiscent of the 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S' show setup.

Just as I'm about to reach for my tote bag, Ethan reappears, hat in hand, announcing his 15-minute break.

"So..." he starts, and I sense he doesn't often get the chance for much chit-chat around here. He seems eager for a conversation, and I'm more than happy to oblige.

We spend the next minutes delving into all the strange visitors who stop by the tea bar- all the conversations he had heard, and then, he decides to shift his attention back to me. 

“So, I saw you were very focused on your reading. Let me guess, a literature major?” 

“Something like that.” I say. 

Unpleasant with my answer, I corrected him. 

“Journalism.” 

“Wow. Exciting. Didn’t take you for a journalist.” 

“Why not?” My question is genuine. I’m curious. What did he think of me?

“Well, you seem too quiet.” 

I chuckle, a bit unnerved. Usually, I'm the one leading conversations, but Ethan has me playing the silent type.

Suddenly, a wave of realization hits me. Is Ethan interested in me? Is he trying something here? Panic sets in. I can't go down this road again. Not now.

In my haste to leave, I stand up too quickly, causing my tote bag to tumble over, its contents spilling across the floor. I scramble to gather my things, muttering apologies and hastily explaining that I need to leave.

But before I know it, Ethan is beside me, helping me pick up my scattered belongings. We stand up, suddenly very close, his breath almost tangible. Then, in a moment that feels like a nightmare, he picks up a hospital tag from my things, breaking the moment between us. My heart drops.

“You were in the hospital recently?” he asks, his expression turning serious. 

There's a hint of concern in his eyes that makes me think he's genuinely worried. I had forgotten about the tag, a random keepsake I sometimes collect to remember significant moments – not that I'd easily forget this one.

As he starts to apologize for prying, I realize I haven't responded. So, I admit that I was in the hospital two weeks ago.

“What happened? If I may ask.” His curiosity surprises me. We barely know each other, and yet he's delving into my personal life. But strangely enough, it feels good.

“A miscarriage.” I said quietly. 

His reaction is one of utter surprise, mirroring my own shock at having divulged something so personal. 

I haven't spoken of it since it happened, not even with my mom. She has been fervently praying and bargaining with God for me to return to my old self. What she doesn’t understand is that the girl she knew isn’t coming back. A loss like this doesn’t just take away your baby; it strips you of who you are.

I can see he's at a loss for words, but I didn’t feel like hiding the truth. . 

“What does it feel like?” He asks. 

“Like a heart attack without the chest pain, or an empty stomach without the growling,” I reply.

For the last two weeks, my routine has been nothing but binge-watching series, changing elephant-sized diapers due to the relentless clotted bleeding, eating soup, and having phone consultations with my gynecologist. 

I've barred all visitors, Jack included. He's been desperate for even a five-minute conversation, but what's there to talk about? Why bother when he never wanted this? Is he feeling guilty now? 

“Well. That sucks,” Ethan comments.

“It does,” I reply.

Ethan looks at me intently, clearly trying to articulate something.

“You can stay a bit longer, you know?” he suggests.

“I don’t want to take up too much space. You wouldn’t even have room for another one of those ridiculously large mugs,” I say lightly.

Ethan laughs, his gaze drifting to a tired-looking Lilla Gubben mug- Pippi Longstocking’s horse.

The offer is tempting, but I know I can’t stay. I’m still supposed to be on bed rest, and this 'slow-living' experiment has already stretched further than I intended.

“Maybe another day?” I propose.

“Sounds like a plan,” he responds, looking down at his feet, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. I turn to leave but just as I’m about to leave the bar, Ethan calls out to me.

“Emma?”

“Yes?” I say.

“A new life begins where one ends. Remember that.”