They Were All But Tea Leaves in Her Cup

Maggie was never a particularly bad girl, but she had, at an early age, discovered that she could speak reality into existence, that words had weight.

           “Could you pass me the apricot jam?” she said, her voice hoarse with age.

Her wrinkled hands caressed the knife, her index finger firm against its long silver spine. She returned it to the jar where it clattered against the glass lip. Crunch, breadcrumbs.

“Truth is,” she said with a mouthful of toast, “I made it all up.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, a napkin over her thin, red lips.

           Beth paused, her teacup hovering beneath her chin for an instant before she took a brave mouthful. She puckered her lips, and it had little to do with the bitter tea, little to do with the pesky leaves that clung to her front teeth; and more to do with realisation.

“You mean to say,” she began, “that Jennifer didn’t say any of that?”

           “None of it,” said Maggie, reaching for the sugar bowl. “Isn’t this just lovely?” She removed the jade green lid and tickled the ceramic koi fish with her wrinkled fingertip, with her ghastly red fingernail. Beth, however, didn’t look up to admire it, didn’t sing her praises, didn’t care; it wasn’t even a sugar bowl but a gaiwan teacup.

Beth stared into her tea a moment, into the tea leaves floating aimlessly like little canoes. She had thus floated through life, bobbing about on its surface, drifting round and round, and never finding depth. Only from above, with the eyes of god, could she see herself thus; only from above, with the eyes of god, did she realise that maybe, just maybe, she’d always been a tea leaf in Maggie’s cup.

           “Well, the children liked it,” said Maggie, scooping out a sugar cube with a delicate silver teaspoon.

           “Jen didn’t say I was a bad friend?” said Beth, her eyes lost beneath her heavy grey brows, the vein in her forehead jagged like a lightning bolt.

           “No,” said Maggie.

           “She didn’t say I was a flirt?”

           “No.”

           “She didn’t say I was trying to steal Benji from her?”

           “Not at first, no,” said Maggie. “Not until you did.” As she stirred her tea, her titters pealed sharp and bright like the spoon against the cup.

Beth cringed, her shoulders instantly rising as though to cover her ears. She’d believed so much in autonomy, and so little in the influence of others; and yet on some level, she’d believed so much in Maggie and so little in herself.

But it was undeniable; Maggie had planted a seed, she’d planted many seeds, and they’d grown into a Camellia sinensis from which she’d harvested tea leaves. Tea leaves, they were all but tea leaves in her cup. And Beth, Beth who’d believed she was an exception, was just like everyone else ensnarled in Maggie’s tangled roots and twisted branches.

Maggie was never particularly bad, not really. Her rumours decided reality, and for her at least, the ramifications were as soothing as a cup of tea. Why? Her words had weight, she had control, and the world was a little less scary when confined to a teacup, when looking from above with the eyes of god.

“I’m feeling a little faint,” said Beth.

“Jam on toast just doesn’t do it for you after the States, huh?”

Maggie could taste her own bitterness, and yet she savoured it; Beth deserved it, after all. How was it that the most consistent person in her life had abandoned her? had disappeared for two years? Her best friend was just as ungrateful as her children, just as ungrateful as her ex-husband, just as ungrateful as her parents had been.

Beth dropped her crust onto the plate and dusted the crumbs from her fingertips. It had been a momentous time in her life, what happened with Jen and Benji. It was the reason, the catalyst, for her own self-loathing, her feelings of unworthiness, her reservedness; she’d felt guilty and was so afraid of repeating her past mistakes that she’d refrained from living thereafter. She didn’t deserve friendship, she didn’t deserve love, and she’d internalised it for what, five decades? six? Her entire being—her nature, her lifestyle, her defence mechanisms—were all now set in stone, as deeply entrenched as the lines around her mouth, as firm as her talonesque fingernails. There was so much room for manipulation and so little room for change; maybe she’d never really known herself. Who was she? who was she without Maggie’s meddling?

And what, had Maggie made it all up? She’d decided Beth’s reality, had rolled her up into a small ball of clay and had kept her close, on a keychain, since seventh grade. Beth stared into the tablecloth, her gaze climbing the dark vines as her thoughts branched off and sought their roots. Why was she the way she was? Had it really begun in high school? with Jen, with Benji? with a rumour?

“And what about the job opening?” said Beth. “Was there ever really a job opening or did you just want me to move back here?”

“I missed you,” said Maggie.

“I missed you, too,” said Beth, spitting a tea leaf into her napkin.

Pause.

“You don’t look too well,” said Maggie.

“I’m feeling faint, I said.”

“I could boil you up an egg.”

“I’ll have it sunny side up,” said Beth.

“With bacon and sausages, I presume.”

“Sure,” said Beth, fingering a red wine stain on the tablecloth hidden amongst the grapes. She hadn’t noticed it, not at first. She hadn’t noticed a lot of things. She hadn’t noticed the wine stain, the small chip in her teacup, the $2.50 price tag on the bottom of the sugar bowl. Not until now, not until she picked it up and saw its underside.

“Really, Beth?” said Maggie, rolling her eyes. “More sugar?”

Beth hadn’t noticed, not at first; she hadn’t noticed Maggie’s desire to control everything, her condescension, her infantilisation of others. Not until now, not until this small submission of sorts, this coy confession. What did she mean she’d made it all up?

“You never really answer anything,” said Beth. “Was there a job opening? or did I give up the life I’d created there because you wanted me here.”

“They were just suggestions, Beth.”

“But were they?”

Beth blew on her cup of tea, the leaves, the little canoes. Had she been guided through life? Were any of her choices her own? or had they always been Maggie’s, tied with ribbon, disguised as a gift, a favour, a suggestion? The only thing she’d ever chosen independently, really, was America, and Maggie had disapproved; she’d summoned her home, her loose keys in need of their keychain, her insecurity craving control, her chaos demanding order.

Maggie was never particularly bad, but Beth had always felt like home. Maggie knew who she was with Beth, she knew the world, she knew the outcomes; she was safe, for there was sway in her each and every syllable. Life was predictable, less of a threat, when she dictated it.

“Here you are,” said Maggie, placing a boiled egg on Beth’s saucer.

Beth squeezed her eyes shut, that jagged lightning bolt striking her brow once more, only now with more force. She would remember this, here, now. She carved out the moment like the egg from its shell, she carved out the yolk: it was Maggie who had decided her life, and she’d allowed her to.

 “The yolk can’t be good for your cholesterol,” said Maggie.

Beth drove her fork into the hard, orange yolk, and plonked it into her mouth. It was dry, sickening, and yet tasted of autonomy.

Beth had always wanted to be a good girl but hadn’t discovered, until this very ripe age, that it had allowed others to decide her reality, that their words meant fate.