Tea with a Pinch of Death

Her pale doughy arm trails  forward toward the center of the table. "Well, you see, dear, he's dead," she states without changing the cadence of her voice. "Now, one lump or two?" she asked, holding the dainty sugar spoon frozen in the air.

My eyes dart away from her arms—soft flesh bags of muscle and sinew soft despite years of strict diet and discipline. What does she mean he's dead? I sputter on my own saliva, coughing until my face turns an “unbecoming violet”. I look into my grandmother's eyes, searching for a mischievous glint or tell-tale sign that she’s  lying. Her face reveals nothing. She can't be serious, can she?

Grandma tutters, shaking her head in displeasure. "Come now, Tessa. Your grandfather was 73 years old. Death comes for all of us in the end.”

My tongue swims across the roof of my mouth as I attempt to process the words escaping her stern mouth—I’m a mathematician solving an unanswerable equation. I barely bite back the retort, "But you're nearly 70 years old yourself!" Instead, I cross and recross my ankles and ask, "Aren't you upset, even a little bit Grandma?"

 She sighs in irritation. "Hush now, Tessa; my tea is growing cold. Don’t make me ask once more, one lump or two?"

Oh my God, I realize my grandmother is some distorted humanoid unable to perform the mental gymnastics of even pretending to grieve. I shift in my seat and briefly close my eyes, imagining my few interactions with her throughout my life. Whatever I'm looking for, I can't find. My eyes are drawn to hers again; this time, I recoil when her silver eyes pierce mine. 

"Two, please, grandma," I whisper. As ever, I’m an obedient coward.

She spoons compressed blocks of sugar into my tea. I swirl my beverage automatically, noticing that the color and consistency of my tea don't change. There's no evidence that I've sweetened my drink once the liquid stills; the sugar’s presence is visibly absent, just like him. He's gone, and she's pretending that his death isn't monumental. That his memories are dissolvable despite 30 years of honey, he added to their marriage.

I jolt when a single tear sloshes into my cup, sending tiny lake-brown ripples throughout my mug. I hadn't realized I was crying.

Her exacerbated huffing rips me from my thoughts. She’s silently studying me. For a minute, I swear I can physically feel the presence of her disdain smother me. Her scorn smells like Chanel Number Five  and tastes of decay. This is all too much! I slam my mug down forcefully, as forcefully as one can slam a cup brimming with hot tea. 

"Grandma," I start, anger coating my voice in a delicious release. “How dare you—“

"Tessa! I insist you stop this at once. You're working yourself up. If you want me to continue, you'll stop making a scene."

I glare at her in response.  

"You're so dramatic, Tessa. My word. Just take a sip of your tea. It will warm you right on up." 

I humor the stranger sitting across from me and sip from the mug out of habit. 

"Good girl, it's like my mother always said, 'You can't cry and drink tea at the same time.' So, as I was trying to say, your grandfather is dead."

"Excuse me." I hiss out before furiously pushing my chair out against the wooden floor. I stand and escape to the bathroom. 

My hands shake as I dial her familiar number. Please answer, Marigold.

 I sigh in relief as her chipper voice greets me. I melt into the floor as her sweet voice wraps around me. 

"Tessa!" she exclaims with the excitement of a kid at a county fair. Then, in rapid succession, she fires off questions, barely stopping to catch her breath. It's one of the things I love about her, but her words are bombarding me right now.

"How is tea going? I still don't understand why the English love their tea so much. Doesn't your grandma drink coffee? She's American. You really should take her to that new coffee shop. You know, the one with the hypo  paintings. We could all go together," she finishes cheerfully. 

 "Marigold," my voice catches on her name.

 Marigold's voice knots up a pitch, "Wait, you told her, didn't you? She knows about me, right? That's why you agreed to meet with her in the first place. What am I saying? Of course, you already told her, babe. I'm so proud of you. Screw the tea; when you come home, we're celebrating with champagne!

Her optimism is lemon juice on fresh wounds. "Marigold, I haven't told her yet, but I promise I will, just not right now." The line is silent. 

“Marigold?" I question. "Marigold, please, my grandpa's. We’ll… he’s dead." I can barely force out the foreign words out of my throat. Nothing is going to plan and everything feels distorted. 

This time, she answers me. "I'm so sorry. babe. What happened?"

"That's the thing," I answer, "she said it conversationally like she was telling me about one of her orchids. She hasn't explained anything. . ."

 I allow Marigold to comfort me—I'm a child confronting the monster under her bed. When our call ends, I'm ready to brave my grandmother.

Before my butt even plops onto the chair, my grandma start-ups again—she's a wasp zapping around me. Her voice drones on, but I ignore her. She must notice my lack of interest.

"Would you like clotted cream or lemon custard, Tessa?" grandma asks. 

"Both," I respond out of habit rather than desire. 

I force myself to take a bite, hoping the pastry's sweetness will combat the acid brewing in my chest. The scone is dry. The citrus flavor combined with the earthy sage shortbread settles me. I scrutinize the fallen crumbs that look like clumps of beach sand. As I study my plate, blackberry juice bleeds across the crumbs. Abruptly, I’m queasy. I drop the scone from my hand before purple juice dyes my skin like a crime scene. 

I pinch the soft flesh on my inner thigh while she talks about  news, letting go of her chief  staff, and the new color of her bedroom— repose grey, not dove grey.

I was finally supposed to come out to my grandmother today. Marigold and I had rehearsed this conversation for the past week—instead, I'm sitting across the family matron, wondering if the new vase in the entry hall holds the last proof of my grandpa’s life.

Her words roar. At first, I try to grasp them. I know I'm supposed to play the part of her granddaughter, but I'm drained from pretending to be a perfect and perfectly straight granddaughter. 

Life is either short or long, depending on what you do with the time you're given. My grandpa crammed numerous lifetimes of laughter into his life. His memories are infinite. Whatever my life looks like, I realize I can't waste another minute sitting here with her. My speech forgotten, I abandon my napkin on the table and stand up.

 "Tessa!" My grandmother stews seizing my wrist. I glance down at the dainty gloves biting my skin, leaving ruby imprints. I yank my hand away. I look over my grandmother once more. Whatever she sees in my eyes frightens her. She jolts backward as if she's been scalded by hot tea.

As I'm leaving the estate, I hesitate next to the new vase. Feeling reckless, I steal the vase and walk out of my grandma’s estate without a second thought. While I can't be sure it's filled with his ashes, I whisper to him  anyways, "Grandpa, there's somebody I want you to meet."