Crisis and Chamomile

The kettle squealed, but it was soundless against the thunder.

The house groaned and shuddered. The cookie jar jumped, scooting closer to the edge, and it's little lid clinked against the edges, spiralling shut. Water leaped out of the vase, browned with time, and the dead lilies swung around, their brittle, dead stem splintering upon impact.

 Thunder rocked the house again. 

 Grandma wasn't bothered.

 She stirred honey into those two cups of tea, steam twisting and twirling upwards, the scent inviting a sense of calm to settle over the tense quiet. Her old, weathered hands curled over the sides of both mugs, and she hobbled over with a gentle smile, pushing one into the trembling hands of a young woman, her weary, troubled eyes softening with gratitude.

“Take your time, Violet.” The old woman cupped her granddaughter's hands in her own, pressing their palms flat against the heat of the tea. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  Yesterday, Violet’s parents had met a gruesome end in a car crash, struck dead by a truck-driving drunk. Violet hadn’t said a word since. She didn’t know what to say. 

  At seventeen, Violet had run away from home. At twenty-three, Violet’s home no longer existed. 

  On a whim, she’d made the drive to her grandma’s, who hadn’t seen her since she was six. She wasn’t supposed to know Violet had run away, or that her parents had died, or really, anything– but Grandma always seemed to know about everything, and Violet had found her waiting at the porch, pushed back and forth by the wind on her rocking chair, almost like she’d been expecting Violet before the young woman had thought to make the drive. 

Grandma paused. “How do you fe-”

“No,” Violet blurted, before she could think about it. Her voice was guttural, thick. But Violet didn’t want to cry. 

“Okay,” Grandma said, slowly, “why?”

 Violet closed her eyes and took her first sip. The heat shocked her tongue, hot and burning, but she forced herself to swallow. She gripped the cup a little tighter and stared at the rippling, orange liquid with hard eyes, as if the answer would spell itself out over her reflection. 

  She was tired. Violet’s green-streaked hair sat atop her head in tangles, wild from angry pulling and stressful tugging. Exhaustion had bruised her eyes grey, her hazel eyes devoid of it’s usual, perceptive fire, and her skin hugged her face too tightly, drained of colour and youth. An older, tired stranger stared back at her, and she sighed, rubbing her eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Violet admitted. “Shouldn’t I hate them? Shouldn’t you?”

  It was a silly question, but Grandma didn’t laugh, or scold her. She tipped her head back in thought and drew in a sip of her tea. 

“I could never hate my son,” Grandma said, and hurt centred her features into a frown. “But I despise who he has become. The man who hits his wife and makes his daughter feel like she isn’t good enough is not my son.”

“You’re not sad?”

“My son died long ago.” Grandma looked away. “I am sad. I’m sad he’s really gone.”

 Violet didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. Grandma sipped her tea again. 

“He’s still your father,” she added. “And she’s still your mother. Just because they failed doesn’t mean they’re not. You don’t have to miss them. But you will love them, regardless, because you never truly hated them.”

  Violet wished she hated them. 

  She wished she could hate her dad, who locked her in the attic when his friends came over, and sometimes forgot about her until two days later, when the school called about an unexplained absence. He would seize her by the chin and growl at her, threatening bad things if she dared open her mouth to anybody about the things that went on at home. She could still smell the sting of alcohol in his breath. It made her sick just thinking about it. 

  She wished she could hate her mum, who never did anything about it. Who knew, but wasn’t brave enough to admit she did. Who always stood there, staring with sorry eyes, looking away when Violet was brave enough to meet them. 

  She wished she could hate them both, but she didn’t. 

“Well?” Grandma asked, thumbing the handle of her mug. 

  Thunder snapped, jostling the house again. Violet didn’t flinch.

“Can I stay the night?” Violet asked instead, stealing another sip from her mug. Grandma blinked in surprise, and straightened. 

“Of course.” The old woman pushed herself to her feet by the edge of the table, hobbling close to drop a kiss to Violet’s dishevelled hair. “Let me fix up the guest room for you.”

  Violet didn’t smile, and watched her Grandma disappear into the dark end of the hallway. Finally, Violet settled back into her chair, the tension abandoning her spine. Her hands began to shake again. 

  Yesterday, her parents died. At six-fifty-three-pm, they were knocked off the road and found at the bottom of the hill two hours later. If they hadn’t been fighting, maybe they would’ve seen the truck earlier, and turned out of the way. He’d caught Mum humming to a song he didn’t like. That was all. She had a nice voice, too, but not to him, and he’d been drunk on his own power, his own cruelty, and he’d started a fight just because he could.

  Yesterday, her parents died. The radio was broken, and that song was playing over and over again. Violet knew before anybody else did, long before she’d gotten the call. But she’d blamed it on a dream.

  It was supposed to be a dream.

 Violet tore her hands through her hair, yanking until her scalp burned. Tears lined her eyes, but they never fell, and she pulled her knees to her chest. 

“Breathe,” she muttered. “Breathe. You’re okay. You’re okay. It wasn’t real, you’re okay.”

  But it was real. She knew it was real, she just didn’t want to, and Grandma, who’d returned to the dining room, knew just as well as she did, and even more. 

  She watched her granddaughter, rocking back and forth on her chair, crumpled up into a tiny ball with her head tucked between her knees. She was familiar with this feeling, yet not enough to befriend it. She felt it when her own parents died. When her husband had. She felt it today– the image of her son’s bloody face stretched around a scream still plagued her mind, yet her kind, wrinkled face hid it well. 

  For a moment, she forgot to worry about her granddaughter, fumbling for the ends of what was real and what wasn’t, and was stunned in place by awe. Relief.

“You can see,” the old woman breathed. “You can see, can’t you?”

  Violet jumped. Hesitantly, she lifted her head, and forced her sobbing silent. 

“G-grandma?”

  Grandma rushed forward, her feet catching on the edge of her nightgown in her hurry. She eased herself to her knees at her granddaughter’s feet, tugging her hands free from her hair and folding them under hers, pressing them against her stumbling heart. 

“You can see.”

“I don’t-” Violet paused. “I…”

She took in her grandma’s face– those thin, slightly parted lips, her wise, ageing eyes that looked so young in their hopeful stupor, circled by smiling wrinkles and all. Violet felt guilty, for her first thought, instinctively, was to blame her excitement on her age, and her grandma seemed to realise this, because she grasped her hands tighter and leaned her face close. 

“You can see. I know you can. You saw your parents, just as I did, and–”

“This is a thing?!”

Grandma chuckled warmly. “It’s a ‘thing’. Now it is, at least. You must have gotten it from me.”

Violet swallowed, freeing her hands. “I think we might have a few… Things to talk about.”

“Over tea?” Grandma suggested, eyeing her empty mug. 

  Violet sagged in her chair, passing a hand over her eyes. 

“Chamomile, please.”