Steeped in Sympathy

She hurried into the mud room, shoved her feet into rubber boots that her grandparents call wellies, and clomped into the garden. Not even the hollyhocks, foxgloves, or peonies soothed her. Nor the buzzing bees, the lush grass, or the atypically sunny afternoon. She dropped to her knees and allowed a sob to erupt from her stomach to her chest, and finally her throat.

She’d been in Banbury, England, at her grandparents’ house for two weeks. She could’ve called it a fortnight if she’d been in the mood to use a British term. The day after she and her parents had arrived from New Jersey, she’d written letters to Katie, Sasha, and Matthew. She’d trudged up the winding hill; past the stone houses with thatched roofs; past the bakery with yeasty aromas curling into her nostrils and dropped three envelopes containing newsy letters into the mailbox–the post.

At the very least one of her friends could have written a reply by now. Sasha, her bestie, should have. But it’s the summer, she thought. They’re busy hanging out at Katie’s pool …or binge watching “Outer Banks” …or posting selfies.

Moments ago, Grandpa had returned from the mailbox with the corners of his mouth drooping and his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, Love. No post for you.” His doleful eyes reminded her of their family dog, Astro, that would arrive next week when she and her parents moved into their new house. Her grandparents’ was a transition while her dad settled the affairs with their new home and got situated in his latest job. Astro was staying with a family in New Jersey, and she imagined the two children wrapping their arms around its neck, which evoked more sobs. She needed Astro to bury her head in its fur.

A cluster of daisies distracted her from her misery, and her tears slowed to a trickle. Sitting cross legged, she plucked a daisy and pulled one petal. “They love me.” She pulled another. “They love me not.” She pulled velvety petals, one at time, until she concluded with the last petal, “They love me not,” and started sobbing again. She flung the decimated daisy as far away as physics would allow, which was at best three feet, and stared at it. Of course, they don’t love me, she thought. They’ve already forgotten me.

A clinking, like tiny bells ringing, grew louder and she turned to see her grandpa approaching with a tray. “I’ve brought you some tea and sympathy, as they say,” Grandpa said. She squinted into the sun at his silhouette, trying to understand what tea and sympathy meant.

“Pull on the legs, will you, Love.” Grandpa leaned the tray toward her, and she stood and reached for the wooden legs tucked underneath the tray. “Cool. It’s a little table,” she said.

“That, it is.” Grandpa lowered the tray to the grass, careful not spill tea, and grunted as he sank to the ground. “Oh dear. I might not make it back up.” He puffed out a laugh.

She laughed as well, swiping a tear off her cheek.

He set the strainer on the brim of a light blue china cup, which rested on a mismatched floral saucer. A gentle gurgle emanated from the teapot, and aromatic tea flowed into the cup. He lifted the strainer, dribbling a spot of liquid onto the tray, set the strainer on the rim of the second cup, and repeated his movements. She leaned forward mesmerized by her grandpa’s quiet ritual.

“One lump or t–.” He laughed. “Don’t answer that. Today is a two-lump day.” He plopped two sugar cubes in the cup closest to her.

As she stirred, the spoon pleasantly chimed against the china. She couldn’t help but allow a hint of a smile. Her grandpa had never served her tea before, and she marveled at how deft his hands were. How the crinkles next to his eyes deepened as he concentrated on adding two cubes to his tea.

A delicate floral plate scraped on the tray as Grandpa shifted it closer to her. “Perhaps a few biscuits will make you right as rain.”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.” Her smile grew, especially as she dunked a digestive biscuit into her tea and bit into the soggy, crispy treat. “Delicious.”

“Now then,” Grandpa began, “what’s this about your friends not writing. Katie and…”

“Katie, Joan, and Matthew.” She sighed as she gazed toward the rose garden, framed with stones and moss. “I guess they’re busy.”

“I suspect they miss you terribly. Four’s a better number than three. Must be like a table missing a leg.”

She shrugged again. “Some tables have three legs.”

A burst of laughter escaped. “I s’pose you’re right.” He slurped his tea and set down his cup on the tray. “But three-legged tables tend to wobble a bit more, don’t they?” His lips lifted into a crooked smile.

“Yeah.” Her head cocked to one side. “They do. But, if my friends missed me, wouldn’t they write?” She sipped her tea to swallow tears that were accumulating in the back of her throat.

He slid the plate closer. “Have another biscuit.” He took in a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. “Sometimes it hurts more to think about a person we miss.”

They sat for a moment listening to the bees buzzing. She dunked another biscuit into her tea and chewed, pondering her grandpa’s words. “Yes but… Don’t they know I’m lonely and need a letter from them?”

It was Grandpa’s turn to shrug. “No offense, but they’re teenagers. They probably don’t know.”

She folded her arms, wrapping her hands around her elbows. “Basically, you’re telling me, ‘Don’t hold your breath. You’re not gonna hear from them.’”

“I’m not saying that. Not at all, my love.”

“Then, what are you telling me?” She shifted to face her grandpa.

“I’m not sure, actually.” His eyebrows tilted away from his forehead. “I’m sorting it out as I go.”

She dunked her half-biscuit to give her grandpa time to think.

“Take this tea, for instance,” Grandpa said. “It’s a symbol of hospitality. Welcome to England, my love. Think of your friends, whose days will look the same. They’ll ‘hang out’ at the pool, as you say. They’ll … what’s it? … binge watch shows.”

She laughed at her grandpa trying on youthful language, just as she had been trying on British terms.

He lifted his cup. “Cheers to you. For being bold like these black tea leaves.”

She lifted her cup and muttered, “Cheers.” She paused. “I don’t feel bold.”

“You’ve flown across an ocean. You’re living in an entirely different country now. You’ll make new friends. See new things … Not bold? That’s bollocks.” His hand slapped across his mouth and then settled on her shoulder. “That’s an expression you shouldn’t say.” He snorted a raspy, conspiratorial giggle. “Don’t tell your parents I said that.” He lifted his cup, tipped the last of the tea into his mouth, and set his cup into its saucer. “Now then, I must be off. Should I leave the tray for you?”

“Yes, please.” She could hear Grandpa shuffling back to the house. She gazed at the tray and whispered, “Welcome to England.”

She bent her knees toward her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and rested her chin on her knees. Scanning the hollyhocks, foxgloves, and peonies, she imagined helping her mom plant flowers in their new yard. Moments later, she reclined on the grass, with her head nestled in her clasped hands, and imagined how she’d walk Astro to the park near their new house and meet other teenagers. Teenagers with an interesting vocabulary, cool accents, and unique experiences. She imagined being bold like her tea.

She had no idea that two days later, a letter from Sasha would arrive.