Frabjous Life

The doctors gave Mia a year. She decided then and there that she wanted to spend it traveling the world, collecting tourist teacups from every country.

The doctors warned her that frequent travel would worsen her condition, but she insisted. They asked me to try to change her mind, but who am I to deny her last wish? Who am I to confine her to a hospital bed for the rest of her short time left?

Two months in and we’ve visited thirty. The chest full of carefully wrapped teacups grows heavier with each country. She only lets me carry it on the bad days when she can barely breathe.

Some of them are the delicate sort of teacups decorated with elegant patterns in beautiful colors and with thin, curving handles that sit unused in china cabinets waiting for the appropriately classy occasion that doesn’t exist. Others are the big, clunky mugs painted with the name of the country and a collage of iconic landmarks. To Mia, there’s no difference in their beauty.

~

But why teacups? I asked her when we first set out.

She smiled that amused little smile she always gave me, even though it was a bad day. You took me to a teahouse for our six-month anniversary, even though you didn’t like tea, she said. You told me to buy whatever I wanted and I taught you the proper way to eat the biscuits and sandwiches and cakes. That was the day I knew I loved you and wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.

I remembered that day. That was the day I knew I loved her, too. I’d searched for the right place for a month until I finally found it. It was a themed teahouse with Alice in Wonderland decorations and tea flavors. The drinks and cakes came with “Drink me!” and “Eat me!” cards. The Cheshire Cat grinned at us from lamps, napkins, and windows. The utensils had wacky hats on the handles. The teapots had paintings of the Dormouse inside them, and the tablecloths were embroidered with Alice, the White Rabbit, the March Hare, the Tweedles, and other characters. The menus were fashioned like court invitations from the Queen of Hearts. A chandelier shaped like the Jabberwock loomed above the tables. Mia adored the place as soon as we walked inside, and I never saw her smile so brightly. 

She pointed up at the chandelier. Have you read Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” poem?

It’s my favorite poem, I said.

Of his?

Of any poem. It’s the only one I like.

She furrowed her brows. Really? “Jabberwocky”? It’s nonsense.

Exactly. Poetry doesn’t make sense to me. So when I first read “Jabberwocky,” a deliberately nonsensical poem, it clicked. I loved it. Still do.

Do you have it memorized?

I nodded.

She smiled. Recite it to me.

I would have felt awkward reciting poetry to anyone else, but this was Mia. My Mia. The only person who’d ever managed to make me feel whole.

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves / Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: / All mimsy were the borogoves / And the mome raths outgrabe,” I began, and lost myself in her kind eyes.

She laughed when I reached the “Oh frabjous day!” line. When I finished, she smiled at me. Her face was glowing.

What? I asked.

She kissed me. Every day with you is a frabjous day.

~

We made it through the first ten countries quickly. When Mia showed no sign of stopping, I had to ask. What are you going to do with the teacups? After . . .

Again, she just smiled. Give them to someone who needs them.

Then she turned around and dropped a few coins into a beggar’s cup.

That was my Mia, who gave up her seat on buses and trains even when she started to get sick; Mia, who kept chopping off her hair when it got long enough to donate, up until she started to lose it; Mia, who gave something to every beggar she passed.

Mia, who was spending the last year of her life collecting teacups for someone else.

~

We met at a bookstore. I was looking for a birthday present for my niece and Mia was working the register.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? I love this book! Mia said as she bagged it for me.

I smiled at her. I hope that means my niece will too.

How old is she?

Four.

Perfect. That’s how old I was when my parents read it to me. She’ll love it. Trust me, I’m a good judge of books.

I laughed. Well, you work at a bookstore. I guess I have no choice but to believe you.

She grinned. Come back tomorrow and I’ll find something for you to read. I guarantee you’ll love it.

I don’t know, I’m a picky reader. I might have to take you up on that offer just to see if you really are as good as you say you are.

She handed me my bag. I’m looking forward to it.

~

We are on the way to the airport after visiting the ninety-seventh country—Mali—when we run out of time. Mia starts gasping and her lips turn blue. She drops the chest, and I barely grab it in time. A second later, I catch her as she falls too. She’s like a skeleton, lighter than the chest at this point.

The doctors here don’t have the equipment to help her, so they charter a medical jet with a highly-qualified team of nurses on board to send her back to the States to a hospital that can help—at least, one that can try. I’m only allowed on the plane because of how obvious it is that this is the end.

~

London, England was relatively late in our trip for how popular it is—country number twenty-two. We spent the first two days sightseeing—Tower Bridge, the London Eye, a dozen other tourist traps, and a few places we simply stumbled upon—before seeking out the teacup. Mia found it in a little hole-in-the-wall shop full of amazing ceramic crafts.

The day’s events had worn her out at that point, so we went looking for a place to eat. A few kind locals led us to a teahouse located in the lobby of a hotel, which luckily had room for us without a reservation.

After we sat down, Mia looked at the menu first, and she gasped.

My heart leaped to my throat. What is it? Do you need your oxygen tank?

She shook her head with a smile. She held out the menu. Look.

I couldn’t hold back a smile as I read it. All the teas were Alice in Wonderland-themed. When the waitress brought out the cakes and biscuits and sandwiches, they were decorated with hearts and mice and playing cards. The tiny potion bottles had “Drink me!” cards, and some of the cakes had ones reading “Eat me!”

Mia’s smile was as wide as it had been on our six-month anniversary, and with each bite, her energy returned. This place is beautiful, she said. I’d love to get their biscuit recipe, these are amazing!

Yeah, I said, taking a bite of my own biscuit. It practically melted in my mouth.

Mia sipped her tea and sighed happily. Reminds me of that teahouse back home. We’ll have to go once we get back.

The biscuit turned to cardboard in my mouth. Yeah, I choked out. I can’t wait.

~

She’s lying in her hospital bed, so thin and frail under the blankets that she looks to be made of wool rather than skin. She gestures for her purse, and I bring it to her. It takes obvious effort to lift her hands and search through the bag. She pulls out a sealed envelope.

Send this with the teacups to this address, she says, pointing to the address on the envelope. I don’t recognize it.

What is it? I ask. The envelope is already a little wrinkled. I suspect that she prepared it months ago.

Promise me, she says.

I promise, I say, because how can I refuse?

The doctors do everything they can, but it’s as they expected. The travel was too much. At this point, it would take a miracle.

She dies in her sleep.

~

The first few days without her are the hardest. I spend the first in bed; the second on the couch; the third in the hammock she loved to lounge in with a cup of tea in the mornings. Every cup I brew tastes bitter, no matter how much sugar I add. Our friends’ constant check-ins and casseroles that won’t fit in the fridge are the only reason I remember to eat.

After the funeral, her brother comes up to me.

It’s hard to believe she’s gone, he says. But at least she doesn’t have to suffer anymore.

Yeah, I say, not knowing what else I could say.

I was wondering . . . could I have one of the teacups? Something to remember her by.

I look down at my shoes, the ones she helped me pick out for my father’s funeral a few years ago. I don’t have them. She had me send them off somewhere.

Why?

I shrug. All she ever told me was that she’d give them to someone who needed them.

For a moment, he looks angry, like I’ve robbed him of a precious treasure. I don’t blame him—I wanted to keep one too. After we spent so much time collecting them—after the effort hastened her death—how could I have just sent them away? Why didn’t I keep one? Why didn’t I look up the address? What did I do what Mia said, no questions asked?

They lower her casket into the ground and I shake with silent sobs and her brother squeezes my shoulder and walks away.

~

One month later, when I’ve learned to pretend to be a well-adjusted person on the days I am anything but, I get a call from a number I don’t recognize.

Hello? I say.

Your order is ready, says the deep voice on the other end.

What order?

He ships it back to me and gives me a referral for an installation company. Two weeks later, the chandelier hangs over my dining table. When I see it for the first time, I can’t breathe. The tears I thought I’d run out of feel endless.

It’s a replica of the Jabberwock chandelier from that teahouse, only it’s made entirely of teacups. Ninety-seven teacups from ninety-seven countries hang skillfully to form the shape of Carroll’s fictional monster. The craftsman had even been able to hang them according to color to make it look more realistic.

The Jabberwock’s dragon body is made mostly of the bigger mugs. The delicate teacups form the tail. The wings and arms are slightly outstretched, with little teacups and electric lights as the fingers. The fish-like head has two small teacups for eyes.

One plain white teacup hangs lower than the rest in the middle of the chandelier. It isn’t one we bought together on our travels. When I tug on it, it activates the string lights woven throughout the chandelier. They cast playful shadows on the walls while perfectly illuminating the table below. Red lights glow in the teacup-eyes of the Jabberwock.

Then I notice writing on the teacup. Its white surface is spotless except for two sentences engraved on the outside in sprawling cursive.

My life with you was frabjous. Don’t let the rest of yours be anything less.

~

I invite her brother over for tea the next day. I find recipes online and do my best to make all the right biscuits and cookies and cakes. They don’t quite look right, and they don’t taste as good as the ones at the teahouse, or even the homemade ones Mia used to make, but they remind me of her. And that’s enough.

How? he asks when he sees the chandelier.

Mia, I say, and that’s all he needs to know.

We spend the next hour sharing our favorite memories of her. When he notices the engraving on the center teacup, I recite the poem to him, and for a moment, I can feel her watching me like she did the first time I recited it to her.

So, he says after a moment of silence. How do you make the rest of your life “frabjous”?

I look at the chandelier. The next day, I buy a new chest with plenty of space for a hundred more teacups.