Bitter Tea

I remember the first day Gram let us pick out our own cups. Nennie and I twirled through the tearoom, giggling as we brushed our tiny fingers along the display. Fifty years’ worth of teacups lined the walls—every color, every pattern. Nennie chose a pale-yellow cup with purple pansies and matching saucer. I picked out a squat, blue one.

"Oh, Nennie,” Gram cooed at my sister, “That's very grown-up teacup. You have wonderful taste!”

Gram turned to me.

“I forgot I had that one, Deborah. Your grandfather gave that to me years ago.” She scrunched her nose. “Awfully plain, isn’t it?”

***

               “How bout I make us some of that Lavender Earl Grey?” Nennie asked, sniffling. She balled up some tissue as she got to her feet.

Gram’s home was a stranger to me now. I didn’t recognize it without a laugh track humming in the background, without spoons clinking against the bone china. Even the scent of dried flowers was gone.

“I guess now is a good time to tell you I don’t like tea,” I told her.

Nennie threw up her hands.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never liked tea.”

“You probably just need more milk and sugar—let me make it for you,” she said.

I shook my head.

“Nennie, I’ve never liked tea.”

“What am I supposed to do with all these cups, then?” she asked, glancing around the tearoom.

“We could donate them.”

Nennie’s voice broke,

“Don't you want to remember her?"

***

    Tea: Fennel

Cup: ‘Strawberry Fields’

I munched on a turmeric cracker to get the taste of fennel out of my mouth. To my horror, the cracker only made it worse. Panicked, I yanked an apple slice off the bottom tier of the cake stand, sending a pile of mini quiches tumbling onto the glass table covering.

“Deborah, please,” Gram said. She began to pick up the quiches one by one, using her thumb and index fingers like tweezers. My face reddened as I went back to studying my teacup. Strawberries and their white flowers surrounded the cup, making me wish for dessert. Strawberries and cream danced through my mind.

“What grade will you be in next year, Nennie?” Gram asked.

“Fifth grade,” she answered, smacking her food.

“And what’s your favorite subject right now?”

“I like math the best—I’m pretty good at it,” Nennie said. Gram pursed her lips into a smile. She moved her eyes toward me as she sipped.

“And you, Deborah?”

“I like art the best.”

“Well,” she chuckled, “Stick very close to your sister. Sounds like she’ll be an engineer one day. She can support you while you draw.”

***

Tea: Jasmine

Cup: ‘English Roses’

Nennie and Gram sipped their tea like it was some wondrous nectar. I might as well have been drinking perfume.  I gazed out of the garden window as Nennie chattered on about her new job at the mall. Ferns and plantain lilies waved at me in the breeze, reminding me that spring was near. A painting formed in my head—greens and yellows in the leaves, reds and purples in the dirt. I studied my teacup for more inspiration. Bands of golden pearls encircled bouquets of peach and yellow roses.

               “I love what you’re doing with your hair, Deborah,” Gram suddenly said. A smile began to form on the edge of my mouth “It makes your nose look smaller,” she added.

I turned away from her.

“So, Nennie says George is taking her to the prom. Has anyone asked you yet?”

I stuffed a vanilla scone in my mouth.

***

Tea: Gunpowder Green

Cup: ‘Swallows in Flight’

My mom liked my painting so much she made me take it to Gram’s. Once the tea was made, I flipped the canvas around to show Gram what I’d painted: her tearoom, complete with the garden window.

I painted the blue shadows of mid-morning light, the yellow sun over the rows of teacups, whites glinting off metal spoons. I painted a fresh bouquet of pink hydrangeas—Gram’s favorite—in the center of the lace-covered table.

“Oh my,” she said. “This is quite large. I didn’t expect you to make something like this! I will hang it up in the living room so that people can see it before they walk into the actual tearoom.”

I swallowed the grassy tea, catching sight of the blue swallows on my teacup. They carried garlands of flowers in their mouths.

“I must admit, I know nothing about impressionism,” Gram said, placing the painting by her feet. “Why make something less realistic? I don't understand it.”

***

Tea: Indian Black

Cup: ‘Olive Branches’

Nennie started to talk about my art show. Gram gave a distant nod in response but didn’t look at me. She stared out into her garden now overrun with weeds. The lilies had died several years before.

“I would love to come see your little show, Deborah” Gram said, “but there is just so much to be done around here. Oh, how I wish I could paint the day away like you—so much easier to have hobbies when you don’t have a house to take care of.”

Nennie flashed me sympathetic eyes.

“Deb has an apartment downtown and is looking into a studio space,” she told Gram.

“It's nice you're a painter,” Gram said, finally looking at me. “Did you know my granddaughter paints?”

I ran a finger over the olive branches growing around my cup.

I drank the tea.

It tasted bitter.

***

“Fine,” Nennie said, placing down her cup of Lavender tea. “I’ll sort out the cups I want, and we’ll donate the rest. Just speak up if you change your mind.”

I nodded, watching Nennie begin to cover the table with teacups.

She placed a squat, blue cup in front of me. A breath caught in my throat.

“Where did you find this?” I asked, lifting it up to my eyes and grinning.

“It was behind all the Greek Key ones,” Nennie said.

“It’s my first teacup—I haven’t seen it in 20 years.”

Nennie blinked at me.

"Are you keeping that one then?” She asked.

I heard Gram's voice,

It's very plain, isn’t it?

As I held my cup against the light of the garden window, I saw silver flecks beneath the paint. I saw the world as it was twenty years ago—sky-colored and sparkling, full of weird teas and fragile china.

Her voice again,

I just don’t understand it.

But I did.

“Yes, I’ll keep it,” I finally told my sister. “This is one is special.”

Tea:

Cup: ‘Closure’