“What is it?”
“Only, the chamomile has smelled that strongly ever since it started blooming in March…” He paused.
“And I didn’t notice it.” Sienna finished the thought. She squeezed his hand and bent to kiss him again, gently. “Well, I noticed it tonight.”
“I’m so glad,” Peter managed between an onslaught of kisses. “So glad you remembered.”
Notes from Sienna’s Tea Files
Marnie, 35, Homeschooling mother, pilgrim, prayer partner. Meditates on the Crucifixion. Pu-ehr poured from seasoned clay pot, drunk from a clay cup or Chinese style porcelain teacup. Rich, strong, full bodied tea taken in smaller doses. Keep back pu-ehr balls for repeat steepings to draw out fullest flavor range.
Jonathan (Jon) Casey, 24, dog caretaker and groomer: Iced green tea with cucumber slices. Drunk from a stainless steel bottle is best. (Thank you gift sent: stainless bottle in pale green enamel. Included good citrusy green tea in pouches.)
Chapter Six
In her dream, Sienna felt the baby kick. She woke up laughing and reached to Peter’s side of the bed to grab his hand so he could feel it, too. Her palm ran over the cold expanse of mattress once, twice, before she opened her eyes and remembered. Susan would have been full term that morning, had she lived. The thought made Sienna’s throat close over a swift rush of grief.
She breathed through the pain slowly, until she had enough air to move without a pounding head. Then she got up and padded to the nursery. It was painted a soft garden green. Hugging herself, Sienna walked to the empty space by the window where they were going to put a crib. It had a view of an oak tree that was perfect for a tree house. A bright cardinal sang on the nearest branch. By and by, its song broke through Sienna’s reverie, calling her back to the present. She tilted her head and listened until the chirping made her smile despite herself.
A tear fell on her long sleeve, and she looked down at the darker green patch it made on the pale shirt. The tear stain almost matched the wall. Somehow, having the portable connection of tears made it easier for her to leave the room and face the day. She sniffled, wiped her face on her thumbs, and walked to the bathroom. The toilet roll was out, so she dug under the sink for more. With all of the work of opening the shop, plus Peter’s illness, Sienna had forgotten to buy many household items. She found half a roll that had been splashed and subsequently dried in wrinkles at the back of the space, next to an opened mega pack of pregnancy tests.
She thought bitterly that she might never need them again, if Peter did not recover. All those months before he was sick, when they had to wait for her to heal, and now that she was about to be cleared as recovered enough to try for another pregnancy, her husband was gravely ill. She picked up the box and threw it hard against the tile. Little foil-wrapped tests clattered into the bathtub. She glared at the random pattern they made and remembered old stories of ornithomancy. The tests were frail as bird bones and made less sense. She kicked them viciously as she got into the shower, not caring if they might be damaged. It was fair payment for the pain they’d caused her. She cussed them soundly when they washed down to her end of the tub to scratch against her ankles.
The phone rang while she was drying her hair with a towel. What if Peter was worse? Panic quickened her, and she answered on the second ring.
“Sienna,” Marnie’s voice soothed, “I am calling to tell you that I love you, that you are a good person, that none of these bad things that have happened to you are your fault, and to remind you that it’s going to be okay. And also, that you are having PMS again.”
“And how would you know that?” Sienna yelled.
“Ahem,” Marnie cleared her throat softly.
Sienna breathed out deeply and rubbed her forehead. “God, you’re right, Marnie. I have been having just a horrible morning. I dreamed about the baby, and then I got very sad, and I ran across my pregnancy tests. I have basically been pitching a fit for the past half hour.”
“Sienna, if you needed pity, you know you would have it. But what you need is rest and someone to take care of you.”
“Tovah’s doing her level best.”
“I mean soul care. What are you going to do to get yourself some spiritual rest?”
“I don’t know.” Sienna sighed. “I don’t feel like going to church today. I mean, I want to pray, but I’m tired of having everyone talk to me as though my career or my life circumstances define me more than my prayer life. That’s just not refreshing at a time like this, you know?”
“Okay. Let’s stop and pray.” Marnie left a broad quiet space on the line, with only a hint of fluttery prayer. At length, she spoke again. “What do you see, Sienna?”
“Jesus.”
“You mean, a vision?”
“No, a painting. On a ceiling.”
“Hmm. Do you know an Orthodox parish nearby?”
“Well…” Sienna thought of Father Max. “I know an Orthodox priest. He drinks the Russian caravan tea at the shop.”
“Good. Talk to him.”
“Just go up to a priest and say, ‘Hey, you don’t know me, but I lost my baby, and I’m frightened I’m going to lose my husband, and frankly I find the whole situation infuriating’?”
“Yes.”
“And that without Peter, I feel as though my faith is just a series of good memories, and all I want to do is cry, and I feel like I’m whining at God?”
“Yes.”
“And that I know God never leaves me, but I’m just too tired of having to fight to feel connected, when it seems as though everyone around me wants something from me that I can’t give?” Sienna began to cry again.
“Yes.”
“And that I’m starving for,” she sobbed, sniffed, swallowed, then finished, “the beauty of holiness?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“That’s what it is, Marnie. I’m sad, yes, but more than that, I’m craving holy beauty. Before the baby died, Peter and I were flirting with the idea of Orthodoxy. We visited a few churches, on vacation, you know?”
“I remember you saying so.”
“The icons and the services were just so beautiful. Even though we couldn’t take communion, we went away each time feeling fed.”
Marnie was quiet, but a gust of wind fuzzed the connection for a moment.
“Where are you, anyway?” Sienna asked when the wind died down.
“Outside an abbey. I was praying at some relics when I had a laundry list revelation and got up to call you.”
“A laundry list?”
“You know, a word from the Lord. ‘Speak a word in season with her who is weary,’ sort of thing. It just came to me that you were beaten down and weary and feeling broken and hormonal and needed someone to reach out right away.”
“Is that really how it works for you?”
“Sometimes, yes. I’ve seen you pray that way, too.”
“My teas!” Sienna half-smiled. “I guess that’s sort of the same thing; only I don’t always know why I’m making a particular tea for someone.”
“If we had to understand mercy before showing it, what would become of us?”
“Thanks, Marnie.” Sienna sighed. “I had worked myself into a state.”
“Go and talk to Father Max. Find out where his church is, and pray there. Don’t worry about your parish or whether you’re doing anything right or whether I’ll still be your prayer partner.”
“Will you?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll go.”
“Were you really worried about that?”
“I was. I thought that if I went to an Orthodox church to pray, God would rope me in somehow, and then I would lose all of my friends and be left alone with just some icons and strangers.”
“I didn’t know you could be alone with icons.”
“You sound like Peter.”
“Good. Go pray. And next time you throw a holy hissy fit, call someone. Me, Tovah, your midwife, this Father, anyone.”
&
nbsp; “Okay.”
“Now, I’m going to eat some good lamb stew. God bless you, SiSi. Mwah!”
“Mwah! You, too.” Sienna ended the call on her cellphone then rubbed the glass against her terry-cloth robe. Her wet hair had wrapped around the phone while she talked, leaving droplets in the camera crevice as well. She busied herself for a few moments, drying carefully.
When the device was dried to her satisfaction, she flicked the screen on. The camera had reminded her of the photos stored on the phone, and her heart raced in anticipation of seeing a picture of Peter before, of Peter whole. His off-color in the hospital made her ache. She scrolled through a dozen photos of the teashop that she had texted to Mrs. Hopkins. Next came a long section of flowers from a brief trip she and Peter had taken to Virginia the month before. There should have been a couple of awkward shots of the two of them, skootched together so Peter could click the photo with his outstretched arm. Before the flowers, there were only shots of the dogs running in fields and by a river. She sighed and navigated to the main photo menu. Then she remembered that Peter had had his phone on the trip as well. Perhaps…
Sienna clicked on the photo stream that they shared and scrolled down. There they were, she and Peter, smiling in front of an ornamental tree covered with ridiculously orange blossoms. A strand of her hair had blown across her chin, and they both laughed with smiling eyes. She drew a sharp intake of breath when she saw the paleness around Peter’s mouth and nose. He had been sick even then, and she had not noticed. But how could she have missed the wan complexion?
Idly, she scrolled through the remainder of Peter’s photos. He had photographed her bending to touch clover, her dark hair falling over her far shoulder to make a red-gold sheen where the sun broke through. The way he had framed it, her fingers brushing over the clover seemed transcendent. She smiled slightly, feeling loved. Next came a series of screenshots: a grocery list, a new floral tea blend, and a gift certificate for a couple’s massage. She pretended not to see the last one. He must have been planning to surprise her. Before the accident, he had teased that he was going to see to it that she relaxed after the store opening. She scrolled swiftly through the next few screenshots, not wanting to spoil any other surprises, but the logo on the pages caught her eye.
She had visited the medical site often, after she lost the baby and after Peter’s diagnosis. The print was tiny, so she enlarged the final image in the series. She slumped hard against the bathroom sink. He had known, or at least suspected. Urgently, she checked the other pictures. Yes. Peter had saved his symptom searches. He had known he might have cancer.
The knowledge hit her like a wrecking ball to her middle. What must she have been like to live with, if Peter had not felt comfortable sharing his suspicions with her? The grief had hurt, had throbbed through her so loudly. She had not expected remorse to hurt as well. She had thought she was holding herself together. In a wave of new perspective, she saw how Peter must have seen her: a workaholic, a busy shell pretending that activity could fill the hollow place inside her. There had been moments of restfulness and peace and connection, but on the whole, she had felt alone, had left Peter alone.
At first, her body had ached with the gone child. It had hurt to be touched, hurt to not be able to touch when her need for connection had come on strongly before her body was healed enough for lovemaking. For weeks, her breasts ached. It had been hellish, needing to hold Peter but wincing when she did. Every pain was a reminder of what they had lost. One day she had been pregnant, and the next day she was not. The normal course of healing was perverse without a baby to hold. Why should healing function so well, go on so steadily and predictably, when her child was taken from her?
She saw that Peter had known how she felt, had given her the space inside his arms to reel from the juxtaposition of pain and providence that had taken over her body. She wished she could do the same. Perhaps she should go straight to the hospital, spend all morning there, and postpone her trip to pray under an icon of Jesus. A voice that was Marnie’s and more than Marnie’s echoed in her mind: Go to the church. She would heed it. Maybe then she would be able to offer back to Peter some of the solace he had offered her. She dressed quickly and headed to the teashop in search of Father Max.
When she walked in, she had to stop short. A couple of cashmere and pearl studded sorority sisters with glowing brown skin had crossed their arms and were glaring at Nina, who looked calm, if out of her element.
“Yes, Miss. I’ll get her right away.” Nina started to walk toward Lettye, but she did not have to go far.
“Geniece? Sharonda? My word, I am glad to see you!” Lettye beamed, embracing the younger women in turn.
“Hey, First Lady! We wondered where you went. All the trustees told us was that you had chosen to leave Raleigh but remained in the area.”
“It’s just Lettye now, ladies. But it really is so good to see you all off at college,” she gestured to their Greek-lettered tees under their posh sweaters, “and right here where I can get you a cup of tea. What’ll you have?” She smiled warmly, and the young women relaxed.
“Oh, do you work here?” Sharonda asked.
“Actually, I’m the manager here. Come on and let me get you a table.” She nodded to Nina, who busied herself bringing a tray of complimentary cookies and an ornate water pitcher to the table Lettye indicated. Sienna leaned against the wall by the chess players to watch her manager put the women at ease. Not for the first time, she thought, “full of grace and truth,” when she saw Lettye in action.
“Thank you, Nina,” Lettye said as she sat with the sorority sisters. “Could you bring us a pot of orange-spiced tea and one of maple lapsang, please?” She smiled again as she turned to the women. “Now, did I hear you asking to see the manager when you came in? How can I help you?”
“Well, the thing is, First Lady,” Geniece began. She bit her lip and glanced toward Sharonda, who busied herself looking at the cookies on the table and avoiding eye contact.
“Go on, Geniece. I want to hear what you have to say,” Lettye encouraged.
“Well, we came in here to cancel our brunch this weekend.”
“Cancel?” Lettye raised one eyebrow rather than her voice, but the girls straightened up a bit when she spoke.
“It’s the reviews. We looked you all up to double check the location and parking, and there were all these bad reviews.”
“How interesting. Do you mind telling me what they said?”
“They were mostly about how bad and condescending the service was, and how they disrespected sorority members and made them wait and argued with customers.” Sharonda rushed through the words, then ate a cookie, as though she did not want to have to say anything else unpleasant.
“Given what you’ve told me, I have no wonder that you wanted to cancel. But, ladies, I hope you know that I would never allow you or any other person to be treated rudely on my watch. And neither would the other staff. I hope you’ll reconsider.”
“You know what, First Lady?” Sharonda began, at the same time as Geniece said, “Of course we’ll reconsider.”
“Go ahead, Sharonda,” Geniece said. She helped Nina arrange the tea and cups on the table and smiled at the delicious fragrances that wafted up from the teapots.
“Well, I was just thinking,” Sharonda tilted her head and looked right at Lettye, “I bet that was one of those scammy business practices where some mean person gets a bunch of people to write bad reviews online to make their business look better. There is no way they could have been talking about this place. I was not exactly polite to the server who met us at the door, and butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
“Hmm. Maybe. I’ll have to look into it.” Lettye looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled contagiously, “But in the meantime, can I expect to see you two and your sorority in here on Saturday?”
The girls beamed their assent. “Yes, ma’am,” they said at the same time.
Sienna smiled along with them until
she felt someone watching her. She turned her head to see Cleotis’ eyes twinkling. He was soundly winning a match against yet another young challenger, who was taking his time deciding his next move.
“Good morning, Cleotis,” Reed, she continued in her mind, “I hope you’re enjoying your tea today.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, almost smiling. “I’m also enjoying the show. You have a right fine manager.”
“I agree wholeheartedly.” Sienna smiled, proud of Lettye and grateful she was part of the team. Cleotis’ opponent made his move, so Sienna held quiet for a moment.
“Check,” the old man said, then he returned his attention to Sienna. “You look to me as though you want to ask me something.”
“Yes, I do. You wouldn’t happen to know the name of Father Max’s church, would you?”
He gave her the name and general location. “He told me yesterday that he would be back for a game or two after mid-morning prayers.” Cleotis consulted a well-made pocket watch. “Service starts in forty minutes. You can get there in time if you leave now.” Sienna held her breath in wonder at Cleotis’ perception of her needs. She thought of mentioning his keen insight, but noticing the chess crowd hanging on their conversation, decided that it was not the best time to do so.
“Thank you, Mr. Reed,” Sienna said instead. After waving goodbye to Lettye, who smiled confidently from the table with the sorority sisters, Sienna walked back out to her car.
While she waited to turn onto the road that would take her to the highway, Sienna noticed a dark-clad man walking with hunched shoulders down the sidewalk toward the shop. His body language was so sad that she did not notice it was Greg until the light changed and he was a blur in her mirror as she turned.
Father Max’s church was not hard to find. The ornate roofline set it off from the surrounding trees. Sienna walked into the narthex just in time to see three giggling children grab beeswax candles from a wooden box. She stood still while they held the offerings up in baby-soft hands, helped each other open the heavy door to the nave, and rushed down the aisle to a votive area under an icon. She smiled at their joy in lighting the candles and pressing them into sand.
Tea and Crumples Page 9