Tea and Primroses

by Tess Thompson

After our walk we said our goodbyes and my father and I got in the truck. “Sweets, I want to marry her. Will it be all right with you?”

  I slipped my hand in his rough one. “It’s your choice, Daddy. And I want you to be happy.”

  “I feel a little foolish, being so old and all.”

  “You’re only forty-seven. You and Clara have so many more years.”

  “Will you help me find a ring?”

  “Of course, Daddy. Something old-fashioned and delicate, like Clara.”

  His eyes glistened. “Thank you, Sweets, for understanding.”

  “I’m happy. I really am.” I glanced back at Clara’s house as we drove away, thinking of how she conveyed warmth and love. My father would be happy, finally.

  We were almost home when my father said, “I’ll tell your mother myself.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “Why?”

  “Well, she’ll find out and it’s better if it comes from me.”

  “I suppose.”

  He pulled into the driveway of my mother’s house. The curtain in the front room moved and I caught a glimpse of her standing there, watching us.

  “Do you want to come live with Clara and me?” he asked. “We’ve talked about it and there’s room for you.”

  “Daddy, that’s so sweet, but no, I’m going to get a place of my own, I think.” I paused, thinking of my six months of bliss with Patrick. We wouldn’t have wanted anyone there with us. “And you don’t want me there getting in the way of things.”

  “Well, think about it, anyway.”

  I kissed his cheek and hopped out of the truck, waving as he backed out of the driveway. Then I went inside to face my mother’s wrath.

  ***

  She was in the living room when I came in, sitting on the couch, watching the door. I stopped. In all the years of my life I’d never seen her sit in the middle of the afternoon. Her face was pinched and the color of a blanched turnip. There was a fire in the fireplace; the room smelled of burning wood and sap. It smelled of Vermont, of Patrick’s house. My heart burned like the flames.

  “Are you all right?” I came fully into the room, slipping out of my coat. There was a box of chocolates on the coffee table. Two were missing.

  She waved a hand at the box. “Salesman came by, selling these. They’re terrible. Waste of two dollars if there ever was one.”

  “I’ve never seen you eat chocolate.”

  “Well, your father never thought to buy any for me, that’s for sure. Or flowers or any of the other things a woman might like.” She lurched forward, slamming the candy cover on the box of chocolates and tossing the entire thing into the fireplace. Flames engulfed the box. The burning chocolate sizzled. “Where were you?”

  “I was with Daddy.” I sat across from her, looking at her carefully. “Are you feeling sick?”

  “I don’t get sick.”

  “Can I feel your forehead?”

  Her mouth went into a straight line. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I stood. “How about a cup of tea?”

  “Did you meet her?”

  I stopped at the doorway and turned back to look at her. “Who?”

  “Your father’s mistress.”

  “She’s not his mistress, Mother. He’s no longer married. She’s his girlfriend.” I paused, playing with a bit of chipped paint in the doorway. “He hasn’t lived here since I left. How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “Well, you ran off to Maine and left me all alone.”

  “Vermont.”

  She sniffed. “He never got over her, you know. Clara.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I knew her, too. We all went to high school together. I was just second choice for your father. Leftovers.” Her voice cracked. She took in a deep breath, picking something off the skirt of her dress. “No matter what I did I could never be Clara. I was never good enough or pretty enough or charming enough to get him to love me like he did her. Now I suppose you’ll fall for her too.” She looked at her hands. There were red spots in the middle of her cheeks now, like blood on white tile. “My life’s been nothing but a waste.”

  “Mother, we’re the ones who were never good enough for you.”

  She looked up from her lap, her eyes piercing into me. “That’s simply not true. How do you think it felt always being the outsider with you two? You were daddy’s little girl from the moment you were born. I never mattered to either one of you, just dismissed to the kitchen.”

  I came back into the room and knelt at her feet. “Mother, I would’ve given anything to think you ever thought one thing I did was good enough. You just could never give me anything. And I learned to lean away from you. You taught me that.”

  Her eyes flickered away from me. “I never understood you. From the beginning.”

  “I know.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t notice things about you. Special things.” She stood and then wavered, like she might faint. I reached for her but she put up her hand. “No, I’m fine. I’m going to take a rest.” At the doorway, she turned back to me. “If I’d been able to go to college, my life might’ve been different. But there was no money for that kind of thing so I went off to secretarial school with the money my mother saved making rich women’s clothes. And I was supposed to be grateful for the sacrifice, the chance to have training of some kind that didn’t require sitting over a factory sewing machine or cleaning fish, but I wasn’t grateful. I was bitter because a girl like Clara got sent off to some college in the northeast while I learned to type some man’s work instead of using my mind for something interesting. So when your father asked, I said yes, even though I knew he didn’t love me. At least with him I’d be able to have a home of my own and maybe a child. But as it turns out, you were never really mine, just his.”

  “Mother, that’s not true.”

  She interrupted me. “I was jealous of my own child for getting to go to college while I had to stay in this awful place and make your father’s supper and wash his clothes. Jealous of my own daughter. Not envy, but the seething, awful jealousy that eats away at you in the middle of the night. What kind of person does that make me?”

  She left me then, alone and feeling strange and unsettled. I paced for a while near the front window. The doorbell rang. It was the postman with a small package. It was from Kingston Press. I opened it, my hands damp from perspiration. It was the galley of my book. I ran my fingers over the cover. I opened it to the title page and then the next.

  “For Patrick.”

  I sank into the couch, holding the book in my hands, and let the hot tears run from my eyes. How differently I’d imagined this moment.

  There was the sound of shuffling from the doorway. I looked up. It was Mother, hovering. I dried my eyes in haste with the sleeve of my sweater, hoping she hadn’t seen me crying.

  “Was it a package?” She stepped into the room. Her face was streaked with tears too; streaked mascara looked like clown makeup.

  I held up the galley. “My book came.”

  “Can I see?”

  I placed it in her outstretched hand.

  She was quiet for a time, just staring at the cover. She traced my name with her finger before opening it. “Who’s Patrick?”

  “A friend. He helped me with the manuscript and used his contacts to get it into Kingston.”

  Her eyes had the same piercing look as earlier. “He the reason you came home?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Well, if he’s too much a fool to let you go then he can’t be worth much.” She marched toward the doorway with the book still in her hand. “I’ll rummage us up some supper.”

  “Mother, wait. Let me take you out to dinner. I feel like celebrating.”

  She hesitated, holding up the book like a trophy. “I suppose. It is something to celebrate, after all. But we can’t be out too late. I want to read your book tonight.”

  ***

  The next morning, I awoke to the smell of scor
ched food. I rushed downstairs to the kitchen. Mother was crumpled face down on the kitchen table. She had on her flannel nightgown and her worn, powder blue slippers. Next to her was a cup of coffee, half full. There was a pan of oatmeal on the stove, smoking, the obvious source of the smell. I flipped off the burner and went to her, falling to my knees and pulling her into my arms. “Mother,” I whispered. “Wake up.” But her slight frame was heavy. There was no life left in her. Still I clung to hope. “Mother, please, wake up.” I dragged her onto the floor, searching the room frantically for something to put under her head. I found a dishcloth and lifted her, gently, murmuring to her that it would be all right, and slipped the towel under her head. I sat for a long moment, staring at her, unable to think what to do next. Her face was slack and peaceful. I held her hand.

  The clock ticked on the wall above the table. Tick, tick, tick. My heart pounded between the ticks. I heard the sound of my own sobs. Finally, I called my father at Clara’s. I don’t remember much of what happened after that except for one thing. While I waited for my father to come, I sat on the floor next to Mother, continuing to hold her hand as it grew colder and colder. And as I did this, my eyes happened upon the table. There, next to the cold coffee, was my book. I hadn’t seen it at first because she’d been crumpled over it. It was open to the second to the last page.

  ***

  The coroner was not able to give a cause for her death. Her heart simply stopped, he told me. But I had another theory. I believed her death had begun years before. She’d held onto bitterness and hatred all her life, until it made its way into her body, festering there until her poor, battered heart had no choice but to stop.

  I thought of Patrick almost constantly in the weeks following my mother’s death. How I longed for him. I chanted his name in silence during the long nights in my attic room.

  But throughout the funeral and the settling of affairs, I came to understand that I must let go, must accept things as they were, to mourn and grieve both the loss of my great love and my mother. I understood I must accept the sadness that came with loss but that I must not let it change me. If I were to break the pattern of my mother’s anger, it had to be my conscious choice. And so I did. I leaned into the life and the love that was all around, that was offered me. I arrived home then in a way I hadn’t yet—with my arms open and my bruised and battered heart porous so that the love all around me might be absorbed.

  MILLER AND SUTTON

  Eight weeks later, Miller and I stood on the steps of the courthouse waiting for Tim and Louise. Miller had his arm around my shoulders to steady me, but I couldn’t stop shaking. “Nothing to it, Con,” he said. “Just say yes and then you’ll be my wife.”

  Just say yes.

  “Are you sure you want to do it this way?” I asked him. “Your mother will never forgive us for not having a real wedding.”

  “It’s what you want, Connie, so it’s what I want.”

  I rested my head on his shoulder. “Thank you.” At that moment we saw Tim and Louise walking toward us. Tim, wearing a suit and walking slightly ahead of his pregnant wife, raised his hand in greeting. Louise’s baby was coming any day and her former graceful stride had been replaced by a waddle. Her large stomach pushed against a pink maternity dress that made me think of a large cake one might serve at a baby shower. I met her halfway down the stairs. “I’m not well,” I whispered into her ear.

  She looked at me with concern; her belly pressed into my side. “What’s the matter?”

  “Upset stomach,” I said. “I need to use the restroom.”

  “I’ll take you,” she said as we headed back up the stairs.

  The men were standing on the top stair. Tim handed Miller a flask. Miller shook his head. Tim took a swig and put it back in his suit pocket.

  “We’ll meet you outside of the judge’s quarters,” said Louise to Tim. She quickly escorted me inside and shuffled me into the bathroom. I went into the stall and stood over the toilet, taking in deep breaths to control the nausea but it was of no use. Dropping to my knees, I vomited into the toilet.

  Louise stood outside of the stall. “Did you eat something bad?”

  “No.”

  “The flu, then? Or just nerves?”

  I flushed and stood, leaning my forehead against the cool metal door. When I came out of the stall, Louise was standing with her hands interlocked over her belly. “Better?” she asked.

  “A little.”

  She took me to the sink and put her arm around me while I washed my mouth out with water. “Are sure you want to do this? Marry Miller, that is.” She handed me a piece of gum.

  “I have to.” I stuck the gum in my mouth.

  “What do you mean, you have to?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Her eyes flew open wide. “Oh, God, Connie. Really? How did this happen?”

  I adjusted my dress, looking in the mirror. “I was careless, obviously.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I looked down to the floor, unsure how to answer. The truth was, I was ashamed to tell her. Louise had always done everything the right way. And me? Well, I was always messing up, headstrong and driven, without thought to the consequences. After a moment, I lifted my eyes to hers. “It’s just that you’re such a better person than I am.”

  She fiddled with an unruly section of my hair, trying to get it to lie flat. “Do you love Miller?”

  I found lipstick in my purse and ran it over my lips. “I like him a lot. He’s a decent man and he’ll be a great father. He’s stood by me. Doesn’t seem there’s anything he won’t do for me. He’ll never leave me.” Like Patrick did, I wanted to add. I stepped toward the door. “And what choice do I have? I can’t keep writing and raise a child on my own, especially with my mother being gone now.”

  She nodded knowingly. We were women of a certain generation that understood we could not raise a child alone unless we absolutely had to. It was just not done, especially in Legley Bay.

  “Well, love isn’t all that grand anyway,” said Louise. “And I’m certainly not perfect.”

  I looked at her sharply. “Is something the matter between you and Tim?”

  She shrugged, her eyes filling with tears. “He was cheating on me with some checkout girl at the supermarket.”

  “While you’re pregnant?”

  “Yes.” She sniffed and pulled a tissue from the small yellow purse hanging on her arm. “He promised me it’s over and he’ll never do it again.”

  “Ah, crap.” We looked in one another’s eyes and all the years of friendship were there, like an unopened package in which you already knew the contents. “I loved someone in Vermont. Patrick Waters. But he broke it off.”

  “Is this why you came home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She wiped under her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her purse. It was made of fine white lace; she’d made it herself and one for me too.

  “I’ll never love anyone that much again. And, Miller—he’s a good man.”

  “He is.” She sighed, her lips trembling. “He’s a better man than Tim will ever be.”

  “Life just isn’t what we think it’s going to be, is it?” I put my hand on her belly.

  “I guess not. It’s worse instead of better, for the most part. Oh, Connie, I’m awful glad you’re home. I’ve missed you so much. I thought I’d die when I found out about this girl and Tim and you were so far away with no phone or anything. It was like a miracle when you wrote that you were coming home. I know it’s selfish of me to say so.”

  “Selfish is good sometimes. Especially for you.”

  “You can always tell me the truth, no matter what.”

  “And you too,” I whispered.

  We hugged, smiling through our tears. When we came apart, she dabbed under my eyes. “Hell of a wedding day,” she said.

  “Louise, you just said a bad word.”

  “I’ve said one before.” The corners of her
pretty eyes crinkled.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You weren’t there the night I found out about Tim and that girl. There were some bad words out of my mouth, trust me on that.”

  “You could leave him, you know.”

  “And do what? Pregnant? Alone? And I love him. It’s always just been him.” Her eyes were glassy again. She waved her hand in front of her face. “Oh, shoot, I’ve got to stop this or my makeup will be completely ruined.”

  I thought of Patrick. It’s always just been him. “There’s always Aggie. She’ll take you in, feed you bean soup.”

  We both laughed. “There’s always Aggie. But God, can you imagine how humiliating it would be to have to tell her what Tim did and ask her to take us in?”

  “She would, though, without a question.”

  “This is true. But I have to try and make my marriage work. For the baby’s sake.” She put her handkerchief back in her purse and pulled out a little bag that I knew held her makeup. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up. We need to get you married before Tim has any more to drink.” She dabbed makeup here and there on my face and then did the same to her own.

  When she deemed us ready, Louise took my hand and we walked together to the judge’s quarters. And I married Miller, for better or worse.

  The next day Louise had her baby. She named him Peter. She was the first of the two of us to fall head over heels in love with her baby. I was next.

  Miller bought us a small house on the same street as Louise and Tim. Baby Peter, who came out of the womb looking for a ball to toss or catch and something to jump over or climb or fight, was a terrible baby, crying and fussing long into the night. But Louise was tough and made to be a mother. I never heard one complaint, even though she received little help from Tim. Six months later, Sutton came. I fell instantly and irrevocably in love with my daughter. And unlike our little Peter, she was a docile baby and a good sleeper.

  And how she changed me! Loving Patrick had taught me that I was more than just my work. Loving him had made me alive. Loving Sutton was the same way. I was still ambitious and driven but it was with a new purpose. She was now why I wrote. She became my motivation and my reason. Ironically, as I lessened in my obsession with work, I became more and more successful. My first novel had a second printing of twice the original run and then another several months later. Patrick was right. I had a bestseller. Because of the extra income, Roma was able to give up cleaning for other families and worked for me full time, taking care of both our babies and my house. I wrote. Louise and Roma walked to the park with our babies. They exchanged recipes. I sent off the second manuscript to Janie. It did better than my first. We had dinner parties. Sutton’s first Christmas came. I wrote another book. Sutton’s second Christmas came. The third book went straight up the New York Times Bestseller list. We had more money than we ever thought possible.