A Cup of Tea

Strained by her husband's absence, Elaine struggles to find some comfort

“Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”

What did he mean? I paced my study, chewing my bottom lip. Still eyes followed my progress across the Persian rug and back, drumming an impatient tattoo into the expensive material. My eyes roamed restlessly as I paced, lighting now and again on certain ornaments that littered the shelves. The ceramic rose I’d received for my sixteenth birthday, now faded; a small statue of a howling wolf I’d found in France three years before; a plaque stating my completion of graduate school. My eyes caught my reflection in the ornate mirror standing in the corner. My dark brown hair was pulled in to a messy knot at the back of my head and strands were falling out into my eyes. I looked tired.

Seriously aggravated now, I went back to pacing. My friends smiled at me from the hundreds of pictures that fought for dominance among the books. There was Ara, waving from in front of a Shinto shrine in down town Tokyo, then again accepting an award for one of her books. William and Jayne sprawled in the grass in a park. Jayne again in a performance with her band. Pictures of me and Izzy, brandishing throwing knives and pretending to look fierce. My eyes slid past them all, lighting on the one of James and I, hand in hand, with l’Arc de Triomphe behind us.

What did he mean “don’t call?” What was going on? I swore softly and turned sharply, nearly tripping over one of the armchairs that littered the room. Cursing again, I kicked it, which achieved nothing but making my toe throb. Suddenly everything left me, all will, all drive. With a sigh, I sank into the previously offending chair and put my head in my hands. I hadn’t seen James in over a month. He’d gone back to France to see a friend and I hadn’t been able to join him. I knew this paranoia and suspicion was doing nothing but driving me mad, but I couldn’t help it. Though I had never really found myself liking Amelie, I wasn’t going to begrudge James visiting her. She was dying after all.

I felt a sick stab of victory upon remembering that. Three months ago, she had been diagnosed with an advanced case of viral meningitis and her condition had worsened at an alarming rate. I had tried to be supportive as James spent endless hours checking up on her, going so far to wake at three in the morning to call her to reassure himself that she was still alive. I reminded my self again that if it had been Ara, Jayne, Izzy, Lily or Rose I would have done exactly the same thing, but it was hard listening to the same conversation night after night. “Amelie? Comment vas-tu ce soir? ... le pire? ... Avez-vous besoin de moi à sortir? ... Êtes-vous sûr?...D’accord, si vous êtes positif. ... ... Elaine? Non, elle ne sera pas l'esprit! ... Amélie, je sais que mon épouse! ... Elle ne serait pas en colère contre moi pour cela.” Every night I translated bitterly “How are you tonight? Worse? Do you need me to come out? Are you sure? Okay, if you're positive. What? Elaine? No, she won't mind! Amelie, I know my wife! She wouldn't be angry at me for this.”

I knew he would go see her sooner than later, though I hadn’t anticipated the trip being a month long. I looked briefly at the clock and sighed. It was 9:30… Far too late to call France anyway.

The phone on the huge mahogany desk buzzed loudly and I jumped. Was he calling? I leapt to my feet and picked up the receiver with a breathless, “James?”

William’s voice crackled out at me, like he was speaking through a box of packing peanuts. “Aw, thanks, Elaine! I’d love to be that a*s!”

I couldn’t help but smile as he spoke. William had been one of my best friends since high school and still stood as my main support whenever James was off doing something else. “Hi Will… Sorry… I was just worrying about him.”

“No, you were worrying about Amelie.”

“No—”

“When was the last time he called you, Elaine?”

“Oh.”

William sounded triumphant. “Exactly. Why hasn’t ickle Jamesy-poo called his dear wifey?”

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to see and the past few months had tested my maturity enough for a few lifetimes. “He’s probably really busy…”

It was William’s turn to be annoyed now. “And you’re not? ‘Laine, you have two dogs to take care of, a novel to finish and that castle to save. When did you go to sleep last night?”

My brows furrowed together as I tried to think. “I don’t remember,” I admitted helplessly.

“I’m coming over.”

“No!”

“I’m not giving you a choice. You need someone to help you, Elaine, and James isn’t doing that.”

“I don’t need help!”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Two hours ago.”

“What did you have?”

“Ah… A peach.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The line went dead and I sighed. I didn’t need a caretaker, as much as William was convinced otherwise. I looked at the papers strewn across the desk and closed my eyes. My latest project was going a lot slower that I had anticipated and the firm was getting impatient. I couldn’t find a contractor to back me and send me, once again, across the Atlantic to Northern Scotland where the dilapidated castle I had set my sights on was located. Baltersan Castle was one of the easier projects I had taken on in regards to the labour required, but getting the funding was proving to be more complicated. I mulled over the glossy photographs of the castle and rebuilt it in my mind. I would make it a place of grandeur once again, if only I could get a little help.

I reran my conversation with William in my head and swore, jumping to my feet. I had hardly paid my dogs any mind today and their bowls were probably empty. I opened the study door, blinking in the sudden dark of the rest of the house and the freshness of the air. My nose wrinkled in distaste, I left the door open and went in search of a light switch.

My dogs heard the movement and raucous barks filled the house. “Oh hush!” I snapped irritably. I heard the scrabble of claws against the hard wood floor in the living room turn into rhythmic thumps of paws muffled on rugs. I braced myself as Eira bounded around the corner, her ice blue eyes illuminated in the sudden light. The massive malamute rocketed into me as the smaller Perrin skidded to a halt behind her, still barking at the top of his tiny pug lungs.

The narrow hall was filled with paintings from Rose in showy frames. My friends joked that I had designed the house as a museum so I could further my obsession with keeping things. I would respond to these jabs with a terse, “Well, I’m a historian. I know the importance of preserving one’s life.”

James took the museum comparison less gracefully than I had, promptly banning any piece of art that came from within the family into the back half of the house and decorating the front half with weaponry of all kinds. I had been in England when this decision had been made and I remembered vividly my return. “Wonderful. Now everyone will be scared to come in.” He’d grinned down at me and informed me that that was exactly the point. We had, finally, compromised and now the weapons and the artwork were fairly evenly distributed through the premises.

Thoughts of James only riled me up again and with a scowl, I made my way to the kitchen. I slammed a pot onto the stovetop with more force than strictly necessary. The small herb and vegetable garden sprawled under the window was shadowed, the light from the kitchen only barely penetrating the dark outside. I didn’t think as I cooked, it was soothing for me. Impulsively, I grabbed ingredients from the massive refrigerator and shook them into the pot or set them out to sauté later. I dimly heard Perrin’s shrill yapping over the pop of the olive oil in the frying pan. I diced onions deftly, hardly thinking about it and scooped them into the oil. The scent of frying onions and oil permeated the room.

“Ahh… Tell James to infuriate you more often.”

I glanced over my shoulder and smiled at the intruder. “Who gave you a key?” I teased him, gently.

“Um… I think it was your great-grandma, on her deathbed.” He made is voice raspy. “‘William! Take this key. You will need it in your future!’” He ambled over to the stove where I was cleaning chicken breasts and pecked my cheek. He inhaled deeply through his nose at pungent sent of garlic rising from my original pot. “What are you making?”

I shrugged. “I really have no idea. Sort of throwing things in a pot and hoping they turn out okay.”

“And you say you’re not angry James is in France.”

“I’m not!”

“You cook when you’re upset.”

I glared at him. It was true. I had been always been that way, but it only escalated after I had spent a five months taking classes at the Edinburgh School of Food and Wine while I was waiting for the weather to clear enough for me to continue work on the project I had been working on at the time. Almost as soon as the project has ended, I went to Paris and enrolled in another culinary institute there. The result was a very strange mixture of Scottish and French foods that still perplexed my friends, though they never complained when I cooked.

William looked triumphant. He moved with familiarity around my kitchen and I grinned to myself. He lived on the other side of Boston Harbour and visited with some frequency, much to James’s displeasure. I couldn’t help myself; I started laughing. William looked up startled from the stool he had perched himself on.

“Elaine?”

“It shouldn’t be funny!” I gasped, putting my knife on the cutting board. “I shouldn’t find the fact that James thinks of you as I think of Amelie.” I dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

For the first time, William looked worried. “Elaine, when was the last time you slept well?”

I could answer that one. “Since before *she got sick. Before he started making those calls… ‘Ach, Elaine won’t be mad at me for abandoning her, psh!’”

William was on his feet before I could protest. He put his arms around my shoulder and turned me sharply, pressing me into his chest just in time for my hysterical laughter to turn to tears. The salt burned my contacts and I cried harder, my breath coming as half gasps. William stroked my hair, which had fallen out of its knot. He made slight cooing sounds in the back of his throat, knowing from years of experience how much I hated it when someone told me that it was okay when I was crying.

I felt him reach up and turn off the burners on my stove and I tried to whisper a thanks. He kissed my hair and helped me to my feet. We moved slowly into the sitting room, dominated with a huge plasma screed television complete with an extensive surround sound system and massive library of films. William set me gently on the couch and left me alone for a moment, going back into the kitchen. I heard the teakettle clank loudly against the porcelain side of the sink and the soothing sound of water rushing to fill the empty tin chasm of the kettle’s belly. The water turned off and I imagined the faint tiktiktik of the gas stove catching then the fwoomp of the spark lighting.

William’s lanky frame threw a shadow over me briefly and I noted how little he had filled out over the years. He crossed to the wall of films and selected one, deftly opening the player and flicking the disk in. The plasma screen glowed eerily before blossoming to life. I closed my eyes against the sudden glare and felt William sit next to me on the large sofa. He had muted the film and the kettle suddenly blared, shrieking for all it was worth to remind us that it was still on. I moved to tend to it, but William pushed me back with a murmured, “Let someone tend to you for once.” He got up and opened a cabinet, closed it and opened another. I listened for the tink of metal against china and the telltale gulg as the boiling water surged out. He came back quickly and handed me a mug. As my fingers wrapped around its familiar shape, I felt myself smiling. It was a mug I had had since I was a teenage. Made by a potter in my hometown, it was glazed white with fine purple and green lines crossing it sporadically. It had once been my favourite mug, but I hadn’t used it for years. I sipped cautiously at the hot liquid and the comforting, homey flavour of Genmaicha filled my mouth.

William pressed a button and familiar music filled my ears. I opened my eyes to see a lit candle and a postcard. The camera zoomed in on the postcard, filling the huge screen with the impressive building of the Paris Opera House. I smiled and curled around my mug, resting my head on William’s leg. He smiled, stroking my hair again as I drifted into a comfortable stupor. My eyes closed slowly and my fingers loosened from around my mug. It was lifted gently out of my hands Gerard Butler’s voice drifted around us, a soothing lullaby, stripping away my anxiety line by line until I was fully asleep, safe in the arms of one of my best friends in the world.

Amelie died at 3:35 the next morning.