TEALEAVES

By Mary Abbruzzee

    She carefully arranges the tealeaves in the center of a sheet of parchment paper and wraps the paper in on itself three times, then twice more from the side. She slides the small packet inside an envelope and leaves it on the wooden table beside her beneath the faint glow of a left over lamp from the 1970's. Clasping her hands in her lap she looks out the front window of her apartment, watches the cars splash by on the rainy street outside, and rocks to and fro, to and fro, in her tempered rocking chair. Picking up a pen and pocket sized notepad from the table she flips to an empty sheet of paper and writes.

Dear Bernard,
    I am enclosing some chamomile tealeaves for you. Please use them. You seemed very agitated and upset last time we spoke. Why are you always in such a hurry? You should spend more time at home with your children.

    She pauses the pen mid-stroke. Perhaps it's too direct. Maybe she's being too critical. Flipping to a new sheet of paper she sets the pen in motion again.

Bernard Dear,
    Please use the enclosed chamomile tealeaves, they will help you. I do not believe…

    She stops. Finding another clean sheet, she begins again.

Bernard,
    I hope you are able to spend more time with your wife and children and less time traveling. Please use the enclosed chamomile tealeaves to calm you. They will help.
Love and Prayers from Your Mother

    She tears the note from the pad, folds it once, slides it into the envelope alongside the tealeaves, seals the envelope, addresses it, presses a stamp to it, and sits it on top of a stack of mail and assorted papers by the front door, making a mental note to remember to mail it.

    In the kitchen she opens the refrigerator door withdrawing from the top shelf a large container of prunes. Popping the lid, she selects four individual prunes from the contents, snaps the lid shut again and returns the can to the top shelf wedging it up against the tightly packed contents stacked behind it, closing the door of the fridge with a nudge. Taking a pencil from the edge of the kitchen counter she makes four check marks at the end of a long succession of checks on the back of an old receipt scotch taped to the refrigerator door.

***

    Bernard sits at the head of the large breakfast table. Proudly he has seized control of the seat which traditionally belongs to his father who is late in coming down to breakfast. Bernard's feet dangle from the edge of the chair. He is wearing only one sock. The other lost during his descent from his room to the kitchen. He eats spoonfuls of cereal as specks of milk drip down his chin from his toothless grin.

    "Mom, when exactly does the tooth fairy come at night?" He asks her.

    "Well dear, when you're asleep of course. That's why you have to be a good boy and go to sleep when it's your bed time, or else the tooth fairy will not come."

    "But, how come I can't feel the tooth fairy when he takes my teeth and leaves me a dime. Hey! Do you think this time, because I am leaving two teeth, I will get two dimes? Maybe even a quarter!" In the excitement a stream of milk spits from his mouth. She walks over to him and dries his chin with a dishcloth, kissing him on the forehead.

    "The tooth fairy knows if you have been a good boy. You just might get that quarter." She says.

***

    The telephone rings. Wrapping the four prunes in a plain white napkin and depositing the napkin into the bulging front pocket of her sweater, she walks from the kitchen into the hallway and sits in the shaker chair next to the rotary phone whose sharp ring summons her from where it waits atop a small round table barely sizable for the narrow space in the corridor. She picks up the receiver.

    "Hello?" She answers, and pauses.

    "Mom." The voice on the other end decidedly states.

    "Yes. It's me. How are you dear? Where are you?"

    "I'm in Chicago. In between flights. How are you doing?" Her son asks.

    "I'm fine. It is good to hear from you. Listen Seymour, tell me, have you been traveling long?" She asks.

    "No mother, not too long. Don't worry. I had some time and I thought I would call. Do you need anything?"

    "No. I'm fine. I don't need anything." She says pausing again. "Listen, when will you be in town next? I could use a trip to the grocery store. Maybe to get some vitamins too. Would you like to take me? I think I could get by until you get here."

    "Mother. Do you have enough food? Are you ok? I will be there to visit when I am done with this trip, probably by next week. If you need something, why don't you call Bernard? Or maybe Lana can help."

    "No. I'm fine. I don't want to bother them. They have their own lives, and their children's lives. I don't want to be a burden."

    "Mother, you are not a burden, you are our mother, and we love you."

    She pictures Seymour, talking to her from his cell phone in Chicago. She cannot remember if she has ever been to O'Hare airport. It does not matter now.

    The steamer trunk in the back of her closet contains a small and forgotten cargo, a thin stack of carefully folded papers, among them an invitation to her fifth grade piano recital, during which she played Pixies Goodnight, and Arpeggio Waltz. She could show it to them. Mail them copies. While attending the Ballard School, 610 Lexington Avenue, New York, NY, she received an 'A' in Cookery Essentials, 'A-minus' in Advanced Cookery, 'A-minus' in Cookery for Entertaining and a 'B' in Sewing. She would not mention the 'Incomplete' in Budgeting. On May 3, 1937 her teacher wrote a letter home to her mother which said, 'In three and a half months your daughter has done five months of arithmetic work. In this last month she reads a story by Thomas Aldrich Bailey, as well as Dickens' The Pickwick Papers, selections from the ninth grade reading level.'

    "Mom. Listen, I gotta' get going and catch my flight. Everything ok? I'll be there in a few days. Hang in there, and please, Mom. Take care of yourself."

    "Yes, I will. Take care now. I love you Seymour. Take care. Thank you for calling your mother."

    "Bye Mom. I love you too." And he is gone.

    She hangs up the receiver and stares ahead out the window. The rain has stopped. Intermittent rays of sunlight spread through the main living room of her tiny apartment and warm the dusty wooden floorboards peaking out from below. She walks to the rocking chair, sits down, and places an unassuming hand on the pen and pad of paper on the table to her right. She writes.

Dear Seymour,
    I am enclosing some Ginseng tealeaves. Please use some every day. They will boost your immune system and give you strength. You should not be traveling so much for work. I pray for you every day and hope you keep safe. I worry about you Seymour. You said you are coming to visit me next week. I look forward to seeing you.
Love and Prayers from Your Mother

    She tears the paper from her notepad, folds it once, places it in a blank envelope forgetting to seal it, writes 'Seymour' on the front, and rests the envelope on top of a stack of leaflets on the floor to the right of her rocking chair. It was not always like this she reminds herself. Emptiness grows in the pit of her soul and she wonders what evil act she must have committed to now be so abandoned by the years.

***

    He passes her two, three, four times, sprinting in his bare feet from the kitchen, to the TV room, down the hall and through the living room. She sits on the living room sofa sewing a denim patch over the depleted knee from one leg of a miniature pair of jeans before moving on and repairing the next.

    "Vroom. Vrooooom." He growls with each passage, lifting his tin Pan Am toy airplane high above his head as it ebbs and bobs through the turbulence above. "Mom, look how high it's flying!" He says, hoping to obtain her full attention.

    "Isn't that amazing!" She responds in complete awe looking up and watching him with each lap past her.

    "Do you think I can make it fly higher?" He hollers from the other room sounding out of breath.

    "I am sure you can." She speaks loudly in return.

    He halts in front of her. He is five years old, blond, knock-kneed, and grinning. The airplane dangles in his hand at his side. He sits on her lap and throws his small arms around her neck giving a tight squeeze.

***

    Hearing the mailman outside her door, she peers out the peephole and watches, waiting for him to finish filling the individual boxes in the lobby of the building. Once he steps out of view she turns the deadbolt, removes the chain lock, and turns the knob, stepping outside into the hallway and digging for the mailbox key in her pocket. She feels flush. Wondering what the mail brings today. Behind the tiny stainless steel door stamped 1A, in the electric blue lobby, she finds a heating bill, a notice from social security, two grocery store pamphlets and an off-white colored envelope of which the first line of the handwritten address reads 'Mom.' The postmark is dated four days earlier, from Rock Springs, Wyoming. Once back inside and seated in her rocking chair she stacks all but the handwritten envelope in a randomly selected pile next to her and then slowly, carefully, opens the envelope along the contours by which it had been sealed days earlier. Inside lies a pink and white card, with a large bouquet of roses and lily's pictured on the front. In cursive it reads 'Happy Mother's Day!' She opens the card.

Mom-
    I hope you enjoy this card. I know it's a bit late. I hope it finds you well. The beautiful flowers on the front reminded me of you. I thought you might like them. Things here are going well. Work is ok. And I have met some really great folks, it's a small town, so you tend to see the same people wherever you go. I guess that could be a good thing or not, depends on how you look at it. Right now, I enjoy it. I am looking forward to a trip home to visit you, hopefully sometime this summer. Please take care of yourself. I miss you very much.
Love, your daughter, Magdalene.

    She rereads the card. And reads it again. She checks the inside of the envelope to be sure nothing has been left behind, hidden within the flaps. The envelope is empty. No pictures. No more notes. She rocks in her chair staring out the window unaware of time as it marches past.

    In her bedroom off the hallway, eight paces from the small round table and the rotary phone, she takes a seat on the edge of her twin size bed under which she keeps a shoebox with the birth certificates for each of her seven children, along with their baptism certificates. She clicks on the clock radio capturing a voice from the airwaves part way through its dialogue. With pen and small pad of paper from the nightstand in hand, she flips to a clean sheet.

    "…and so we invite you to stay here with us ladies and gentlemen," the voice soothingly says, "as we continue on our journey, as we go on the trail with one of the greatest expedition teams in history. Join us ladies and gentlemen, as we resume with our series, 'Adventures with Lewis and Clark.'"

    Pen at the ready, pad resting on her knee, she intently listens jotting down some notes: The ferocious grizzly bear of the plains. The great falls of the Missouri River. The Gallatin, the Madison, and the Jefferson rivers.

    Quickly filling the first sheet of paper she flips in search of a fresh one. She finds a grocery list. She flips again and uncovers a record of telephone calls from the week before. Every number dialed, exact minutes connected, the outcome of every call, every message left.

Sunday, 2:49pm, telephone Magdalene. No answer.
Sunday, 2:50pm, telephone Magdalene. No answer.
Sunday, 2:53pm, telephone Bernard. Lana answered. Bernard is traveling.
Sunday, 3:03pm, telephone George. Julia answered. George is not home, off playing golf.

    She flips four pages past the call log to the next available blank sheet. She writes.

Dear George,
    I hope you are getting along well in your new home. I am so happy to hear that Julia is doing well in her pregnancy. I am enclosing some green tealeaves, they will give you extra energy and purity of spirit, but do not contain caffeine. Please share with Julia if you like. Next time you come to town, do you think you could please stop by and visit your mother?

    She stops writing. She turns to a new sheet of notepaper.

Dear George,
    I am sending you some green tealeaves. They do not contain caffeine so please be sure to share some with Julia. Your mother misses you. Do you think maybe next time you come to town for business you could stop and visit me?
She stops. The voice from the clock radio disrupts her concentration. "When Lewis and Clark came upon what is now the Bitterroot Mountains…"

***

    George plays behind the house in the soccer fields of the school where he attends fifth grade. She calls to him. It is dinnertime. He bends down picking up the soccer ball at his feet, and runs towards the house, towards her on the back porch standing there in her faded orange and purple apron tied about her waist. He drops the ball as he enters the yard and runs up to her, grabbing onto her waist, hugging it. "I'm here mom, I'm here."

***

Dear Magdalene,
    Please remember proper dress for a young lady such as yourself. I remember a pair of jeans you used to have when you lived back home. I hope you have thrown them away, they were inappropriate. Does it get very cold where you are? How is your dog, and your horse? Tell me, when you go riding, do you go by yourself, or do you go with other riders. I hope you go with other riders. I cannot imagine it being very safe out there alone. Anything could happen. I am enclosing some tealeaves soaked in honey. Make some tea when you get home at night. It will help you feel safe, and warm.
Love and Prayers from your Mother.

    She folds the notebook closed. The wind outside begins howling, a rat tat tattling of loose shutters whispers a faint tale to her, strumming the brick exterior of her building. The small bedroom window bears no daylight, the shade is pulled down tightly, cut out sections of brown paper are pasted to the window filling in the gaps along the edges. Her bedroom safeguards left over fragments of her family, remains she managed to scrape together and salvage from their lives when they were young and she was employed full time as their mother, their primary keeper and caretaker. When she and their father lived under one roof, sending children off to school, waking up early on Saturday mornings to drive the family in the VW station wagon to ski school.

    She wonders why Henry, the oldest, never calls her, or stops by, except once a month to drop off money to help pay rent. He probably drives by her apartment building four or five times per day on the way to and from work. In varying stacks of paper about her apartment lie randomly stashed unopened letters addressed to Henry. Letters written never intended to be sent.

Dear Henry,
    Thank you for dropping off my rent money. Thank you for all of your generosity, and for taking such good care of your brothers and sister. You have taken on a lot of responsibility. You are a good person Henry. I hope you take better care of yourself. I have enclosed some Lugwort tealeaves. They will strengthen your lungs. Please call your mother once in a while. Thank you Henry.
Love and Prayers from your Mother.

***

    "Watch me, watch me!" Henry calls to her. Struggling to hold in place the blow up rubber tube around his waste, he waves frantically to her from the top step of the stairs leading into the depths of the shallow-end of the swimming pool.

    "Oh Henry, I see you!" She says in response from her chair in the shade. "You can do it, I know you can. I'm watching."

    "Ok Mom, here I go. I'm going in!" He exclaims with a screech. "The water is so cold." He yelps, smiling at her, teeth chattering.

    She smiles back at him and waves. "Do you want to come out now Henry? Would you like a towel?" She stands holding open a warm towel waiting to encircle him.

    "No Mom. No. I want to go back in. Please let me go back in." He steps down onto the first step, pulls back, and runs to her allowing himself to be swallowed by the soft embrace.

***

    The speckled tone of the rotary phone ring fills her apartment again. Standing above the small table in the hallway she lifts the receiver to her ear.

    "Hello?"

    "Mom. It's Oliver. Hey, how is it going over there? Listen, Sarah and I were thinking about going out for a late Sunday brunch. For Mother's Day. We would love it if you came with us. Should we stop by and pick you up? In about forty-five minutes or so?"

    "Oh. Ok." She responds. "Yes, that would be lovely."

    "Is forty-five minutes enough time?" He asks.

    "Yes, that will work. Ok, I will see you then. Thank you Oliver. Thank you. Thank you for calling me and inviting me."

    "Ok, great. No problem. We'll see you in about forty-five. Bye Mom."

    "Bye." She hears a faint click at the other end of the line, and empty silence. I have forty-five minutes to get ready. They will be here in forty-five minutes.

    She pulls her favorite navy blue knitted cardigan sweater with two front patch pockets from a wire hanger in the hall closet. From the second drawer of her dresser she plucks a long strand of plastic pearls placing them around her neck, and a matching set of pearl earrings easily clipping them to her ears. Opening a blue cardboard gift box she removes a sterling silver lapel pin in the shape of an angel carrying a trumpet, and pins it to her sweater collar. She shuffles into the bathroom to look at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. The only mirror in her entire one bedroom apartment. Sweeping back her graying hair into a small bun at the back of her head, she pins two bobby pins behind each ear for added care. She smiles to her self. With a small dab of organic toothpaste on her toothbrush, she quickly brushes her upper and bottom teeth, then rinses.

    From her bedroom closet she retrieves the blue dress shoes she and Magdalene purchased together right before Christmas six years ago. She blows a few short breaths across each shoe to get the dust moving, followed by a couple swift brushes of her right sweater sleeve to finish the job. She spaces them on the floor at her feet, steps out of her Keds and into the newly polished shoes. She waits.

***

    Oliver lies on his stomach on the floor in the TV room, nuts and bolts from the rector set gathered in calculated piles about him. He works intently, utterly and completely focused on his newest invention, brushing back his thick black curly hair for an unobstructed view.

    "Look!" He says to her, overly excited and proud.

    "My goodness!" She responds, with equal pride and contentment. "Oliver, you can build just about anything can't you. I am so proud of you."

    He looks up at her grinning with the sly know-how of an eleven year old. "I'm building a calculator. Just you wait and see." He says.

    "I know you can do it." She responds. "You are such a smart boy."

***

    She picks up the receiver and dials Magdalene's phone number, wanting to check in and share the news that she is going to brunch with Oliver. The voice recorder answers at the other end of the line. "Magdalene dear, this is your mother calling. I'm just calling to say hello. To see how you are doing. I hope everything is ok for you. Thank you for the lovely card. Oliver called this morning and he is on his way over with Sarah to pick me up and take me to brunch. Isn't that sweet? I wish you were here too. I will try to call you later. Goodbye now. I love you." She hangs up. But there is something more to say. Pausing for a moment she dials Magdalene's telephone number again. "Listen, I do not mean to bother you. Just please remember to be safe. I wish you were here to go to brunch with us. We miss you. Thank you for the card. I loved receiving it in the mail. Call me when you get home please. Thanks. Love you. Bye."
 

***

    With one barrette loosely pinning back the bangs of her newly cropped hair, Magdalene places her left hand tightly within her mother's grip, and carries an empty shoe box in her right.

    "Where do you think they're hiding?" She asks looking up at her.

    "Well, I don't know. Let's just walk a while and see if we can find any." It is a brisk fall afternoon. Red, orange, and green maple leaves lie at their feet along the dirt path leading through the woods next to the house.

    "When we find some, I'm going to puncture some holes in the top of the box so that they can breath."

    "I think that is a great idea Magdalene. Then we can take them home and care for them."

    "What do you think caterpillars eat?" Magdalene asks, stumbling mid-step while looking up at her mother instead of the path at her feet.

    She squeezes the small palm and fingers in her hand a little tighter and steadies her daughter. "I think caterpillars eat grass and flowers." She says.

***

    A maroon Taurus pulls up in front of her apartment. She puts on her faded navy rain coat, and ties a well-loved woolen scarf about her head. She grabs the plastic grocery bag containing her tissues, medicine, spare vitamins, reading materials for the bus (just in case), and deposit envelope containing cash from the trip to the bank the day before. She gives a last look around the apartment to see if she has forgotten anything. Hearing heavy foot steps in the hallway outside, she speaks up in the direction of the locked front door, "Just a minute Oliver, I will be right there." She walks in and surveys her bedroom one last time. On top of her dresser she notices a sealed envelope. "Oliver" is written across the front. Inside, her most recent note to him written late the night before rests wrapped around a small bundle of freshly dried tealeaves.

Oliver,
    I know Sarah had to move to be closer to her new job, but I wanted to ask you to please not move in with her. It is not proper for a man and woman to move in together unless they are married. You can still be near Sarah but not live together. Please think about it. I have enclosed some Sage tealeaves to help give you clarity.
Love and Prayers from Your Mother.

    Remembering Oliver is waiting at the front door she decides to leave his note behind. Just before turning off the light she looks again upon the small suitcase that has sat, closed, in the same far left corner of her bedroom since the day she moved in twenty-three years earlier. Inside are some worn tennis shoes, a collection of pencil drawings, a macramé blanket, a tattered leather purse, and a frayed receipt from Goldstein's funeral home, dated 1980. It is stamped 'Paid in Full.'

    "Mom, are you ready? It's Oliver. Sarah is waiting in the car." Oliver says directly through the locked front door.

    "I'm coming dear. Yes. Just one minute. I will be right there." She answers.

    Walking over to the trunk in the corner, she lifts the lid and pushes back the tissue paper. She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a letter with some dried red clover tealeaves wrapped in parchment paper. She places it on top of the contents, and closes the lid again. The envelope reads "Helen."