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Before she can say anything else, a grumbling sound distracts us both. She unwraps her arms from around my neck and places her hands over her face, like she’s embarrassed.
“When was the last time you ate?” I ask, pulling one of her hands away. She can’t hide herself from me. Not now.
“I ate some breakfast… I think. Rosa brought me lunch and dinner. I just couldn’t force myself to eat it.”
I understand that. For years, the entire month of August was a fucking shit show for me. Every August from the age of fourteen to well into my twenties, I lost weight no matter what I did.
“Stay here,” I say quietly. Slowly, I pull out, and the little mewling sound she emits in return makes me want to plunge right back inside. I force myself not to do it, then get out of the bed, pulling on my pants and gloves. I glance back at her to find her splayed and limp. She’s quiet. Not crying now.
“I’ll be right back.” I say, though she doesn’t seem to hear me.
I head for the kitchen, pulling open cupboards and drawers, piling bread and pastries and cookies onto a plate. When that’s taken care of, I slide my phone from my back pocket and use voice-to-text in a search engine.
“How do you make tea?”
I’ve never done it before, and fuck if I know how. In fact, I don’t think I’ve literally ever made anything in the kitchen for anyone. A quick scroll of the results, and I feel like I have my legs under me. I boil water in the kettle, then pour it over a couple of Irish breakfast tea bags in a teapot to let it steep. Grabbing a cup, a pitcher of milk, and a bowl of sugar, I plonk them on the plate and then carry it all up alongside the teapot.
When I return to Deirdre’s room, a lamp by the side of the bed is on. It illuminates an empty bed. A flush of the toilet, then running water, tells me where she is. She emerges from the bathroom a moment later in sweatpants and a hoodie. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head. Her eyes are swollen, her nose is wet and red, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look more goddamn beautiful.
She sniffs, then sees me with the snacks.
“Sit and eat,” I tell her, placing the stuff on a bedside table. For a second, I think she’s going to disobey me. My voice hardens, because I’m not going to stand by and watch her pass out. “Eat this yourself or I will feed it to you.”
She gives a small nod then climbs up on the bed. I notice how gingerly she sits when she settles herself.
“Are you still bleeding?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m wearing a pad.”
I want to see. Want to strip off her clothes, see the white material marked by the innocent blood I’ve drawn.
But that’s not what she needs right now. So instead, I pour her a cup of tea.
“What do you put in this shit?” I ask her while eyeing the brown liquid with distaste, and holy fucking heavens above, she actually laughs. It’s teary, but real, and I stare at her without blinking, memorizing the sound of it and the sight of her in this moment.
“I’ll do it,” she says, still smiling. She adds milk and sugar. I watch her closely as she takes a sip. She closes her eyes and sighs, and a pinched area of tension between my shoulder blades I didn’t even know was there relaxes.
“This is good. Thank you,” she says softly before taking another sip. “Never thought I’d see the day when Elio Titone is making me tea.”
“Neither did I,” I say, sitting beside her on the bed. “Don’t tell anyone, alright? Would ruin my reputation in this town.”
There it is again. The beautiful laugh that cuts straight through me, just like her music does. Because the laugh, just like the music, is an expression of what’s in there, what’s inside her. How did Deirdre word it in that letter? The violin simply gives voice to what already exists. It’s the same with her laughter, her tears, her voice. Everything she does. It’s not just her music I’ve been drawn to, that I’ve been trying to understand, it’s her. The essence of her that spills out like goddamn sunshine, bathing me in light when I’ve spent half my life in the darkness.
She munches on a few of the sweets I’ve brought, and slowly some colour returns to her cheeks.
“I used to drink this kind of tea with my mom,” she says. She reaches over and pours a little more into her cup. “God, she had the most beautiful teapot. A vintage one with the most exquisite rosebud pattern.”
The teapot she’s holding now is stainless steel. It looks cold and sterile compared to what she’s just described.
“Where is it now?”
She sighs, takes another sip, then puts down her cup.
“I broke it. Can you believe that?” She shakes her head. “It was right after her funeral. I was out of my mind with grief. I was alone in the kitchen where we’d always drink tea together and I was so desperate to be close to her again. She would always fill the teapot with warm water while the kettle was boiling, so I did that, too. I tried to, anyway. But I dropped it in the sink and it completely smashed.” She stops speaking for a moment, staring at a place on the floor before she continues. “I kept all the pieces in a box in my closet, but it was too far gone for me to try to fix. I’ve looked for a replacement, but they’re really hard to find. Plus, it wouldn’t be the same, anyway. It wouldn’t be the same teapot. The same one she held, you know?”
I do know. I know because all our mamma’s things burned and that fact has fucking haunted me.
“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t been able to tell anyone about that teapot. Not Willow or anybody. I didn’t even tell my dad. Can you believe he didn’t even notice it was gone?” She wipes her eyes. “But then again, he never wanted to go to her grave with me, either, so maybe I shouldn’t be all that surprised.”
