I Am Anastasia

A History of Regret

Her apartment is a lot to take in at first.  There are colours everywhere.  On the walls hang paintings and bits of mirrors that reflect the sun coming in from the full-length windows.  The coffee table is a dark cherry coloured wood, and two fat beeswax candles sit on either side of a platter that holds a Japanese tea set.   Bookshelves line one corner of the wall; rows of old books catch my eye. There's a little alcove in the corner where the TV is nestled among silk pillows and wooden carved knickknacks. The kitchen is just off the living room and I can see the backs of the kitchen chairs draped in rich purple silk scarves.  More scarves hang from the rafters in the ceiling in reds, blues and greens. 

            She must see me looking at them, because she says, “Those are Egyptian; the ones in the kitchen are from Peru.”

            I don't say anything back, just continue taking in my surroundings.  There's a giant art easel in the centre of the living room, the canvas untouched and white.  A cherry coloured chest of draws in one corner has a little wooden Buddha smiling down from it, and a couple of other knickknacks, a feather pen and a rose-coloured crystal that seems to glow of its own accord. 

            “Would you like some tea, Samantha?” She says my name uncomfortably, like it’s awkward for her.

            It feels strange to hear my name from her lips.

            “Okay.”

            She smiles at me and turns, padding into the kitchen, her dress swishing out behind her.  I trail after, observing the red paper lantern standing up in the corner and the potted fern in the other corner at the entrance to the kitchen. Everything is very Feng Shui around here. 

            “Philosophers Brew or Dragons Breath?”

            “Sorry?”

            When she laughs my mother throws back her head and her teeth shows. Her laughter sparkles; it's contagious. I can't help smiling.

            “It’s tea.” She is still laughing softly. “I get it from Silk Road tea shop, just down the street. They’re both wonderful blends.”

            “Um...I’ll have Philosophers brew.” I like the sound of that, like maybe after I drink it I'll  be wise, I'll  know what is in store for me and what to do with my life. All from a cup of tea. 

            “Coming right up.”

            She makes tea the old fashioned way, a kettle on the stove and a tea ball to share between the two cups. I like the look and smell of the loose leaf tea.  At my house we either have earl grey tea in a bag, or instant coffee. That’s all that dad buys.  He doesn’t like anything else.

            “Smell it, it’s just wonderful.” She's reaching out to me, her hands cupped in offering, the little tin of tea leaves nestled inside. I take the tin and inhale just above the contents. It's spicy and rich. It makes me think of some place exotic like India, Peru or Egypt.  Of camels and silk scarves and palm trees. 

            The kettle whistles like a banshee, and she wraps a dishtowel around her hand for protection and takes it off the stove.  I watch the steam billow as she pours it into first one cup and then the other. The tea ball hits the surface of the steaming water and sinks, the golden warmth of the tea leaves spreading outwards.  When our tea is steeped she motions for me to come sit at the kitchen table. I'm nervously playing with the silk scarf tied to the back of my chair, watching the steam rise and curl from the mug in front of me.