The Teacup by Monica Mamchur

The Teacup       

By Monica Mamchur
           
            The teacup. The rim is lined with gold and it is painted so softly in pearly pastels it is as though a baby’s breath brushed the color onto its surface. A tiny Renaissance style painting encircled by iridescent gold leaves adorns two sides of the cup. The curve of the S-shaped handle, so dainty and feminine, made me feel like a princess whenever my grandma served me her mango tea. A matching saucer, a silver teaspoon. Ever since I can remember remembering, that teacup represented my grandma and it has come to symbolize our relationship. She was my Mormor, literally Mother’s Mother in Danish.
           
            She passed away when I was twenty-three. I hadn’t seen her for five years prior because at the age of eighteen, instead of continuing to travel to Denmark every two or three years as had been my family’s custom, I took advantage of my adult independence and began to explore other areas of the world. I went North, South, East, and West of Denmark decorating my dusty backpack with flags from each European country as if they were badges. Then a volunteer stint in Costa Rica turned into an obsession with South America. My connections in South America led to a job in China and a growing network of colleagues and friends then steered me to New York, Toronto, Montreal and unexpectedly, the East coast of Canada four times. I filled my early adult years with travel and all that I learned during that time led me eagerly back to school again and again to eventually collect degree after degree. I was busy and energized and engaged.

            Often that little voice inside my head would suggest, Maybe it’s time to go back to Denmark. Go see your family. Mormor’s getting old. And a year later, when her neighbor found her slumped, crying, and disoriented in the elevator, I thought, Mormor’s sick. What if she doesn’t get better? You have to get back. But then another opportunity would present itself, something that seemed impossible or even irresponsible to pass up. At least, that’s what my twenty-something year old mind told me. I was focused on career and life development. And so, I’d delay the trip back to Copenhagen. When I got the news that she had passed away, I was crushed. You didn’t get back to see her. How could you have let this happen?
 
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            It’s 1979. My family always stays with Mormor when we visit our relatives in Copenhagen. Her old red brick apartment building smells of mold, but I never associate that with danger, only comfort and familiarity. (To this day, whenever I come across that musky odour, I close my eyes and inhale deeply, filling my lungs and mind with memories). Her apartment is on the third and top floor. We can easily and quickly take the dank stairwell to her front door, but we prefer the clunky old elevator that really is nothing more than a wooden box with a three-person maximum capacity. My cousins and sisters and I sometimes squeeze all six of our child bodies in at once, elbows poking each other, sandaled feet being trampled upon. It frequently gets stuck that elevator, which as young children, thrills us. Our moms, sisters themselves, yell half-heartedly, laugh, and swear at us in Danish when we jump up and down, jamming the elevator on purpose, or when we push the alarm button just for fun. We laugh right back at them, mimicking and marveling at how everything in Danish, even the swear words sound like a cheerful little elf song.
            
            Mormor’s apartment is of average size by European standards; two bedrooms, a kitchen, a sizeable living and dining room, and a bathroom with a toilet that flushes by pulling the rope dangling from the ceiling. The furnishings and décor are simple. An oak dining room table, an antique desk that still displays my late Morfar’s typewriter, a blue couch behind which I frequently hide during hide n’ seek, and a white cabinet full of china and Italian glassware. The great windows of her apartment, with sills layered thick in years of white paint, open outwards toward the busy traffic. Every time I open one and lean out, I marvel at how the simple absence of window screens serves to include me, instantly, in the bustle below. The balcony, like the elevator, can only comfortably fit three people standing. We test our bravery by stepping directly on the cracks of the concrete floor. Mom, will this fall away one day?
           
            My family, all four or five of us, share the single spare bedroom. I fall asleep with my face buried deeply in the down quilt, drinking in the fresh scent of clean linens. Sleep comes quickly. In the morning, I wake early, disoriented and needing a moment to remember where I am. Then I hear Mormor getting ready before the sun has even risen and I smile. Quietly and quickly, I slip on my clothes and tiptoe to the hall to meet her, the wooden floor cold and creaking beneath my feet. I am intent on not waking anyone because I want Mormor to myself for what has become our daily dawn ritual, every two or three years.

            She is wearing one of the five dresses that seem to make up her entire wardrobe, save for her bathing suit. Her thick-heeled black leather shoes bulge on the sides from the bunions on her feet. They must hurt her, but she never complains. She is perpetually full of smiles and hearty open-mouthed laughs that show the gold capped tooth at the back of her mouth. She is a sturdy woman built of kind determination. With her handbag over her forearm and a sky blue silk scarf tied around her head and under her chin, she takes me by the hand. “Er du klar?”  Immediately, I can feel the warmth of her love emanating from her palm as I rub my thumb over the soft, wrinkled skin of her fingers and knuckles. Then we set off.
           
            I revel in that three block walk through the city to the bakery. Though she is in her seventies, Mormor’s pace is quick and I do my best to match it. I watch her watching the city, mastering the lights, taking in the noise. I inhale the bus exhaust that lingers in the air feeling invigorated, worldly, and at home. It is noisy with traffic and ambulance sirens that sound different than in Canada. Baa-boo-baa-boo. Long drawn out syllables. Pigeons gather on specific corners waiting for the hot dog vendors to open shop and ready to catch the bread crumbs and sometimes an entire bun that might fall from the hands of a clumsy toddler. Mormor guards me at every corner with her arm warning that cars don’t stop for pedestrians in Copenhagen. Neither do the bicycles which cruise along their own designated road right next to the cars, baskets full of groceries and carts full of children. Melding with the bustle, I feel like we are part of a carefully choreographed dance.
           
            The crowned pretzel hanging above the bakery doorway is Denmark’s symbol of fresh baked goodness and reason alone to visit this tiny country. I can smell the fluffy aroma a block away and almost taste it in the air. The bakery windows are fogged with moisture from the night’s magical toils and though it is only 6:30 in the morning, the store front is packed with people not yet showered, each holding their queue number, anticipating their order. It is loud, a bit chaotic, and definitely exciting. I am a little anxious we’ll miss our turn, but also know that Mormor has it under control. If anyone tries to take her turn she will politely, but with certainty, alert them to their faux pas.
           
            Six crusty poppy seed buns, six sesame seed, a French loaf, and four assorted pastries which later, we cut in half to share. My favorite are the lemon cream. The buns are still warm. She pays. I see her hand over the kroner and wonder how she never worries about how little she has, especially now that Morfar has died. But, she doesn’t. If it ever comes up in conversation, she laughs her hearty laugh and waves her hand in front of her face as if to shoo away the thought. And off we go.
           
            Back at home, we set the table together. Always a white lace table cloth, her fancy gold-rimmed china, and real silver cutlery. The clattering of the dishes, my giggles, and her laughs wake our family. She makes a pot of strong coffee and one of mango tea. I set out butter, jam, a cheese we affectionately refer to as “stinky feet cheese” and the basket full of our fresh baked breads and pastries. Sunlight spills in through the dining room window. The air is light. And there is the teacup. Mormor fills it with the steaming golden brew and I sip it like royalty. It makes me feel grown up, cosmopolitan, but also humble and grateful for our simple spread and cheerful company.
 
                                                                                                                         
                                                                                                                       * * *
            
            Tante Anni has all Mormor’s possessions. There isn’t much. Five dresses, two pairs of shoes, the lace table cloth, china, silver and from Morfar, an accordion, a typewriter, and the antique desk. “You can have whatever you want, Monica. It might be hard to transport certain things back to Canada though.”
         
             “All I want is a cup and saucer.”
         
             “One cup and saucer? Why not take all of them?”
         
            “I just want one.”
         
            “It’s not worth anything, you know.”
         
            “I know.”
 

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            A few years later, I find myself waitressing, once again, to once again pay my way through school. It’s Thursday, Jazz night in the Oakroom Lounge at the palatial Palliser Hotel in downtown Calgary. The band is on a short break between sets when she enters. I don’t know it’s her at first. How could I? She is totally unassuming with her cropped grey hair, drop pearl earrings and smart pant suit - not a flowing, floral garb and not adorned with chunky gem stone jewelry as one might expect. There is no aroma of patchouli. Her expression of calm and confident suggests a woman grounded in herself and her surroundings. She sits at the last open table in my section. It isn’t until I set down her glass of Syrah that I realize who she is.
           
            “Thank you, Monica,” she reads my nametag. “I know that you’re busy tonight Dear, but your grandma is here and she asked me to give you a message. If you want to hear it let me know.”
           
            I freeze.

            I stare.

            “You’re the psychic all the staff’s been talking about.”
           
            She nods, sipping her wine. A bold red. For a psychic? I would have guessed an organic herbal tea. Her husband works in oil and gas and she has accompanied him to Calgary on business. Talk around the hotel is that she is an incredible intuitive. I smile apprehensively and tell her I need a minute to think about it. I walk back to the bar, feeling like I have tunnel vision and oblivious to the almost throngs of customers now gathering for the second set. Confused and my stomach fluttering, I ask the bartender, “Hey Tommy? The woman at table sixteen – is that the psychic that everyone’s been talking about?” knowing of course, that it is, but needing some support. Why did it have to be my grandma with a message? Why not an ancient ancestor with whom I have zero emotional attachment?
           
             Tommy looks up from the 12-year old Lagavulin he is pouring and nods. “Yup.” Then he shakes his head slightly and continues pouring.
           
            “OK, so, she told me that my grandma is here and has a message for me.”
           
            He smiles, raising his eyebrows and continues filling drink orders.
           
            “So what do you think I should do?”
            “Oh man... I don’t know, Monica, that is totally up to you. I can’t tell you, but let me just say that I never used to believe in that crap until I met her. She rocked my world, dude.” He pulls out a shot glass, fills it with Lagavulin and sets it down by the ice well. “This is for you. You might need it later.”
           
            “What? Scotch? That’s way too strong. I can’t shoot that. Nobody shoots Lagavulin. I won’t need anything.”
           
            “Trust me.”
           
            I look back toward table sixteen. “Do you know her name?”
           
            “Linda.”

            “Linda? Really?” Scarlett, Chloe or even Moon Beam seems more plausible for a psychic’s name, but Linda? It was so normal. I suppose it does suit her appearance though. “OK,” I say more to myself than to Tommy. I summon some courage and walk back to her table.

            “Linda, right?”

            “Yes, that’s right.”

            “I’ve heard quite a bit about you from some of the other staff. You’ve impressed a lot of people.”

            “Have I? Well that’s a good thing,” she smiles softly looking me in the eye. Hers are blue.

            “Um, so, ok. I’ll hear the message. You said my grandma has a message for me?”      

            “Yes! Well, great. OK.” She settles into the deep royal blue and purple wing-backed chair. I stand beside her, hugging my empty tray against my chest trying to relax.  The lights are dim. The room is moody with notes of jazz still lingering and lively with chatter. The band is tuning their instruments and double checking the mics.
             
            Linda begins by describing my grandma’s physical features. Typical features for any eighty-some year-old woman, really. Then she says, “Your grandma is a strong woman. Cheerful. Always smiling it seems.”

            Could be anyone’s grandma, I lie to myself, trying to prepare for the message.

            “She says she was very confused in the last couple of years.” She pauses. I close my eyes briefly and force a breath. “Something happened between the two of you when you were eighteen.”

            I say nothing, feeling emotion swell into my throat. Linda is quiet. Waiting. Listening?

            “That’s the last time you saw her.” Now she closes her eyes and pauses. I hold my breath, my throat throbbing. “She wants you to forgive yourself. She’s telling me that you were young and smart and adventurous. You did all the things young people are supposed to do.” I clutch my tray firmly as if it can hold me up and somehow stop the well of tears. It does neither. I sit in the empty chair beside Linda and cry into a cocktail napkin. Linda smiles and leans in, “Your grandma is laughing.”
 

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            The teacup sits on a small white shelf in my dining room. It has come to represent my relationship with Mormor and the adventure of our pre-dawn expeditions, which perhaps became the jumping off point for the adult person I would become. I never use the teacup, but look at it often and when I do, I am reminded of Mormor’s independence and courage, of wanting to be like her and of lemon cream pastries.

 Bio:  Monica Mamchur has been writing since she was in grade school. Her first poem was published at the age of thirteen in Rebound (1983), a collection of children’s writings. She studied and completed a diploma in journalism at the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology in 1992, but quickly realized that instead of just reporting news about people partaking in both ordinary and extraordinary activities around her, she wanted to be part of that action and so, at the age of eighteen, began travelling on her own. Monica recorded her adventures in numerous travel journals enjoying the challenge of integrating herself into the world’s communities, investigating people’s stories, and writing from the heart. She went on to earn a BA in International Development Studies (2000) and a Bachelor of Nursing degree (2004), both from the University of Calgary.

Author photo: Kim Faires Photography

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