EIGHT
OLIVER
The first thought that zips through Oliver’s mind is: Oh no. My brother just died very recently and now I’m about to kill this poor woman.
Indeed, the old woman standing a few paces away from him looks like she’s this close to having a heart attack, or a brain aneurysm, or whatever it is that happens when someone old gets a good shock. Or a bad one, depending on how you look at it.
Oliver quickly raises his hands in what he hopes is a nonthreatening manner. “Don’t worry, I’m not him! I’m his brother! His twin brother.”
Understanding melts across the old woman’s face. Her gaping mouth closes before opening again and going, “Oh . . .” She steps forward and scrutinizes his face unabashedly. “Wah, you look exactly like him.”
“Well, yes. It’s an unfortunate side effect of being twins.” Actually, the unfortunate side effect of being twins is that there are minute differences, and Oliver got the short end of the stick with every minute difference. He’s an inch shorter than Marshall, his eyes are just a tad less intense than Marshall’s, his chin a touch weaker. Back in high school, people used to call Oliver “Discount Marshall.”
“Aiya.” The old woman stabs a finger at Oliver. “You almost give me heart attack!”
“I’m very sorry.” He really is. Despite the accusatory finger in his face, the old woman seems nice, and Oliver would’ve been very sorry if she had died.
“I’m Vera. Owner of Vera Wang’s World-Famous Teahouse.” She says this with a flourish, as though she’s saying, I’m the queen of England.
Oliver gets the feeling that he’s supposed to be impressed, so he nods, raising his eyebrows. “Cool. I heard that was where my brother . . . uh . . .”
“Oh yes, it is. You want to see the outline of his body? Hmm, but maybe that too upsetting? Well, never mind, if you get upset, I have just right tea for you. Come in. What’s your name again? Let me guess, something starting with M also? Michael? Mark? Morris?”
She seems to be having such a good time coming up with names starting with M that Oliver almost wishes he were named Michael or Morris. But that’s always been Oliver’s problem, hasn’t it? Always a people pleaser, or as Marshall had called him back in high school, “suck-up” or “loser” or “pathetic embarrassment.” There had been many other names Marshall had come up with for Oliver, most of them involving private parts, but Oliver doesn’t like to think of them. Everything is okay as long as he doesn’t think too much about Marshall.
But then why is he here if he doesn’t want to think about Marshall? Oliver is surprised to find, when Vera unlocks the front door of the teahouse and beckons him to follow, that his knees have turned all loose and jellylike. He has to focus on taking one step after another, inhale, exhale, as he walks inside. And there it is.
He’d seen the outline from outside, of course, but the windows are so cloudy he could easily pretend that the outline was just an oddly shaped shadow. But now he’s seeing it in stark lines and it suddenly hits him that Marshall is dead. This is where Marshall lay down to die. What was going through his head in the last moments of his life? Did he think about Oliver? Did he blame Oliver? He should, it’s all Oliver’s fault, everything has always been Oliver’s fault.
It had been that way ever since their mother had died while making Oliver’s favorite dessert when Oliver was six. Oliver had loved shaved ice and begged her to make some, and he was her favorite, everyone knew it, so she said yes, of course. Oliver and Marshall had been in the living room playing Who Can Make the Loudest Fart Noises, when they heard the thud from the kitchen. They’d rushed to the kitchen and found their mother on the floor, a pool of blood spreading like a halo around her head. There were puddles of water everywhere, spat out by the shaved-ice machine. She’d slipped on one and hit her head on the corner of the kitchen counter, and that had been that. Marshall and Dad had blamed him for her death. He had blamed himself for her death. But they also got into the habit of blaming him for everything else, and Oliver wasn’t quite sure how to handle that on top of his own grief and guilt, so he did the only thing he could. He shouldered the rest of the blame, trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as he could. It had worked with their dad, who, for the most part, pretended that Oliver did not exist, but nothing went unnoticed by Marshall. Marshall would pinch him, then when that garnered no response, he would punch him, on the arm at first, then the torso, then the head, as Oliver curled up into a ball and wished he would die too.
Except now it’s him looking down at an outline of Marshall’s body and not the other way around. There’s nothing right about that. What’s Dad going to say? He’ll know, first of all, that it was Oliver’s fault, because this is the way it has always been in their family. Except this time, he would be right. It is Oliver’s fault.
“Sit,” Vera says so loudly and so suddenly that Oliver jumps. His legs bypass his brain and he sits before realizing what he’s doing.
A wooden tray is set before him, and Vera pours him some tea. It smells like sweet flowers and milk, and tears prick Oliver’s eyes. He can barely remember what his mom had smelled of, of course, but somehow this scent is bringing her back to life in front of him.
“This is Huangshan Maofeng,” Vera says, handing him a fragile-looking teacup. “Try.”
He does so, and it takes him straight back to his mother, and Oliver can’t hold back the tears anymore. Vera, for her part, seems unperturbed that a complete stranger is sitting there crying in front of her. In fact, Oliver thinks as he accepts a handkerchief from her, she looks rather pleased about it.
“That is the correct reaction to this tea,” Vera says, taking a sip. “It is very rare, all my teas are rare, you know, and when it is picked, the farmers sob because the fragrance is so beautiful it reminds them of the celestial gardens in heaven.”
“Really?” Oliver sniffles, fighting to get his emotions under control.
Vera shrugs. “I don’t know, I make it up. Americans like it when I tell them stories about each type of tea.” Her accent becomes stronger, more exaggerated. “Oh, this tea, from Fujian Province in China, is guarded by a golden dragon that fly above the fields.” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “See? Convincing, eh?”
Oliver nods and gives a weak smile.
“Now, tell me why you are here.”
This is said in such an authoritative voice that Oliver is sure he can’t refuse even if he tries. Not that he wants to refuse; something about Vera is strangely inviting. Maybe it’s the fact that she oozes with a motherly aura. “I wanted to see the place where my brother was last alive,” he croaks.
She pours another cup and hands it to him. “Your brother, what is he like?”