Brewed Bitter

BY: MAGGIE MAURO

Peach tea, Elizabeth decides, tastes more bitter when one is estranged from her family. She tilts her chin up and tips the brew down her throat, stilling the breath in her chest. The window above her kitchen sink lets sunlight in, and Elizabeth takes a moment to remind herself that she is okay. Alone, but okay. Even though she’s over-steeped her drink. 

Summer has nestled into Elizabeth’s town, not too far inland from Rockport, Massachusetts. Since she’s moved here, the days have passed by slippery, as though Elizabeth’s been trying to grasp them in oil-slicked palms. Now she’s tangled up in early July, and it’s been six months since the bitter argument that caused her to cut contact with her parents and younger sister. Six months since hot tears tumbled down her cheeks as she told her family not to look for her when she left. She isn’t sure they would have it either way. The fight had been destructive, violent, tearing through their home like storm winds. It wasn’t a surprise; it was the inevitable conclusion to their relationship. She hates to say it, but it was her sister’s fault.  

Cassidy. The miracle child. The girl whose early years left her tiny body swarmed by leukemia, so severe the doctors claimed she wouldn’t survive past age four.   

But Cassidy did survive, combatting the odds. She may as well have sculpted the moon with her bare hands, with the way their parents look at her to this day. Cassidy’s recovery rendered her a warrior, and rendered Elizabeth the superfluous daughter, clawing after the parental approval that skipped over her in favor of her sister. 

Elizabeth finishes her tea and rinses her cup in the sink, which coughs up water in uneven spurts. Her home is old, and the rent is dirt cheap. Shingles have loosened from the gabled roof, and moss clambers up the sides. But Elizabeth doesn’t mind. Or maybe she simply can’t scrounge the motivation to care.  

Elizabeth tries to pretend her family’s continued silence doesn’t weigh heavy on her conscience. When she left, she hadn’t expected them to miss her.  

A call might have been nice, though. Just to show they cared about her wellbeing.  

The family’s silence is a good thing, Elizabeth reminds herself. She needs space to learn herself once more. To slough off her family’s shadow, refuse to let it swallow her whole.  

Elizabeth has just pulled out a dish towel to dry her mug when she hears a faint knock from the front door. She’s not expecting anyone. She waits, not in the mood to converse with a traveling salesman or a neighbor who’d run out of baking soda. Another knock is beaten from the door, more urgent this time, causing Elizabeth’s pulse to jump. She shifts toward the door and opens it.  

Her sister stands on the other side.  

Elizabeth’s gaze latches onto Cassidy’s and it’s as though the years rewind within the doorframe.  

Elizabeth’s mouth moves before her brain. “What the hell are you doing here?”  

In that moment, they become girls again, their bodies twined like commas pressed together.  

Cassidy takes a step closer. “Don’t slam the door.”  

In that moment, they are hidden under Elizabeth’s comforter to read stories after bedtime.  

“I’ll do whatever I want. It’s my house. Which you have not been invited to, might I add. Bye.” 

In that moment, Cassidy is sick.   

Elizabeth moves to close the door, but Cassidy slams her forearm against it. “Please, Lizzie. Just hear me out.” Desperation claws at her voice.  

Elizabeth winces at the nickname. She releases a harsh breath, scraping a hand through her hair. Cassidy stares at her, wide-eyed, a sheen of sweat coating her face from the summer heat. Pleading. Like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. Elizabeth moves to the side and lets Cassidy in. As her sister passes her, Elizabeth catches Cassidy’s features as they soften with relief. 

Cassidy gives Elizabeth’s living room a once-over, taking in the eclectic mishmash of furniture Elizabeth had thrifted, the handmade decorations sifted out from secondhand stores. The room is suddenly far too small for Elizabeth, suffocating, the air thinning like it does for people who climb to extreme altitudes. 

“It’s cozy,” Cassidy says. 

“Why are you here?” Elizabeth snaps.  

“I need your help.” 

“Oh really? You need my help? You have two perfectly capable and, as far as I know, healthy parents at home who would love nothing more than to help you.” The audacity of her sister to show up here. Elizabeth’s skin feels hot. 

Cassidy’s freckled skin flushes. “I can’t go to them.” 

Elizabeth’s shoulders pull taut as she straightens her posture. Her muscles are tense as wire. “Do you have any idea what a slap in the face this is? Why in the world wouldn’t you be able to go to them?” 

Cassidy’s features twist up. She fiddles with her fingertips, refusing to meet Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’m pregnant.” 

When the doctors told them that Cassidy, now age six, was no longer at risk of mortality, their parents fell to their knees in thanks right there in the hospital room. Nine-year-old Elizabeth had cried, relief pulsing through her like lightning. She’d never wished harder for anything than for her sister’s life and Cassidy’s recovery made Elizabeth feel like her voice fell upon the universe’s ears in a way that mattered.  

​ Little did she know that her wants would be lost in cosmic irony after that. Slowly, in the following weeks and months and years, Elizabeth’s life took a backseat to Cassidy’s. Their parents, who had accepted the fact that they may never see Cassidy grow up, were intent on cherishing every moment Cassidy’s blood was hot in her veins. At Elizabeth’s expense.  

​ Cassidy was their marvel. Their warrior. She’d had to fight, they said in a poor attempt to justify themselves to Elizabeth, for what Elizabeth took for granted. Elizabeth, they said, was a good older sister. She understood, they said, that her sister had different needs, required more attention.  

Having Elizabeth as their daughter had always been a guarantee to them. Having Cassidy was a gift.  

Now, Cassidy sits on Elizabeth’s couch, tracing an absent fingertip along the linen stitching. Elizabeth studies her from the entrance to the kitchen, a mug of over-steeped peach tea for Cassidy in her hand. She wonders if her sister will find the tea brewed bitter, too.  

​ Cassidy’s appearance is unchanged from six months ago. Same dark hair, capped by blunt bangs across her forehead. Same narrow shoulders and slender jaw. Cassidy’s face mirrors Elizabeth’s: their father’s genes are stronger than their mother’s, and they both wear his angular appearance. It’s a pity. She’s so beautiful, their mother.  

​ Elizabeth sits across from her sister, setting the mug in front of her. “You’re pregnant.” 

“Yes.”  

​ “Do you know who the father is?” 

​ "I do. But he…well, it was a one-time thing. I didn’t get his contact information or anything.” 

​ Elizabeth pinches the bridge of her nose. “Christ, Cass. And Mom and Dad have no idea?” 

​ Cassidy shakes her head. Elizabeth could strangle her. She should be inclined to ask why Cassidy hasn’t told their parents, but she knows the answer. Cassidy isn’t oblivious. She would rather run to her estranged sister than muddy her image in the eyes of their parents.  

“Of course, they don’t. Can’t tarnish their precious baby’s image, can we?” Elizabeth knows she’s being too harsh. She’s sure that in Cassidy’s position, she’d do the exact same thing. Why pluck the stars from their parents’ eyes if she doesn’t have to? Besides, Cassidy’s entitlement to Elizabeth’s life knows no bounds; of course, she believes Elizabeth will drop everything to be by her side.  

Cassidy sips the tea, grimaces, and places it back on the knit coaster. “It’s not that, Lizzie. I—”  

“Oh, really? What is it, then? Because last time I checked, I asked you to leave me alone. All I want is space away from Mom and Dad’s favoritism toward you, and you can’t even give me that?” 

Cassidy’s brow creases. “Why do you do this, Elizabeth? Why do you insist on pushing me away?” 

Elizabeth opens her mouth to protest, but Cassidy continues. “I’m sorry for the way Mom and Dad treat you. Really, I am. But you can’t possibly hold that against me. I was a child, Elizabeth.” 

“And what about me? What about the years and years after your recovery? What about every band concert of mine that Mom and Dad missed because they insisted on extra swimming lessons for you, or every Christmas where you got the better gifts, or every ride they made me catch from my friends’ parents because they couldn’t bother to cart both of their children around?” 

Cassidy’s lips part. Elizabeth keeps going, swept away in the momentum. “Every night they would tuck you in and tell you how proud they were of you, how strong you were. Do you think they ever did that for me? They were convinced I didn’t need it. Well, I did. I needed something. Anything. My life ended the day you got sick!” 

Cassidy is motionless. She blinks once. Twice. Elizabeth breathes heavily, chest flitting up and down. Silence settles on the pair like dust on unused furniture.  

Finally, Cassidy speaks. “Ask me how far along I am.” Her hands are gripping the arm of the couch so hard they’ve gone pale. 

“What?” 

“Ask me how far along I am in my pregnancy, Elizabeth.” 

“Why?” 

“Twenty-one weeks. Five months and one week.” 

Elizabeth can hardly believe this. Sure, Cassidy wears loose clothing, but she barely seems to be showing at all. Five whole months? 

“Do you know what they can diagnose after twenty weeks, Elizabeth?” 

“No.” 

“They can diagnose intrauterine fetal demise. They can tell when a baby will be,” Cassidy’s voice cracks. “Stillborn.” 

Elizabeth claps a hand to her mouth. Dread jolts through her.  

“That’s why I came here. Not because I didn’t want to disappoint our parents. But because I stopped feeling kicking. Because last week they took an ultrasound and couldn’t find a heartbeat. My baby is dead, Elizabeth. And I needed my sister. Someone who would hold me but not treat me like a child who’d lost her favorite toy, or like glass shattered into a thousand pieces. Someone who would see me as I am.” Cassidy’s stare could freeze oceans. “Or so I thought. Clearly, I was wrong to come.” 

She stands, knocking into the coffee table so abruptly that her mug falls over, and leaves without another word.  

And Elizabeth is alone again. Exactly as she’d asked.  

Her throat feels swollen, and suddenly the sunlight in her house is cloying. She watches the tea leak onto the table, trailing down its legs like tears. It’s a long time before she rises to wipe it away.