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Baba’s fingers curl in her lap. “Yes, can be just Baba.”
“Then Baba it is.” A pause. The girl looks down. “It sounds strange when people say it.”
“Because they say it as though testing whether they are permitted.” Olive explains.
Baba looks up and Olive’s expression remains calm as she places some tea sandwiches on a plate for her.
“Names are not courtrooms,” Olive says. “People do not get to debate your sentence.”
The girl’s face shifts. Something struck, an understanding. Outside, Arthur makes a small sound as Edward sets a hand on his shoulder.
Inside, Baba whispers, “Astrid feels dead.”
Olive’s eyes lighten. Not with pity, but alight with knowledge. “Then let her rest.”
Baba blinks quickly while Olive reaches for the teapot between them and pours two cups. “People will try to resurrect old versions of you because they are more comfortable with ghosts than change.”
She pushes one cup toward Baba. “You do not owe anyone the woman you had to stop being in order to survive.”
Baba stares at the tea, then at Olive. “What if I do not know who I am now?”
Olive leans back. “Then you begin with what you know.”
“I know very little.”
“Good. Little things are easier to carry.”
A faint crease appears between Baba’s brows and Olive lifts her own cup. “For example, do you like tea?”
Baba looks suspiciously at the cup. “I do not know.”
“Excellent. Taste it.” She does. Her face remains unreadable.
“Well?”
“It is too bitter.”
“Now you know one thing.”
Baba looks at the tea again, then, smiles.
Olive reaches for the sugar bowl and slides it closer. “Try again.”
Outside, Arthur exhales as if he has been holding his breath for years. Edward looks at me and I look back, for all my brilliance, all my lists, all my carefully arranged advice, Olive has done in five minutes what the rest of us could only circle. She has not promised Baba safety forever nor promised that love fixes ruin. She has not called her strong in that dreadful way people use when they mean, 'Please continue suffering beautifully so I do not have to be uncomfortable'. She gave her sugar, a name, and a beginning.
Inside, Baba adds entirely too much sugar to her tea but Olive watches without correction. Then Baba takes another sip and her eyes widen slightly.
“Better?” Olive asks.
Baba nods.
“There,” Olive says. “Two things.”
“What is the second?”
“You like too much sugar.”
Baba’s laugh is startled. Arthur covers his face and I feel something in my chest loosen. Family, I have discovered, is not always blood. Sometimes it is a workshop full of monsters, or it is a woman with scars teaching a girl with ghosts how to sweeten bitter tea. Sometimes it is a boy who loves too earnestly learning to keep his hands open.
