A sharp pang pierced her gut as she remembered that the main thing that kept her so busy—her job—had been crossed off the list. She was unemployed until further notice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, placing the cup in line with the others on the trestle table in the middle of the large kitchen. “Sometimes sameness can be...comforting.”
Zelda scoffed. “Sameness is a prison. No, I take that back. Sameness is a death sentence. Sameness is a—Elle, are you crying? What’s wrong, honey?”
Ugggh.
Elle looked up at the ceiling, trying in vain to blink back the tears. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do this. She didn’t even know where the tears came from. She’d almost convinced herself that all these changes that were being foisted on her were for the best. But now it suddenly felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her.
Her mother was at her side, putting her arms around Elizabeth, pulling her in for a hug.
Zelda held her like that for a few minutes, patting Elle’s back, before saying. “Sweetie, it’s going to be okay. I’m going to make us a pot of tea and I want you to talk to me.”
Zelda tore a paper towel off the roll and handed it to her. Elle blew her nose and sat down on a bench at the trestle table.
Her mother put the kettle on and joined her at the table. “What’s going on, honey?”
“The situation with my job is a bit worse than I let on last night.”
Zelda nodded. “I wondered about that.”
“Why? Was it obvious?”
“No. On the contrary. You’ve been pretty stoic since you got home last night. Even so, it didn’t escape my mom-radar that something wasn’t right.”
As Elle filled in the details she’d left out last night, about how she could be unemployed for the better part of the year, her mother nodded along sympathetically.
The kettle whistled. She squeezed Elle’s hand and got up to brew the pot.
“Earl Grey or Darjeeling?”
“Let’s visit with the Earl,” Elle said. “I’ve got the cups.” She reached over and claimed two of the pretty china cups they’d washed and dried. Zelda returned with the white teapot with pink roses. That teapot held so many memories. When she and her sisters were growing up, anytime there was a problem or a celebration, their mom would put on the kettle and brew tea in that same pot.
Boy, the stories it could tell if it could talk.
Elle smiled at the thought.
Zelda set the pot on the table, turned over the tea timer and set to work putting together a plate of cinnamon scones that were left over from the breakfast. There wasn’t much a perfectly brewed cup of tea and a good scone couldn’t cure. The sight of the comfort snack on the table between them warmed Elle from the inside out.
As they waited for the tea to steep, they helped themselves to the scones.
“Is there any chance that they’d hire you to teach art at another school?” Zelda asked.
Elizabeth shrugged. “Not until next fall. Unless an art teacher quits during the next semester. Art teacher jobs are rare since they’re electives and the county has slashed the budget. Our school foundation was funding my position for the short-term, with hopes that the county would make room for it in the budget. My principal is trying to place me somewhere doing something else, but she can’t make any promises.”
“If they can place you what would they want you to do?”
“Teach an elementary grade or possibly work as a reading or curriculum support staff.”
“The teaching might not be bad, but the other makes my eyes glaze over just thinking about it,” Zelda said.
Elizabeth frowned at her mother, and Zelda held up her hands in surrender.
“I know, I know. They’re important jobs, very honorable jobs, but Elle, I can’t see you being happy planning curriculum.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind teaching, though.”
“But would you love it?”
“I love kids. You know I do.”
“But would you really want to get roped into doing something your heart really wasn’t in?”
“Mom, I have to make a living.”
“I know you do,” Zelda said. “But what about your art? You’re so talented. Teaching art took you away from making your own art, but at least you were still immersed in helping kids be creative. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you something? That you need to focus on your own creativity.”