The Cafe Story

                The door clinked with a jingle, closing behind me as I escaped into the little café on Columbia Street.  I shook off my jacket, holding it away from my somewhat dry clothes.  It was supposed to be waterproof, my jacket, but must not have been made for the kind of rain that is Vancouver’s.  Grizzly, incessant rain had pummeled down twelve days in a row at this point, causing the January Blues to roll unabated into February. 

                My gaze caught Crystal’s delighted smile as she looked up at my arrival.   Tucked into an overstuffed chair by the hearth where a cozy fire crackled homely was my coffee date and excuse for getting out of the house.  The men, guzzling beer and whooping for their favourite team, had not even acknowledged my departure when I called out “Goodbye! Enjoy the game!” and slipped out.  Steven had earlier permitted me to take my leave providing my deluxe home-made pizza and superior wings had been prepared and left to keep warm in the oven.

                “Abby!” Crystal Labrec exclaimed, rising to greet me.  She hurriedly took my sopping jacket, hung it over a nearby banister, and dragged over a twin overstuffed chair so it was situated appropriately across from her own, all the while never letting her beaming face leave mine.  “It’s so good to see you!  You look wonderful!”

                “Thanks,” I said, shaking my head, not believing her, and putting my purse down, “So do you!  How are you?”

                “Perfectly well,” she replied, sinking back into her chair, looking at me sidewise with that glowing smile, “And you?  How are you?  How is life?  How is Steven?”

                “Ah, you know.  Fine.  We’re fine.  Steven’s busy working.  I’m busy with work.  Nothing new really.”

                “I see, I see,” she nodded, as if I’d told her a mystery of excitement and lore and not the humdrum basics of our very un-extraordinary lives.

                Crystal bounced with a sudden realization.  “You must be freezing.   And thirsty.  What would you like to drink?”

                “Oh, just a medium roast.  But I can get it, don’t worry.”

                “No, no!  It’s my treat.  You just sit here and de-thaw and I’ll be right back,” she asserted with merriment in her eyes as she flitted off to the counter. 

                I watched that little thing as she spoke to the sole employee, ordering my coffee.  We had met when Crystal was only eight and I was thirteen, she an only child and me the ideal babysitter-next-door.  She was easy to watch and I willingly gave up weekend evenings to look after her rather than hang out with friends, despite the stingy pay.  Crystal always had epic tales to dazzle me with, and she would tell them in full fair maiden attire.  The unfinished basement held caves for secret clubhouses.  When the electricity went out during a storm one night, we huddled in our fort with flashlights and cookies, me telling her about high school (she could never get enough “juicy details”) and her telling me her life dreams.  She was going to be a teacher, for then she would have an audience of students every day, and write novels in the evenings.  She had determined to have a great love that would sweep her off her feet, a man whom she would love “as her own soul” and with whom her soul would be forever “knit together” (presumably Crystal’s father had been reading to her of David and Jonathan’s friendship and, word hound that she was, she hungrily adopted these lofty phrases into her vocabulary and used them at every possible turn).

                Things changed much for Crystal’s family when her mother passed away unexpectedly in a car crash one unfortunate winter night.  She and her dad grieved.  We brought over casseroles and tried to be of some comfort.  Then my dad got a job offer in North Vancouver and we were no longer neighbours.  I started my senior year in a new high school and Crystal entered grade seven a sadder, quieter little girl. 

                Busy with friends, grad activities, and extra-curriculars, I didn’t think of Crystal much.   My mom would periodically call her dad to see how he was doing.  “Fine, fine,” he told her, a rather closed, private man he was.  He eventually said less and less and so she eventually stopped calling.  I hadn’t heard from the Labrecs until Facebook notified me that a Crystal Labrec was requesting me as a “friend”.  Her accompanying note expressed her exasperation at trying to find me, seeing as my name changed when Steven and I were married.  She’d thought of me on an off for years, tried to find me, couldn’t, finally ran in to my brother at Superstore and acquired my new name. 

                It had been nine years since I had seen her but not much had changed really.  She hadn’t grown in stature since she was twelve, keeping her at a relatively humble height, and her hair flew in the same twirling waves it always had.  Though she did not have on the attire of various revered princesses of old, her purple blouse rippled elegantly as she moved with the same unmistakable feminine flare.  She wore no jewelry save for a simple gold band on her right hand – her mother’s wedding ring perhaps.  It seemed the luminance of her eyes, however, eclipsed any sparkle a mere jewel could have.

                I shook my head, wondering at these memories, a part of my life I hadn’t recalled for so long.  Time is such an odd thing.  My life now was so even and predictable compared to the times of rapturous adventure which were babysitting Crystal.

                A ring of pure delectation echoed in the small, empty café, and I looked to see Crystal laugh, receive a coffee - presumably mine - from a dark, trendy-looking guy.

                “Do you know him?” I asked as Crystal returned to our warm nook of comfort, setting a steaming mug before me. 

                “Yes.  That’s Jean.  He’s a student here from France.  I try to practice my French on him, which usually leads to a good fit of giggles.”  She sighed happily and sank into her chair.

                “Is he your boyfriend?”  I asked, cautiously picking up the hot mug.

                “No, no.  I have no boyfriend,” she admitted, looking into the red flames of the fire.

                “Really?  What are you now – twenty-one?  And no ‘great sweeping love’ has found you yet?” I teased her.

                She paused for a moment, her features unchanging.  I sipped my coffee, which was surprisingly delicious.

                “Is this regular coffee?”  I interjected her silent thoughts.

                “Americano misto actually.  I thought you’d enjoy the treat.  Fuller flavour, isn’t it?  I love them,” she explained.

                “Yeah, I like it,” I said, taking another sip.  “So, tell me!  What are you up to?  How was high school?”

                “Oh please first tell me about you?  You’re married!  Did you go to school?  Where do you live?” she begged. 

                “Well, there isn’t anything too exciting to tell really.  Steven and I met in youth group when I was in grade twelve, liked each other, dated for a few years, got married.  Not much to it really.  I did a business associates degree at Cap because it was close to home.  We’re still on the North Shore.  Bought a condo last year.”

                “That’s great!” Crystal smiled again, looking ever so happy for me, asking with her eyes if I agreed that it was indeed great.

                “Yeah, for sure.  I don’t know.  We’re happy.  We like having friends over.  Still try to make it to church,” I nodded along with each boring sentence coming out of my mouth.

                “Do you enjoy church?” she asked intently.

                “Ah, you know.  It’s good to go, right?  We try to help out here and there with functions and such but our lives don’t revolve around it.”

                “Hm,” she sounded, holding her half-full mug and remaining silent once more.

                “Not like your dad, I guess,” I put in.  “Is he still all serious and Catholic?”

                “For now,” Crystal half-smiled and set down her mug, sitting back and crossing her legs. 

                “Do you still go with him?”

                “Yes.  It would dishonor him much if I didn’t.  I teach a Sunday School class of young girls, try to shine a little true light in a dark place.”

                My eyebrows furrowed slightly. 

                “So what is Steven like?”  Crystal asked, shining again that full inquisitive smile.

                “Crystal, you will not get any soaring tale from me,” I said, smiling and shaking my head.  “We met, we wooed – if you can call it that – we made an exchange of vows.  We’re married.   We’re content.  Life’s not so bad!”  I said, trying to sound carefree and satisfied.

                “’Not so bad’, hm?” she mused, looking into the fire once more. 

                I followed her gaze and for a moment let myself be hypnotized by the slowly roving flames.

                “It’s nice here,” I broke in.  “Do you come here much?”

                “Oh yes.  I come here a lot these days just to read and try to progress to bilingual status.”

                “Were you reading when I came in?”

                “Of course.”

                “An epic romance?”

                “Essentially,” she answered, taking the black leather-bound book from the table and placing it in her worn-looking brown satchel, to pick up her coffee again.

                “So, really?  No sweeping love, yet?  I mean, you’re a gorgeous young lady!  Surely you’ve met some nice guys at school?”  I prodded.

                “I’m at Corpus Christi College in my last semester of their university transfer program, moving on to UBC in the Fall.  Sure there are nice guys there, but none that I would consider dating,” she explained in a conservative manner.

                “Picky are you?”  I asked knowingly.

                “Of course.  You can’t have your soul knit together with just anybody you know.”

                I smiled, glad she remembered and was still the same little Crystal I once knew.

                “There’s really no one you’re interested in?”  I asked.  Now, usually I was not so nosey, so insistent.  Perhaps I was aching too much for one of her old gallant stories, anything to break up the unglamorous, exceeding normal existence that was my life.

                “Well, I didn’t say that,” she smiled softly, looking into her mug.

                Ah, here it was.  I knew there had to be something more. 

                “Spill.”

                She pursed her lips slightly and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as if pondering and searching the stars on a clear night. 

“Such a tale is not ‘spilt’ as you say, but rather poured ever so carefully, slowly, and completely, into the finest of goblets, lest any drops be neglected or wasted,” she said finally, seriously, taking on the story-telling air I remembered and loved so well. 

I clapped my hands with delight, grabbed my coffee and burrowed into my chair a bit more.  “Ready!”  I said.

“Oh Abby, alas, it is not like one of my old taradiddles.  It is exceedingly real, frighteningly so,” she quieted, looking into her hands in a perplexed way.

“Just tell me, Crystal.  I’m sure it will be more stirring than my very ‘real’ life.”

She looked into those beloved, rolling flames a moment longer, before taking a breath, and beginning.