Thyme & Dough

Fiction by Sydney Chandler

I’m driving down I-95. It’s late. The stars out here, Denna. Their light isn’t real, you know. Their fires burned out millions of years ago.

Anyone who says they don’t believe in ghosts has never taken the time to look up. We see the ghosts, their eyes on fire. We look up and we see the stars. The stars look up — what do they see?

I see the ghosts, like I see the ghost of you in the young cashier at 7-Eleven. You, in the girl driving the jeep with no doors, her red hair trailing behind her like a comet, a cigarette clinging to the edge of her lips. You, in the stars. The ghost stars. I wonder now, as I look through Old Sam’s window, if the ghosts of light we see today are more beautiful than the actual stars had been. Ghosts are more beautiful than flesh and blood I think. Because memories, they can be altered.

I’ve gotten used to the nothingness: the blank emptiness of the road, the dark stitch of the horizon beyond. I’ve grown fond of it. I’ve grown fond of the stars.

I’m tired. My eyes, they feel heavy. They work so hard, our eyes. Taking in everything around us, siphoning through billions of particles of light before settling on a mere ten percent for us to focus on. Our eyes decide what’s important for us to see.

I see a light. A light, growing as I drive closer. A light, stretching outwards across this wasteland as if to meet me, as if to greet me, to envelop me in a yellow embrace. The neon sign reads Thyme & Dough, and underneath it, an OPEN sign flashes red, flickering on and off like a flame caught in the wind.

I pull off the side of the road into the empty parking lot. The willowy coffee house before me, lit up by its yellow neon sign, looks not built of saw and hammer, but rather, grown. Grown out of the very dirt and impressive array of potted plants and trees gathered at the base of the building. The plants engulf its entirety. Tall stalks of ivy seem to hold the walls in place; thick ropes of leafy braids. A rectangular garden, sanctioned off by an aged picket fence, brims with lush plant life — lemon trees and purple orchids, rows of herbs and strawberry bushels.

Something green, something growing — a curious ornament on this desolate stretch of road.

I step out of my truck. I bend down, stretching my legs. I do not know how long I’ve been on this length of road, Denna. I am tired. I am hungry. And a fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds nice. A fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds, magnificent. The girl opens the door for me. The girl, swathed in a pink cotton apron, some form of green frosting swirling across its center, greets me with a broad smile.

“Come in now, come, come,” the girl ushers, as if she has been impatiently awaiting my arrival. I step out from under the stars, and into the small interior of the coffee house. I am immediately greeted with the smell of warm honey and freshly baked bread. A hint of peppermint wafts its way above the scent of baked goods. The smell of peppermint — it reminds me of you, Denna.

A sumptuous collection of potted plants lines the yolky yellow windowsills of the coffee house. Lavender and roses, thyme and bushels of basil, all stand perkily in their pastel ceramic pots. A fully grown peach tree, its limbs weighted with its fuzzy, bulbous fruits, leans at a precarious angle in the corner of the shop, its tall limbs bowing forward, brushing fingertips with the slanted ceiling. A thick carpet of ivy obscures the back wall, and threaded between the ropey stalks are blooming rows of daffodils, their fanning buds perfectly formed for one to blow away, to make a wish.

The bell above the door jingles as the girl pulls it shut behind us. The sound, so fragile, like the flicked end of a diamond earring.

“Welcome Mister, I’m Georgia,” the girl practically sings. “Welcome to Thyme & Dough. What can I get for you?”

I step up to the counter. The girl, Georgia, looks to be no more than fifteen years of age. Tight pigtails pull the skin around her eyes taut. Her smile is painted a chalky, petal pink. I stare at her, searching for you. But all I find are freckles, of which you have none, and cherry round cheeks shelfing a pair of bright green eyes. Your eyes are dark, are brown, like mine. Still, I can’t help but search. I finally look away.

That is when I notice the heap of fur on the ground by my feet. A slinky coil of orange cat lies dangerously still on the wooden floor, its paws splayed out before it, its eyes half-lidded, glassy.

“Don’t mind Shanks,” Georgia says, waving a hand dismissively. “He’d sleep all day if he could!” He’s been asleep longer than a day, I think, taking care not to notice the lack of movement in the old cat’s chest cavity, where breath should have been ballooning out, in, and out again.

“What can I get for you?”

I look to the menu, a bright wooden board hanging above Georgia’s head. I order a veggie wrap, two berry scones, and large coffee, black, to go. Although Georgia is clearly not yet eighteen, there seems to be no one else here. Georgia pours me a large cup of black brew, then begins to gather my meal. As I wait, I get the feeling that the foliage surrounding me, the vivid green limbs and magazine ripe fruits, are more alive than just — alive. Sentient, in a way. Listening, with their leaves.

I take two large gulps of my heavily caffeinated coffee.

“Here you are!” Georgia smiles, having wrapped my food up into a paper bag. I reach into my pocket, fishing for my wallet, but Georgia waves me off, her tongue clicking disapprovingly against the roof of her mouth. “My Grandma GG kept this place going until she plopped over dead. And Grandma GG, she always said to me: Georgia, meet kindness with kindness.” Georgia reaches across the counter and takes my free hand in both of her own. She stares up at me, her eyes searching my own, her eyes driving through my own, as if the girl has caught a glimpse of something nestled deep inside me, something I may or may not know exists. “You have kind eyes,” Georgia finishes.

***

At half-past noon the following day, I come across a green billboard on the side of this ever-elongating road. ENTERING BISBY IN TEN MILES, the sign reads in block white lettering. POPULATION: 274.

Two. Seven. Four. Could you imagine, Denna, growing up in a town so small? Not even a dot on the map, but instead a particle of sand, a tip of a hangnail, something a cartographer would weigh over in his hands, deciding on whether to include such an insignificant location.

WELCOME TO BISBY, the second sign reads. JUST ANOTHER SLICE OF THE PIE.

This town has been abandoned, I think. The main street is rutted and pockmarked with potholes. I guide Old Sam slowly down the broken asphalt. The road is lined on both sides with small boxy shops, their roofs all flat and made of stucco. Although it is a clear, Sunday afternoon, I see no one walking up or down the streets, no one busying themselves in the shops, no one maneuvering around the potholes in their cars. No one at all. I notice most of the shops are boarded up with wood or black swathes of tarp. I do not know why this place has been abandoned. I try not to wonder why.

I try not to think back on our childhood home as I drive through the ruins of Bisby — the home I dream of every now and again. I dream of eating it, Denna, did you know? Eating at the shut windows and the grout around the kitchen sink. Eating it all up with a fork and knife in hand. I want to digest it. I want to shove it down, to swallow it whole, to absorb it in the lining of my gut.

I wonder if a part of Dad still lives in that old house. I wonder if his ghost sunk into the walls.

I pass an old church, its mahogany doors leaning open, like a slack jaw mouth. And next to the church, decorated with rich, lively green foliage, is none other than the coffee shop. The coffee shop, Thyme & Dough. I pull to a stop in front of its familiar neon yellow sign. I know it’s not plausible for this shop to be the shop I stopped at the night before. But this shop is exactly the same. The garden, the ivy — a woman opens the front door.

Garbed in a pink cotton apron stands a woman in her later years. Her back is hunched over like a sliver of moon, her hair a salty white.

“Come in now, come, come,” the old woman croaks, ushering me inside with a wave of her hand. I pull the keys out of Old Sam’s ignition and follow the woman inside.

The coffee house looks exactly as it had miles down the road. The peach tree in the corner is in full bloom — its fruits glistening with moisture.

“Welcome son, I’m Georgia. Welcome to Thyme & Dough.”

I stare at the old woman, trying to obscure my puzzlement. The woman cocks her head to the side like that of a bird’s. She smiles a broad, genuine smile, revealing a set of nubby teeth.

“Didn’t expect to find anything open here in two-seven-four Bisby, now did you?”

I cannot answer. I just nod my head. The woman’s green-flecked eyes are sunken deep into her brow, but they still hold the shine of a young girl at heart.

“What can I get for you?”

A dash of orange fur and tail careens its way across my dusty sneakers. The cat leaps up onto the countertop, rubbing its small head against the woman’s arm.

“Don’t mind Shanks,” Georgia coos, her hands playing through the kitten’s fine fur. “He’d run around all day if he could!” I stare at the kitten. The kitten stares back at me. It purrs, the sound like a honey bee buzzing beside my ear.

“What can I get for you?”

I do what is left for me to do. I order a veggie wrap, two berry scones, and a large coffee, black, to go. I feel the plants in their pastel ceramic pots watching me, listening to my breath, as Georgia pours me a large cup of black brew and begins to gather my meal.

I take a hesitant sip of my heavily caffeinated coffee. It tastes just the same: a bitter, uneventful swallow, tinged with the hint of honey pecan.

“Here you are!” Georgia smiles. She hands me my paper bag. I reach into my pocket, fishing for my wallet. The kitten mews from his place on the countertop. The old woman looks at me, shaking her head. “My Grandmother GG kept this place going until, bless her heart, she plopped over dead. Right there, right there where you’re standing.” Georgia signs the cross against her pink cotton apron, its fabric coated in a swirl of green frosting. She reaches across the counter, taking my free hand in both of her own. I look down at her hands. They are calloused and warm, a map of watery veins winding their way under the thin surface of her skin. “My Grandmother GG, she always said to me: Georgia, meet kindness with kindness.” She pats my hand then, caressing it with her pastel pink painted nails. “No need to pay today, child. For you, you have kind eyes.”

***

It does not surprise me when, the following day, I happen across Thyme & Dough. I have rerouted myself from the I-95 onto the I-10. The sun is heating up, Old Sam’s air conditioning doing no more than blowing hot air into my face. The only station Old Sam seems to enjoy is 91.5, an old country station wracked with static and worn men’s drawling hymns. I’ve stopped only once today, to relieve myself, and to watch a red hawk pin its wings to its back, dive down into the scrubby earth, and engulf a young hare in its talons. The bird took no notice of me. The hare screamed, then went silent.

I’ve parked below the neon yellow sign of Thyme & Dough. I expect Georgia to open the coffee house door, to usher me inside. But the porch door stays closed. The cicadas sing around me. I step out of Old Sam. I bend down, stretching my legs. Denna, I wish you were here with me. I would order you a small coffee with soy milk — I know lactose does not sit well in your stomach. I would order you your coffee and I would stare into your eyes. I would try to apologize. Somehow. I would hope that you would give me some explanation for your leaving, but I know you. You would not say a word. You would instead play with a strand of your long dark hair. You would let the silence grow. You would sip your soy coffee slowly, deliberately — you would comment on the honey pecan aftertaste.

I walk up to the door of the coffee shop. I let myself inside. The peach tree greets me with its fanning of leaves, its limbs no longer weighted with fruit. It is bare, like the back wall of the shop is bare, the ivy no longer threaded through with blooms of daffodils. The smell of warm honey and baked goods and peppermint overwhelms my senses. And underneath it all, like a cobwebbed box forgotten under the basement stairs, is the smell of something sour, the smell of something pungent.

I take slow steps up towards the counter. I lean over the countertop, pressing up on my toes. Behind the counter, splayed out like a modern piece of art on the wooden floor, is a set of human bones. The skeleton is arranged as if it were sleeping, its fibulas and tibias, its fine, pointed digits, laying crossed against its chest. A pink cotton apron, some form of muted green frosting swirling across its center, lies over the ivory bones like a shroud.

I make my way behind the counter. The bones are clean, they look as if they have been polished, void of any sign of hair or tissue or skin.

I do not know why I bend down. I do not know why I reach for the hem of the pink cotton apron and lift it, an eddy of dust floating up from its surface, whirling around in small particles before my eyes. I do not know why I expect exactly what I find, nestled inside the ribcage of the skeleton, curled up where a beating heart should rest.

A small animal fetus, its delicate limbs half-formed and pulled into its stomach. It’s red gummy exterior swathed in a translucent, rubbery sack. I watch, as if from very far away, as one of the fetus’s limbs kicks out, and then, as if in acceptance of its situation, the limb goes still. Georgia and Shanks, one long-lived, the other not yet born, lie still and placid on Thyme & Dough’s giving floor. I, someone, a wanderer, a stranger, lean hunched over their remains.

Again, I do what is left for me to do. I wrap the bones and the filmy residue of the cat into the folds of the pink cotton apron. I carry them outside, careful not to disrupt them, and bury them in the garden, beside the roots of the lemon tree. Then I re-enter the coffee house. I fill a paper bag with a veggie wrap and two raspberry scones. I make myself a fresh-brewed cup of coffee, black, to go. I fill a cup of coffee for you too, Denna. I leave it on the counter, a carton of soy milk beside it.

I place a ten-dollar bill on the countertop and decide to water the various array of plants in the coffee house. I touch the leaves of each plant as I do so, the furry ligaments of the lavender stalks, the fanning limbs of the bushels of basil. Grandma GG, she always said, meet kindness with kindness.

I leave Thyme & Dough as dusk gathers its billowing skirt across the sky. The stars, the ghost stars, are out again, Denna. I don’t know if they know I exist, but I’m happy to be under their brilliance. I know they’re there, and that’s what’s important. I know you’re out there, somewhere, and that, Denna, is more important than anything.

Sydney Chandler grew up in California, Chicago, New Zealand, and Texas. While moving around a lot as a child, she often turned to books to help her feel grounded. Literature offered her a sense of security and consistency from a very young age, and she aspired early on to join the literary field. She graduated from St. Edward’s University with a bachelor’s degree in creative writing in 2018. Hungry to delve deeper into the literary world, Sydney is now pursuing a career in publishing.