by Alex Kava
She opened the door, ready to say just that, and found herself staring at her daughter, instead.
“Maggie? What on earth are you doing here?”
“Sorry I didn’t call.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen? Is Greg okay?”
She saw Maggie flinch. It was the wrong thing to say. Why did her daughter always have to make her feel like she was saying the wrong thing?
“Nothing’s wrong, but I do need to talk to you. Is it okay if I come in?”
“Oh, sure.” She opened the door and waved her in. “The place is a mess.”
“Are you moving?” Maggie walked over to the stacked boxes.
Thank God the boxes weren’t labeled. Her daughter would never understand about the materialism and divorcing it to feel free or not coveting, or whatever it was…Oh, it didn’t matter. Maggie would never understand, and no one outside the church was supposed to know about Colorado.
“I’m just cleaning out some old stuff.”
“Oh, okay.”
Maggie gave up her questioning and stood at the window, looking out over the parking lot. Kathleen couldn’t help wondering if the girl already wanted to escape. Well, it wasn’t like it was a day at the circus for her, either. At least, she didn’t expect anything from Maggie. Not anymore, that is.
“Would you like some iced tea?”
“Only if it’s no trouble.”
“I just brewed some. It’s raspberry. Is that okay?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. She retreated to her small kitchen, hoping its cozy warmth would soothe her nerves.
When she reached for the tall iced tea glasses, she noticed a bottle in the far corner of the cupboard. She had forgotten she even had it. It was for emergencies. She hesitated, then stretched to grab it. This was feeling like an emergency day. First her grandmother’s figurines and now an unexpected visit from her daughter.
She poured a quarter of a glass for herself, closed her eyes and gulped it, savoring the burning sensation sliding down her throat and all the way to her stomach. What a wonderful, warm feeling. She had another, then filled her glass one last time about halfway, tucked the bottle back into its hiding place, and poured iced tea in to fill the rest of the glass. The tea was almost the same color.
She grabbed both glasses, remembering that hers was in her right hand. She glanced around the small kitchen. Yes, she was going to miss this place, the welcome mat at the sink and the yellow curtains with little white daisies. She still remembered the day she found those curtains at a garage sale down the street. How could she be expected to leave this place without some sort of help?
When she came back into the living room, Maggie had discovered one of the figurines she had left half wrapped on the window bench “I remember these,” she said, handling the statue and gently turning it just as she had taught her to do, just like Kathleen’s grandmother had taught her.
She had forgotten that she had even shown them to Maggie. But now seeing one in her hands, the memory came back as though it were yesterday. She was such a beautiful little girl, so curious and cautious. And now she was a beautiful young woman, still curious and oh, so very cautious.
“You’re not getting rid of them, are you?”
“Actually, I’ve had them in storage. I was just getting them out to take a look and…and well, decide just what to do with them.” It was partly the truth. She couldn’t be expected to get rid of all her things, move from her nice little apartment and tell the truth. That was just too much to expect.
She watched as Maggie carefully returned the figurine to the window bench. She took the glass of tea Kathleen handed her from her left hand. Yes, her left hand had Maggie’s tea. She couldn’t mix them up now.
Maggie sipped her drink and continued to glance around the room. Kathleen gulped hers. She wasn’t sure she wanted Maggie examining any more of her things, stirring up more memories. The past belonged in the past. Wasn’t that what Reverend Everett always said? He said so many things. Sometimes it was just too hard to remember them all. She was almost finished with her tea. Perhaps she would need more.
“What did you need to talk about that couldn’t wait until Thursday?” she asked Maggie.
“Thursday?”
“Thanksgiving. You didn’t forget, did you?”
Another flinch.
“Oh, jeez, Mom. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.”
“But you must. I’ve already bought the turkey. It’s in the fridge. Practically fills up the entire damn thing.” Oh, Jesus, she shouldn’t cuss. She needed to watch her language or Reverend Everett would be upset. “I’m thinking we’ll have dinner at five o’clock, but you can come earlier, if you like.”
She remembered that she still needed to buy cranberries and that bread stuff. Where did she leave her list? She started searching the tabletops.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing, sweetie. I just remembered a few things for Thursday. I wanted to write them—oh, here it is.” She found the list on the lamp stand, sat down and jotted cranberries and bread stuff at the bottom. “Do you know what that bread stuff is actually called that you use to make the stuffing?”
“What?”
“The bread. You know those small pieces of dry bread that you use to make stuffing.” Maggie stared at her like she didn’t know what she was talking about. “Oh, never mind. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
Of course, Maggie probably didn’t know. She was never much of a cook, either. She remembered the girl trying to bake sugar cookies one Christmas and ending up with rock-hard, burnt Santas. Then she refused to be consoled when one of the guys from Lucky Eddie’s suggested they paint them and use them for coasters. Poor girl. She never had much of a sense of humor. She was always so sensitive and took too many things to heart.
When she finally looked up from the list, Maggie was staring at her, again. Uh-oh. Now she looked pissed.
“What else should we have for our Thanksgiving dinner?” Kathleen asked.
“Mom, I didn’t come here today to talk about Thanksgiving.”
“Okay, so what did you come here to talk about?”
“I need to ask you some questions about Reverend Everett.”
“What kind of questions?” she asked. Father had warned them about family members wanting to turn them against him.
“Just some general stuff about the church.”
“Well, I have an appointment I need to get to,” she lied, glancing at her wrist only to find no watch. “Gee, Mag-pie, I wish you would have called. Why don’t we talk about all this on Thursday.”
She walked to the door, hoping to lead Maggie out, but when she turned back, Maggie stood in the same spot, clear across the room. Now Maggie frowned at her. No, not a frown. It was that worried, angry look. No, not anger. Well, yes, anger but also sadness. She had the saddest brown eyes sometimes. Just like her father, just like Thomas. Yes, she knew that look. And yes, Kathleen knew exactly what her daughter was thinking even before Maggie said it.
“I don’t believe this. You’re drunk.”
CHAPTER 53
Maggie knew as soon as her mother called her “Mag-pie.” It had been her father’s nickname for her. One her mother had adopted, but only when she was drunk. Instead of a nickname, it had become a signal, a warning, a grate on her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
She stared at her mother, but the woman didn’t flinch. Her hand stayed firmly planted on the front doorknob. God! She had forgotten how good her mother was at this game. And how god-awful she was, because she let the emotion rule and carry her away—the emotion of a twelve-year-old. Suddenly, she found herself pacing the short length of her mother’s living room.
“How could I have been so stupid to believe you?” Maggie said, annoyed that her lower lip was quivering. A quick glance showed no change in her mother’s face. That perfected combination of puzzlement and innocence, as if she had no clue what Maggie was talking about.
“I have an appointment, Mag-pie…and lots of packing to do.” Even her voice had not shifted, not even a notch. There was still that sugary cheerfulness that came with the alcohol.
“How could I have believed you?” Maggie tried to ward off the anger. Why did this always feel so personal? Why did it seem like a betrayal? “I thought you stopped.”
“Well, of course, I stopped. I stopped packing to talk to you.” But she stayed by the door, hand still planted—maybe she hoped if Maggie didn’t leave, she could simply escape. She watched Maggie pace from one end of the room to the other.
“It was the tea,” Maggie said, slapping her forehead like a child finally getting an answer to a quiz. She snatched up her mother’s glass and took a whiff. “Of course.”
“Just a little something to take the edge off.” Kathleen O’Dell waved it away, a familiar gesture that reminded Maggie of some form of alcoholics’ absolution.
“To take the edge off? For what? What did you need to take the edge off of? So you could get through one goddamn visit with your own daughter?”
“A surprise visit. You really should have called first, Mag-pie. And please don’t swear.” Even that tone, that Pollyanna tone, grated on Maggie’s nerves. “Why are you here?” her mother asked. “Are you checking up on me?”
Maggie tried to slow down, tried to focus. Yes, why had she come? She rubbed a hand across her face, again annoyed that there was a bit of a tremor in her fingers. Why did she have so little control over her reaction, over her body’s response? It was as if the hurt little girl inside of her came to the surface to deal with this, because the adult woman had not yet found a sufficient way.
“Maggie, why are you here?”
Now her mother had come back into the room, suddenly anxious for an answer.
“I needed to…” She needed to remember the investigation. She was a professional. She needed answers. Answers her mother could provide. She needed to focus. “I was worried about you.”
It was her mother’s turn to stare. Suddenly, Maggie wanted to smile. Yes, she did know a thing or two about playing games, about the power of denial or in her mother’s world, the power of pretend. Her mother wanted to pretend one drink to take the edge off was not a fall off the wagon? Well Maggie could pretend she was simply worried about her, afraid for her safety, instead of looking for answers about Everett. That was what brought her here, wasn’t it? The investigation and trying to solve it. Of course it was.
“Worried?” her mother finally said, as if it had taken this long for her to formulate a definition for the word itself. “Why in the world would you be worried about me?”
“There are some things about Reverend Everett that I don’t think you know.”
“Really?”
Maggie saw suspicion slipping in past the bewilderment. Careful. She didn’t want her to get defensive. “Reverend Everett is not who he seems to be.”
“How do you know? You’ve never met him.”
“No, but I did some research and—”
“Ah, research?” her mother interrupted. “Like a background check?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, keeping her voice calm and steady now. The professional kicked back into gear.
“The FBI has always hated him. They want to destroy him.”
“I don’t want to destroy him.”
“I didn’t mean you.”
“Mom, I am the FBI. Please, just listen to me for a minute.” But her mother was fidgeting with the living room blinds, wandering from one window to the next, shutting each and taking her time. “I’ve talked to others who have told—”
“Others who have left the church.” Another interruption, but still with that annoying distracted cheerfulness.
“Yes.”
“Ex-members.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you simply can’t believe a word they say. Surely, you must know that.” This time she looked at Maggie, and there was something in her eyes, an impatience Maggie didn’t recognize. “But you’d rather believe them, wouldn’t you?”
Maggie stared at her again. Her mother’s mind was already made up. Nothing Maggie could say would change what she believed or didn’t believe. No surprise there. What exactly was it that she had expected to find out? Why had she come? It wasn’t likely her mother had any damning information about Everett. To warn her mother, perhaps? Why did she believe her mother would suddenly listen to anything Maggie had to say or to advise? This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have come.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said out loud, and turned to leave.
“Yes, you’d rather believe them, strangers you’ve never met before.” Her mother’s tone was no longer cheerful, a cruel sarcasm edging in. This, Maggie recognized. This, she remembered. “Not like you would ever believe me. Your own mother.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that,” Maggie said calmly, facing her mother and trying to ignore the change, not only in her mother’s tone but even in her gestures—nervous swipes of fingers through her hair. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a tumbler or bottle and finding the tea glass. She grabbed it and emptied it in one gulp, satisfied and not realizing it had been Maggie’s glass by mistake.
“You never believed in me.”
Maggie continued to stare at her. How could the insertion of one little word like “in” make such a world of difference? “I’ve never said that.”
But her mother didn’t seem to hear her. She was going back around the room, opening the window blinds that she had just shut, one after the other. “It was always him. Always him.”
She was ranting, and Maggie knew it was too late to have any semblance of a conversation with her now. But she had no idea who she meant by “him.” This was a new rant. One she didn’t recognize.
“Maybe I should go,” Maggie said, but made no attempt to leave. She only wanted to get her mother’s attention. But her mother was no longer listening. No longer paying attention. This was a mistake.
“It was always him.” This time her mother stopped in front of her, facing her with accusation. “You loved him so much, you have nothing left for any of the rest of us. Not for me. Not for Greg. Probably not even for your cowboy.”
“Okay now, that’s enough.” Maggie wouldn’t put up with this. It was ridiculous. The woman didn’t know what she was even saying.
“He was no saint, you know.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Your father.”
Maggie’s stomach took a plunge.
“Your precious father,” her mother added as if she needed clarification. “You always loved him more. So much love for him that there was never enough left for the rest of us. You buried it all with him.”
“That’s not true.”
“And he was no saint, you know.”
“Don’t you dare,” Maggie said, immediately disappointed to find the quiver return to her lower lip.
“Dare to tell the truth?” Her mother managed a cruel smile.
Why was she doing this?
“I need to leave.” Maggie turned toward the door.
“He was out fucking his girlfriend the night of the fire.”
It was like a knife had been thrust into her back, stopping her in her tracks, making her turn to face her mother again.
“I had to call her house,” she continued, “when the fire department’s dispatcher called looking for him. Everyone thought he was up sleeping in our bed, but he was in her bed. Her bed, fucking her.”
“Stop it,” Maggie said, but it came out as a whisper, because all the air had suddenly been sucked out of her.
“I never told you. I never told anyone. How could I after he went out that night, ran into that burning building and died a fucking hero.”
“You’re making this up.”
“He got her pregnant. She has a son. His son. The son I never could give him.”
“Why are you doing this? Why are you making this up?” Maggie said, trying to
keep the twelve-year-old hurt little girl from surfacing, though in her head, her voice sounded exactly like a child’s. “You’re lying.”
“I thought I was protecting you. Yes, I lied then. But not now. Why would I lie now?”
“To hurt me.”
“To hurt you?” Her mother rolled her eyes, the sarcasm having overpowered any other emotion or response. “I’ve been trying to protect you from the truth for years.”
“Protect me?” Now the anger began to unleash itself. “You call moving me halfway across the country protecting me? You call bringing home strange men to fondle me, protecting me?”
“I did the best I could.” The eyes were darting around the room again, and Maggie knew she had said what she wanted to say and was now looking to retreat, searching to escape.
“You lost a husband that night. But I lost both my parents.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I lost both my father and my mother. And what did I get in their place? A drunken invalid to take care of. A drunken slut instead of a mother.”
The slap came so suddenly, Maggie didn’t have time to react. She wiped at the sting and was more unnerved by the tears already dampening her cheek.
“Oh, Jesus! Maggie.” Her mother reached for her and Maggie pulled away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, don’t.” Maggie raised a hand in warning. She stood straight, avoided her mother’s eyes. “Don’t apologize,” she said, allowing one more swipe at the tears. “This was the perfect response from you. I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”
Then she turned and left, making it to her car, managing to drive through the blur before stopping at the entrance to I-95. She pulled off on the side, killed the headlights and switched on the car’s flashers, shoved the emergency brake into place, left the engine running and the radio blaring while she let the sobs pour out of her. While she gave in and let those damn leaky compartments burst wide open.
