Megan's Way

by Melissa Foster

  She blinked several times, trying to make the foggy feeling in her mind disappear. “I empower thee,” echoed in her head, words she both loathed and treasured.

  The encounter was not new for Megan, having felt each of Olivia’s major traumas as if they were her own since Olivia was just two days old. The feeling it left her with, one of a limp rag doll, was one she never seemed to get used to. Megan sat up, fumbled for her cell phone, and dialed frantically. Come on! Come on! Her words tripped over each other as they tumble out of her mouth, “Holly! Olivia. go to…go to her!”

  “Megan? What’s wrong, honey?” Holly’s voice was filled with concern. She knew of Megan and Olivia’s spiritual connection. She had seen it firsthand on several occasions. Though she had never understood it, she trusted it inexplicably. She also knew what it did to Megan, which was what worried her most with each episode.

  “Olivia! it’s Olivia!” Megan spat, exasperated. “She’s in pain. She’s at home. Please, go!” Megan’s vision was clear, but her mind remained unsteady.

  “I’m there! Don’t worry,” Holly said. “I’ll call you. Are you okay?”

  The sound of Holly’s keys jingling brought relief to Megan. “Okay. Okay. Yes. Just go!” she said, depleted. “I’m gone.”

  Megan didn’t hang up until the line had gone dead. Her arms and shoulders trembled with fear and fatigue. She rested her head on the steering wheel, moaning with pain and worry, and wondering who would know when Olivia was in trouble after she was gone.

  Olivia lay nestled amongst the cushions of the amber couch, her legs covered with a cranberry afghan. A cold compress rested on her forehead and a heating pad on her stomach. Holly sat by her side, stroking her face with one hand and holding her hand in the other.

  Holly’s words were gentle, “You’ll be okay, Olivia. You just need to watch what you eat.” She silently thanked god that Olivia was okay and that she had been available to help her. She constantly worried that He might strike her down, or worse, hurt Olivia as repayment for what she had done so long ago. The worst of all her secret thoughts was the anger she harbored toward Megan. She stowed those ugly feelings deep within her, knowing that Megan was just a scapegoat for her own anger.

  “I know,” Olivia said shyly. “Thanks for coming over.” She looked up as she heard her mother’s car in the driveway.

  Megan drove quickly down the dirt road and pulled into the last driveway on the cul-de-sac. The familiar crunching sound of the seashells beneath her tires calmed her racing pulse. Her cedar-sided cottage sat peacefully before her, and she wondered what dilemma she would find inside. She sighed, gathered her purse into her arms, and started toward the red front door.

  She heard Holly’s voice before entering the small taupe family room. She took a second to get control of her breathing, and then walked into the room and faced her daughter. A shameful flush ran across Olivia’s cheeks. Seeing Holly, the woman who would love and cherish her daughter after she was gone, sent a mixture of comfort and grief swirling through Megan like a hurricane. She grabbed hold of a nearby chaise lounge and lowered herself into it.

  “Hi, Mom,” Olivia said, apologetically. “Hi, baby girl. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Olivia looked down at her hands and fiddled with the edges of the afghan. “I was a little upset, that’s all. I’m sorry. I forgot you’d know.”

  “The curse of the mother!” Holly laughed. “It’s a wonderful thing, you know. Just think about it. When Olivia first fools around, you’ll experience it right along with her.”

  “Oh, great,” Megan laughed, “like that’s such a wonderful feeling! She’s fourteen. Let’s not go there yet!” “Geez, don’t worry, Mom, for god’s sake!” Olivia blushed, turned away.

  Megan and Holly exchanged a look that held years of shared secrets. Holly saw something more in Megan’s eyes, but could not figure out what it was. Her eyes held a silent question. Megan looked away.

  “What were you so upset about?” Megan scanned the table where the empty ice cream container and spoon sat guiltily. “A whole quart, Livi? You know you’re lactose intolerant. You must have been in awful pain.”

  “Sorry,” Olivia said, sheepishly. “Holly gave me my medicine, and it’s settling down now.” Sadness swept across Olivia’s face. “Why wouldn’t you let me go with you today? You always do!” Her voice elevated, “You always say you want me with you!”

  Memories of Olivia at five years old instantly resurfaced. Why can’t you sleep in my room tonight? I know the boogieman isn’t real, but I need you here. At that time, Megan had been teaching Olivia to deal with her fears. Now, was she hiding from her own? Megan’s heart grew weak.

  “Oh, honey. I just had a cranky client, that’s all. I thought it would be harder if I had distractions.” She hated the feeling of lying to her daughter.

  “Oh. Then I’m really sorry,” Olivia said with true remorse.

  “Olivia, why don’t you come to my house when your mom has to work?” Holly offered. “I mean, if you don’t want to hang out with your friends.” Holly had cherished and babysat Olivia since the day she was born, as if she were her own daughter. She often kept Olivia overnight on the evenings when Megan had to finish painting to meet a deadline or had to leave at the crack of dawn to get into the city. She had cared for Olivia when Megan had gone through chemotherapy and radiation months earlier, and had lain next to her while she had wept for the health of her mother. The bond they shared created a longing in Holly that bore into her often. She yearned to go back in time and reverse her most-loathed decision.

  “That’s a great idea!” Megan said. “Livi, I’m sorry I couldn’t take you, but you’re fourteen. You shouldn’t need me by your side so much.”

  “I know, Mom. It’s just—” her unspoken words hung in the air with the weight of lead.

  Olivia didn’t have to say the words that followed, Megan had heard them daily after her first round of chemotherapy. Olivia’s frail voice had pleaded, I’m scared! You had cancer, and you could get it again! I’m not sure how long you’ll be here, and I don’t want to miss even one second! Megan also knew that Olivia didn’t speak those words now because saying them out loud, in Olivia’s mind, might make Megan’s illness real once again.

  Holly and Megan exchanged a knowing look.

  “Livi, your mom is taking medications that help her stay healthy. You need to live your life, too. She’s fine.” Holly looked at Megan, and for the second time in a month noticed how tired and pale she looked.

  Megan’s guilt wrapped around her like a woolen shawl, weighing her down and making her limbs heavy. She lay back in the chaise lounge.

  “Well, I’m home now, Liv,” Megan said softly. “I’m just going to rest here for awhile with you.” She closed her eyes, hoping to relax, and trying not to think about the gravity of what was happening to her daughter’s life—wondering whether it was all her fault. Am I doing the wrong thing?

  Holly started a fire to take the chill out of the New England evening, and turned on Lifetime television. She picked up Olivia’s medication bottle, and the empty ice cream container, and set them on the bar that separated the kitchen from the family room. Then she busied herself in the kitchen, brewing tea, setting mugs on a tray, and giving Megan and Olivia a little privacy. She listened to the silence between the two and wondered why she felt like something was missing. There was a piece of Megan that seemed to be hidden, tucked away. They had been friends for many years, and never before had Megan held any secrets, besides the name of Olivia’s father, whom she assumed was Lawrence Childs, but lately, there was an air about Megan that was different, like she was pulling away.

  Holly carried the tray back into the cozy room. “You know, ladies, I think we need a little girl time!”

  Olivia put her finger across her lips and pointed at

  Megan, whose eyes were closed. “Holly,” she whispered, “do you think Mom is really getting better?”

  “I do, Livi. Remember before he
r surgery, she was bloated and in pain all of the time.” Holly glanced at Megan to make sure she was sleeping.

  “Yes, but look at her. She’s always so tired.” Olivia fiddled with the afghan again. Her words were soft, scared, “I just thought she would bounce right back after her chemo, you know?”

  “I know, honey. These things take time.”

  “But she never even lets me go with her to the doctor anymore. It’s like things just changed or something, and look at how many more pills she takes now than before.” Olivia’s words rushed out, as if they’d been trapped within her.

  “I’m sure she just doesn’t want you to worry, that’s all.” She wrapped her arms around Olivia and eyed Megan. She couldn’t help but wonder why her friend was so thin. guilt haunted her as she realized that she, too, hadn’t been to the doctor with Megan in the past few months. She squeezed her eyes closed, as if by doing so she could lessen the chance of her worst fear coming true.

  Megan lay with her eyes closed, awake, thinking about the life she’d created, and how she had been forced to let it go. She tuned out Olivia and Holly’s banter and the din of the television, and she thought about college graduation, which had provided one sure thing for her—the realization that her future was uncertain, at least by conventional terms. Holly, Peter, and Jack, her closest friends, had lined up corporate jobs to look forward to. They had known their earnings would climb like ivy and had planned their lives accordingly: smart apartments, chic clothing, and money that could be counted on each week. Megan’s career aspirations had been sewn from a different cloth. She had craved an organic lifestyle. She had looked forward to scraping pennies and living minimally while she developed a freelance career in art. She had been content watching her friends’ incomes grow while her income remained as level as grass. Megan had taken pride in her belief that her artistry would eventually pay off.

  She had set out each weekend to art fairs and flea markets throughout New England. During the week, she had relentlessly approached galleries to sell her work. Her passion to paint had been stronger than her desire to eat. Her trust in her talent had been unyielding, and every declined offer had fed fuel to her intention to continue.

  Her favorite weekend event had been vending at the flea market in Wellfleet, Massachusetts. Artisans packed into the parking lot of the drive-in movie theater, creating row after row of vendors. A constant flow of tourists filtered through, purchasing paintings of eastham Bay and the lighthouses to remind them of their family vacations, their brief escape from reality. The air carried shrieks of delight from the playground at the center of the parking lot, and the smell of popcorn, burgers, and roasted peanuts from the concession stand floated on the gentle breezes. Each morning, locals stopped by Megan’s booth armed with muffins and juice, and tales of what the winter had brought: heavy snows, new grandchildren, and tidbits of tasty gossip.

  One particularly warm afternoon, after the locals had come to chat, and before the morning rush of tourists arrived, a tall man had entered the grounds. He had walked with purpose, weaving in and out of vendors, but keeping his eyes trained on her booth. His khaki pants and white polo shirt had been neatly pressed, and he had worn a navy blue blazer, which Megan had found odd for a hot summer’s day.

  Megan had rarely given notice to men, seeing them as beings that occasionally helped her find art supplies, fix her car, or serve some other utilitarian purpose—none of which were lustful. On that particular morning, however, with the sun striking hot on her bare shoulders, and the smell of salt in the air, she had watched the stranger approach, and had felt an unfamiliar frisson.

  His pace had slowed as he had neared her booth, and she had quickly turned and busied herself propping up her paintings. Aware of his presence, a heat behind her, she began to hum. Hum!

  His voice, soft as a whisper, gave her pause. She envisioned physically touching his words, sure that if they were tangible they would feel as soft as silk and be colored in smooth reds and faded purples. She glanced up as nervous as a teenage girl. Her eyes found his. They were the color of the ocean in the evening; such a deep blue, she felt as though she might fall into them.

  He smiled.

  Riveted to the ground where she knelt, she awkwardly tried to use the table to pull herself to her feet. Never before had she been breathless over a man. This was new to her—frightening. She nervously cleared her throat, and produced a faint, “Hello.” inside she screamed at herself, What is wrong with you?

  He asked about her paintings and her inspirations. She gave brief answers, but her mind was not her own. It was as if something were flittering about in her head, taking her concentration and leaving a light, airy feeling behind. She averted her gaze, to keep from falling back into the abyss of his sensual eyes.

  He reached out to shake her hand, “Lawrence Childs.” When she took his large hand in hers, a heat rushed to her center. She withdrew her right hand, unsure if she wanted his hand back in her own or if she wanted to flee. Megan had seen women react that way to men, though she had never understood it, or experienced such a reaction firsthand. She’d seen Holly overcome with infatuation many times over the course of their lives. When Holly had cried over her latest breakup, Megan couldn’t understand her pain. He’s just a guy, for God’s sake. Get over it. Don’t be such a loser, there’s a million more like him around the corner.

  Lawrence asked if she had ever painted wall murals, and Megan was so lost in his world of touch and sound that his words barely registered. While Megan had painted murals of all sizes, she had never actually been commissioned to do so. Most of her wall work had been done as donations for charity or helping other artists meet their deadlines. Her large canvases were what paid her rent.

  Lawrence Childs, with his deep blue eyes and seductive voice, offered Megan fifteen thousand dollars to paint a mural in his home. He squinted and shaded his eyes from the burning sun. A glorious smile spread across his tanned skin, as an overwhelmed Megan nodded her head in acceptance and wondered what on earth she was doing.

  Olivia was pouring over her math homework at the kitchen table when Megan walked in.

  “Hey.” Megan’s greeting was met with silence, and she was becoming a little annoyed at her daughter’s teenage attitude—she had been putting up with Olivia’s silent treatment for three weeks now and was at the breaking point of being a patient, understanding mother. She was fed up with it. “Olivia, you could at least say hello!”

  Olivia slammed her pencil on the table and looked at Megan with angry eyes. Megan lifted her eyebrows in response.

  “Mom, why are you getting sick again?” Olivia accused.

  Megan was taken aback, silent.

  “Uh-huh. I heard you in the bathroom before dinner the other night.” Olivia’s eyes bored into her mother’s back, bony and small, as she moved around the kitchen.

  “Oh, honey, I just didn’t feel well.” Megan stared out the window, unwilling to let Olivia see the sadness in her eyes. “Mom! You can tell me, you know. I can take it if you’re sick again.” Olivia stood up as her voice grew louder, harsher. She couldn’t stop her lower lip from trembling or the tears from flowing. “It’s like all of a sudden you don’t tell me anything! You don’t even spend time with me! What’s going on, Mom?” Her screams landed hard and cutting in Megan’s ears.

  “Honey,” Megan turned to face Olivia, noticing for the first time how, when she was angry, her eyes saw right through her own, just like Olivia’s father’s. “I’ve just been busy, honey. You have to live your life and stop worrying about me. I’m fine, just fine.” She reached out to put her arms around Olivia, but Olivia shook her off, and stormed out of the room.

  “Whatever!” Olivia yelled. “Why are you allowed to lie to me, and I’m not allowed to lie to you?”

  Olivia’s next sentence exploded in Megan’s ears like a bomb, though it was spoken no louder than a whisper, “No wonder I don’t have a father!”

  Megan slumped down onto the hard kitchen cha
ir and let the tears roll down her cheeks. She jumped when Olivia’s bedroom door slammed shut.

  As the sun set, Megan hesitated in front of Olivia’s room, perched to knock. She heard Olivia typing on her keyboard, thought better of it, and padded softly down the hall to her own room. She marched directly into her bathroom, took the seven dwarfs from their bottles, and squeezed them until her knuckles were white. She held her breath and threw them into her mouth. Tears streaked her cheeks as she filled up a cup of water, and brought it to her lips. She shut her eyes tight, preparing for the awful taste of the medicine as it slid down her throat. She lifted the glass and swirled the seven dwarfs and the water around in her mouth. A tortured wail came from deep within her. She turned and spat the wet, sticky pills into the toilet, and sunk back onto her heels, moaning in desperation. What the hell am I doing? Am I really saving Olivia months of pain or creating more pain for her? I know I have to let her go, but I feel like I’m killing her along with me!

  “Holly, I’m worried about her. What can I do to make her understand that she needs to live her life?” Megan spoke quietly into the phone, though she was sure that Olivia was already asleep. The clock glowed red in the dark room, twelve-forty A.M.

  “Meggie, she’s a teenager. She’ll be fine. Remember how we were? We were always pitching fits at our parents. She’s totally normal.” Holly’s voice was gentle and sweet.