I shuffled back upstairs to the bathroom, untied my robe, and let the terrycloth fall to the floor. The quick rush of water from the tap drowned that little voice inside of me I couldn’t turn off.
I leaned against the counter inspecting myself in the mirror. My bruised flesh was starting to heal. Yesterday, Dr. Masterson, the radiation oncologist, mentioned what a beautiful job Dr. Akin had done with the incisions. When I looked, I saw something different, a permanent scar I’d take with me for the rest of my life. My reminder that I have cancer. I touched the black oblong tattoo on my right collarbone that glared at me. I hated it. I touched the one between my breasts, turned sideways, and inspected the two on the left side of my torso. My throat tightened. Stepping into the shower, I let the warm water rain down over me. I covered my face with my hands trying to stop the tremors, but my shoulders quaked and I slid down into the bottom of the tub to sob.
The lawn was mowed, edged, and the bushes freshly trimmed. Confused by the mystery workers, I stopped the car to investigate the premises. A team of men appeared from the backyard. They were tanned, shirtless, and ripped. I stared as they packed up their equipment. Bandana man loaded the edger and the electric trimmer while a bald man in Ray Bans approached me.
“Everything look okay?” he asked, mopping his brow.
I got out of my car and nodded. “Yes. Who are you? I didn’t order your service.”
With a straight face, the sweaty worker answered, “I know. It’s all paid for. You just have to approve the work.”
“Who paid for it?” I asked, stepping close enough to know he smelled of fresh grass clippings and Old Spice. Too tired from the day’s appointment, I stifled the part of me trying to picture him naked. Judging by his sculpted chest, I was sure his photograph was on a calendar somewhere.
“Your husband. Have a nice day.” He strode to his truck. As he slammed the door, his partner revved the engine, and gave a polite wave as they drove away.
A slow burn ignited within me. “Damn you, Beckett,” I hissed. I scanned the yard for the little ears with big eyes. The house was beautiful, I admitted, but how was this divorce thing ever going to work if he made sure every ‘T’ was crossed for me. I scrolled through my list of contacts on my phone. His line rang once then went straight to voicemail. I hung up without saying a word.
Taken aback by the Coppertone worker boys, I stomped inside without concern. Halfway to the kitchen it dawned on me that I just entered a house I did not leave open.
“Maggie, is that you?” a voice called out.
I stopped in my tracks, not startled by the intruder, and I shook my head at the familiar voice then kicked off my shoes. Mom sat at the kitchen counter playing Solitaire with the cards Beckett and I had brought home from Las Vegas. Thinking back, I remembered how I’d fawned over Cirque du Soleil and he’d loved Cher at the Colosseum. I rolled my eyes as I had the same old epiphany. Again. “I wish you would stop letting yourself in, Mom, or at least tell me when you’re coming over.”
My mother peered over the rim of her blue reading glasses that matched her denim shirt. “Relax, you’re so on edge.”
“Geez,” I muttered, “I come home and there are strange men in the yard, the door’s wide open, who knows what I’ll find in here. Rapist, thief, seven-year-old.” I smirked then searched the refrigerator for a cold bottle of water.
I ignored my mother as she watched me chug it down.
“You’re going to have to have more than that if you want your shorts to stop drooping.”
I glared at her. I was allowed. That’s what daughters do when baited. “Don’t worry, I’ll have cake for dinner.”
She narrowed her gaze and frowned. “I’ve already been through the cupboards, not much in there. And I’m not seeing any triple-layer chocolate cake anywhere.”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll get take-out.”
She grunted, flipped over three more cards, then peeked under the hidden cards.
“Cheater,” I whispered.
“I heard that.” Her words and eyes darted in my direction. “Don’t be sassy to your momma.”
She sounded like an extra in Gunsmoke. I walked over to where she was sitting, kissed her on the cheek, then stroked her hair as she finished her game.
“Ah, I finally won,” she proclaimed before shuffling the Vegas cards, tapping the deck on the table like a dealer, then returning them to the box. “So, I was thinking-”
“No, no, and no.” I waggled my pointer finger in her direction.
“Oh, I almost forgot, this was taped to the patio door.” She handed me a piece of rumpled notebook paper.
I took it from her and inspected the handwriting. “Thanks.” I put it on the counter where Chloe sat telling jokes while enjoying her ice cream before John got upset.
“What’s it say?” Mom got up and took the note back after I unfolded it. She lowered her gaze, her green eyes silently questioned my actions. “Is that from the little girl that lives next door?”
I nodded, picked up my water bottle, and drained the rest hoping the last trickle would wash away any guilty thoughts I harbored about keeping my illness a secret. I tossed the empty bottle into the recycle bin.
Mom started reading aloud. I swear her flare for the dramatic was a tactic of jest. “‘Dear Maggie, I am sorry I got you in trouble.’ I love the way Chloe spelled trouble.” Mom snickered. “‘He’s just being my dad.’” Mom held out the paper in my direction and pointed to the picture.
“That’s her and her cat, Voodoo,” I said.
“Interesting name for a feline.” Mom put the paper back on the counter. “Trouble? What did you do?”
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything, but try and mind my own business.” The way my mom’s skin wrinkled at the bridge of her nose irritated me. “Here we go. Really, it’s nothing.”
“Must not be nothing if she’s writing you a letter. Is her father the man I saw over here the other night?”
“Yeah,” I huffed. Just the thought of him annoyed me.
“Seems you need to make amends with your neighbors,” she suggested. “But then again, not everyone is neighbor material.”
“Thanks a lot,” I grumbled.
“I didn’t mean you. Remember Old Man Johnson?” She pointed her finger in my direction. “That old fart would keep your balls if they went over the fence and call me at the drop of a hat if you rode your bike on his lawn.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I forgot about him. He was mean.”
Mom opened the drawer to retrieve a paper and pencil.
“I’m not writing an apology letter,” I stated.
“Relax, Marjorie Jean.”
I cringed. “Please don’t call me that, Glad,” I said, emphasizing her given name.
The corner of her mouth curled upward as her eyes smiled.
“I’m making a shopping list. Whatever I buy, you eat. All this worry is making you lose your girlie figure. You’re too thin.”
“Fine,” I caved. “Put cake on the list. Chocolate.”
“You got it. And Chloe’s dad, he’s pretty handsome.” Mom stopped writing to catch my eye.
I covered my ears and pretended not to hear her. “Not gonna happen, woman, not gonna happen.”
Mom ripped the paper from the tablet. “It’s time to get out there. You can’t go on living life in a shell. Even turtles and snails poke their heads out once in a while.”
I meandered into the living room, plopped down on the oversized leather sofa, and curled up under the Chenille throw. A flash of heat scorched my body, so I kicked off the throw before closing my eyes.
“You’re gonna have to tell me sooner or later why Beckett left,” Mom called from the foyer. “You can’t keep everything to yourself forever,” she sang as she let the door slam.
“Oh, yes, I can,” I sang back, mimicking her tone. I opened my eyes trying to decipher the mumbling voices on the porch then I blew out a breath of air in exasperation. Craning my
neck to get a glimpse, I caught sight of the screen door slamming, yet again. “Seriously?” I whined.
There stood Chloe in a wet bathing suit. In one hand she held a dripping Popsicle and in the other she held the rope to Voodoo who was sitting by her wet feet sprinkled with grass clippings.
“Don’t worry, Maggie. I’m not staying. I just wanted to make sure you got my note. Hope there’s no hard feelings. I feel better now.” She continued licking her cherry treat.
“No worries,” I answered as I sat up. It was going to take more than a manipulative seven-year-old to take me out of the game. Twenty-six years of teaching and raising Bradley gave me more than my share of practice.
“Hey, was that your mom?”
“Yup.” I cringed when I saw a hunk of red Popsicle hit the floor. I got up, grabbed a tissue, and hurried in her direction.
“You guys look alike except she’s got a little bit of gray hair, not very much though, and she’s more smiley.”
Chloe’s green eyes resembled her daddy’s. I waited for her to move her foot before I started wiping the floor. She crouched next to me, her soft breaths in my ear.
“I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll throw this away at home.” Chloe swung around then headed out the front door. “I won’t slam the door this time either. This door is really old. Maybe you should get a new one.”
I was left holding the goopy tissue. “Good idea,” I responded.
Chloe stopped on the porch staring at the stick in her hand.
I opened the door to see what the problem was. “Something wrong?” I smiled as she faced me. The wrinkles at the bridge of her nose reminded me of my mother’s. They were better than the permanent frown line I had in my forehead from giving students the look in the classroom.
Chloe held out the stick. “Can you read this to me? I’m not so good at words. I think we already ‘cussed that.”
Instinctively, I took it. The wet wood made me cringe. “Why don’t seagulls fly by the bay?”
“Don’t know.” Chloe shrugged. “Voodoo, do you know?” she asked, staring him in the eyes.
We both waited for Voodoo to answer. Nothing.
“Go on, tell us,” Chloe prodded.
“Cause then they’d be called bay-gulls? Bagels.” I raised my eyebrows as she processed the riddle. The unexpected breeze whisked away the humor and carried off the rules about calling her dad if she came over. “Get it?”
She wrinkled her nose and crouched next to Voodoo. “Yeah. That was dumb. Maybe the next one will be better.” She patted Voodoo’s head. “Let’s try grape this time.”
Chloe turned, then trotted down the stairs dragging her best friend behind her while I was left holding her slobbery Popsicle stick.
I spun on my heel, went back inside, then tossed the sticky tissue and the sticky stick in the wicker trash basket in my library. This time when I surveyed the room, I had a vision of how to make it mine.
Chapter 7
With Beckett’s journal in my lap and a million questions in my mind about its content, I waited. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew there was a good chance that if I read the journal my heart would break all over again. My heart bumped against my chest walls begging me to open the cover. I was afraid, afraid of facing the truth, not just his truth, but my own truth. I had one of my own buried deep within me that I didn’t want to admit. Somehow, I was an equal part in this failed union.
Sure, it hurt when Beckett told me he was gay and that he wanted to leave, but at least he was being honest, with both of us. The pangs gnawing at the edges of my soul weren’t necessarily one hundred percent for the death of our marriage.
Bradley’s been grown for some time now. His independence and maturity secretly stole the kernel of mystery that connected Beckett and me. Without Bradley, our household was not intact, our marriage unmistakably out of sync.
I supposed keeping up with the Jones’ meant more than impeccable landscaping, current clothing, and new cars. It was good to attend PTA meetings and conferences with a united front. It was normal to meet other couples for drinks at the trendiest bar with your husband. It was expected to have a sparkling diamond-encrusted wedding band, a functional whole family with two traditional parents. I snickered when I realized I’d let society dictate my life.
My mother prefaced all great disappointments with, some things just aren’t meant to be. I opened Beckett’s journal and scanned his first words. Bradley is a beautiful boy. I hope he takes after his mother. When I see how happy she is, I don’t have the heart to tell her. My chest ached. The tears didn’t come. Beckett had known all along.
I turned the page. I read each word with purpose and shook my head. We were victims of our own expectations. I closed the book, tucked it under the cushion of the chaise lounge, and turned to see my mother hauling in groceries.
“Hey, I’m not as young as I once was,” she huffed.
I got up, made sure Beckett’s journal was out of sight, like so many things had been for years, and continued to be. A ladybug landed on my forearm. I marveled at its spots dreaming of a time when everything seemed so innocent, unscathed. And in that time period of discovering life, I went from wading on the shores of youth to having the foresight to run from raging waves ready to knock me down in the big blue sea of contentment, where I chose to ignore life changing experiences so I could float along with my nose pressed to the sky, not seeing the shark fins that circled around me. I closed my eyes, made a wish, then blew the ladybug from my arm. I watched the insect flutter in the sunshine before landing on my perch in the chaise lounge.
“There’s lots of good stuff in here, darling,” Mom crooned.
I scuffled through the French doors more eager to eat than I had been since the whole cancer thing began.
“Hold your horses,” I muttered, “I’m coming.”
“I’ll get the other two bags, you start putting stuff away.” She touched my shoulder, kissed my cheek, and whispered in my ear, “We’ll fatten you up and get you back to normal. Mark my words.”
Her thread of tenderness soothed me. I shut my eyes and thought how unfair it was to keep so many secrets. When I opened them, Mom was still there.
She pushed my messy strawberry-blond curls away from my face exposing my flushed cheeks. “You’re a lot like your father. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. He was a proud man, that’s a quality many great stubborn souls burden.”
My voice barely audible, I replied, “I miss him.” The knot in my stomach tightened. “I wish he was here.” I knew he would hold me tight, making life bearable.
Mom smiled then touched my chin. “Me, too, darling, me, too, but we don’t get to choose when we go.” She paused. “We can choose where, but not when, my darling.” She closed her eyes, made the sign of the cross on her chest, then pointed to the heavens. “But there is no doubt we will be together once again, when it’s meant to be.”
Inhaling sharply, I acknowledged that his absence still burned. The day my father’s heart stopped beating, so did mine. Beckett was the one who’d revived me and he’s gone now, too. I took the cracker box off the counter, and Mom unexpectedly smacked my bottom lightly.
“We’ve had our moment of sappiness, now let’s snap out of it.” She clapped her hands. “Lord knows, your father wouldn’t want us moping around. Now, I’m going to get the rest of the groceries while you unload.”
I leaned against the counter conjuring up his face. I saw his smile, dark eyes, and thick eyebrows. I stared at the ceiling, begging to see him hovering over me. “Come on, show yourself. I won’t be scared. I promise. I need you.” I scanned the room looking for signs until the screen door slammed, breaking the silence.
I hurried to unpack the bags. When I saw the midget, I stopped. “Oh, it’s just you.”
Chloe put her hand on her hip. “That’s not a very nice welcome.”
I was glad to see she wasn’t dripping wet. Her flip-flops matched her blue bathing suit.
/> “Sorry, I suppose not.” The Triscuit box slipped out of my hand. “Geez,” I huffed. Just as I bent over to retrieve it, Chloe darted in from the doorway, and we smacked heads. The thud stunned both of us. I slowly stood up trying to keep my balance. Blood trickled down my forehead. I grabbed the kitchen towel and held it on the gash, then blinked away the tears to see if Chloe was okay. She sat on the kitchen floor frantically rubbing her head creating a knotted mess of hair. She rebounded to her feet then moved closer to me.
“Hey,” she barked, “you have one hard head. Good Golly, Miss Molly, that stung!”
I pulled the towel away from my head to assess the bleeding. A trickle of blood crept toward my eye. I wiped it away before it dripped into my eye.
“You better sit down. You don’t look so good,” Chloe stated.
God, she was nonstop. I sat at the counter after she pulled out the chair.
“Let me see your head,” I said. My left temple pulsated as I inspected her for damage.
With both hands, she pointed to herself. “I’m good.” Chloe shook the knotted mess of hair into place as if nothing happened. She crawled up onto the stool next to mine. It teetered sending unnerving panic through my veins. I lurched to steady the chair. She peeked under the towel pressed to my head then hopped down, and ran out the front door.
“What’s going on in here?” Mom yelped when she saw the blood-soaked towel.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling as she scurried to evaluate my injury. “It’s nothing.” But it was something. “I just hope John doesn’t come over here accusing me of hurting his daughter.”
Maggie's Way (Montana Bound Series Book 1) Page 5
