“No one knows where this came from. We’ll have to put it in the lost and found.”
That familiar burn seared behind my eyes. I wanted to take the cane, but knew it wasn’t mine. I knew I was being watched over.
“You okay?” Debbie asked.
“Walter James was my father’s name. He passed four years ago.” I waited for her to tell me I was crazy to make such a phenomenal connection. His spirit brushed against me. I felt him stroke my hair. The wave of emotion pulled me under as I tried to catch my breath.
Debbie touched the cane. “Do you want it? What are the chances?”
I shook my head desperately wanting to take the cane. “I can’t take it. What if it belongs to some little old man? That’s not right.” I took one last look, knowing I may not see my father again for another thirty-five years or so.
“Okay,” she chimed. “But what are the chances? Spooky.”
I silently said goodbye to the cane.
I’d been wrong about the day’s events.
This was the hardest task by far.
The cane haunted my thoughts. It has to be Dad. The chills, his name scratched into the black paint metal, the way it’d shown up on the floor at the checkin desk. Finally, someone was watching over me. Thank you, Dad, I knew I could always count on you. Next time, don’t wait so long to show yourself. I promise, I won’t be scared.
A familiar, warm sensation passed over me. I turned the key in the lock of the front door. “If that cane is there on the last day of this treatment, I am going to claim it,” I stated as I pushed the door open. “God, I hate it when this front door sticks.”
I gasped at the sight of the uninvited visitor. “Jesus,” I blurted out.
Mom stared at me with her usual gaze. “So how was it?”
“How was what?” I held up my new books showing her the covers. She didn’t need to know it was my reward for surviving the first day of cancer treatment without having a meltdown. “The bookstore was fine. Same old, same old.” I set the paperbacks on the table in the foyer.
Mom picked them up. “The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. Interesting. I’ve heard of this before. Maybe it will help.”
“I hope.” I watched her read the back cover of Lori Nelson Spielman’s The Life List.
“I’m sure you’ve got a list, too.”
“I do.” I said, touching one of the daisies on the purple cover. “And by the way, please feel free to break in whenever you want.” I shot her my fierce teacher scowl.
“I have a key,” she huffed. “I don’t believe that counts as breaking and entering.”
“Seriously, you should call first.” I marched toward the kitchen smelling heavenly aromas. The sweet seductive smell of dinner washed away any irritation.
“I started the chicken. I figured you could use the support.”
Her footsteps echoed behind me on the slate floor.
The coolness of the stone soothed my aching feet. “So, I smell. What’s on the menu?” There was already a glass of wine poured for me. “Thanks, Mom. This whole thing with Beckett is throwing me for a loop. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
Mom sat at the counter and sipped her Merlot. “So this is how we’re going to play.” She peered over the top of her tortoise shell reading glasses.
Ignoring her, I plucked a strawberry out of the fruit salad. Taking a bite, the red fruit filled my mouth with juicy sweetness I craved. “Play what?” I asked. She was prying. I wondered how much she knew.
Mom’s glossy eyes warned me she knew plenty.
I sat back, too stubborn to talk, too stubborn to say I had the ‘C’ word out loud. The taste of fresh strawberry lingered on my tongue, its potent beauty masking the metallic taste at the back of my throat. I swallowed away the familiar lump then nibbled on another berry, the juice staining my plain nails.
I leaned back against the counter to steady myself, averting her gaze, not wanting to disappoint her. I didn’t want her to worry. There was no doubt in my mind that I could fight this battle alone. There was no doubt in my mind that if I kept my breast cancer a secret, even I would believe it was just another bump in the road. Blinders made it easy to dismiss the severity. My breast ached, and I tugged my cardigan closed.
“Marjorie Jean, this is serious. I know.”
She was giving me the opportunity to fess up. She was giving me the opportunity to meet my nemesis head on. I watched as she drained her glass of wine. My jaw dropped in awe as she swigged down the red nectar, refilled her glass, and chugged that one, too.
“Wow, that was impressive. I bet you’re good at doing shots.” I pursed my lips at her sharp gaze. “What? Divorce is hard. How often does your husband take you to dinner, then drop the bomb that he is gay?” I added, reaching for a blueberry.
Mom refilled her glass. Her left pointer finger shot up toward the ceiling. “What!” Her wine almost spilled over the lip of the glass.
I nodded, hoping Beckett’s truth would distract her from her original quest to delve into my personal health affairs. I assessed her disposition then peeked curiously into the oven not caring what was on the menu. “Dinner looks great.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “It’s kind of hot to turn on the oven, though.”
Mom gently put her glass on the counter. Her chest rose and fell in time with the deep breaths she was taking to calm her temper. I’d watched it fester as I sipped at my wine. I’d baited Beckett earlier. I silently reprimanded myself for the cruel deed, but yet I tormented my mother with the same insensitive tactics. With a cold heart, I’d stood by and watched her come unglued.
“Listen here, darling daughter, I watched your father negate health issues. I know this must be hard for you, but it’s even harder for me to stand back and watch you play the martyr. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I—”
“Before you go any further, young lady.” She took a sip of her wine. “We will get to Beckett later. It’s you I am worried about. And if you are making tale about poor Beckett as a distraction, there will be consequences.”
I nodded, accepting her challenge. “I—”
“Stop right there.” She took another deep swallow of wine.
“Well, if you keep drinking, I just may have a chance to come out unscathed. You won’t remember anything if you pass out.” Stepping toward her, I picked up the merlot bottle then refilled her glass. “Good stuff.”
“What in heaven’s name has gotten into you?”
I leaned back against the counter as she caught her breath. She ran her fingers through her hair, took off her glasses, then blinked and rubbed her temples. The vein on the left side of her head protruded. I hadn’t seen that expression since I washed dad’s car with rocks when I was four.
“Maggie, you can’t hide from the fact you have cancer anymore. You need people. You need me. It’s one thing to antagonize the handsome doctor next door …”
I tuned her out. I hadn’t really thought of John as handsome, but he was growing on me. I shook my head, focusing on Mom’s lips. They were thin and pursed.
“Your dad kept things to himself and that got him six feet under, God rest his soul.” Mom rolled her eyes upward and she mouthed an apology.
The timer on the stove dinged.
I took the chicken out of the oven and turned off the heat.
The ceramic dish clanked on the wooden cutting board, startling us both.
“Oops,” I said.
“Not that I could have saved him, but I cannot watch you keep such a giant secret to yourself. Look where that got you when Beckett did that.” Her wicked stare unnerved me. “You better not be fibbing about that,” she warned.
I opened the French doors to the patio and breathed deeply. The warm summer air filled my lungs. The touch of her hand on my shoulder shattered the barrier between us. “How did you find out?” I asked. The world felt strangely calm.
“I found your doctor’s card the other day when I was cleaning up. I
know, I shouldn’t let myself in, but I can’t help it. I want to be here with you. Sometimes the only way I can feel close to your father is by just being with you.”
I didn’t have the courage to face her. Beckett and I used Bradley as a bandage, too.
“I followed you today when you left.”
Swallowing hard, I walked into the early evening air. I kicked off my sandals and sprawled out on my lounge chair. The thick cushion absorbed my weight. I rested my head against the pillow noting the tangerine streaks in the dusky horizon.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said.
Her warm hand rested on my shoulder. “What?” I sighed. “You’re sorry that I have breast cancer?” Her quick intake of air stopped my words. “Or that you’re a snoop.” I waited for her chastising tone. When it didn’t come, I filled the void the best I knew how. “The grass in the yard is greener than ever. I guess there are some perks to being sick. You get to stay home, hide, and water the lawn a whole heck of a lot.”
The sky reddened and I wished upon the whimsical magic of the flickering fireflies to show me the way. I wondered why Mother Nature broke the spark in their tail into short intervals making them blink like they were flying in slow motion. I suspected it was to give humans an opportunity to believe in fairy tales. Lost in the unpredictable flashes of light, tranquility washed over me. The weight in my chest moved across my arms and down my legs, then it left my body. My energy drained, the light dimmed, and the flying creatures before me blinked on and off, in secret code.
When I turned around, Mom was gone.
Chapter 11
The doorbell jarred me from my sleep. I uncovered my head to check the time on the clock. “Shit,” I grunted. Ten o’clock. I hadn’t slept in that long since I had the flu in March.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled, wrapping my cottony pink robe around me. I held the rail as I clonked down the stairs. From my vantage point, I could see through the window to the porch. I didn’t recognize the man standing there.
I rubbed my eyes, tucked my uncombed hair behind my ears, then opened the door just enough to speak. “Yes, can I help you?”
“I have a package for Maggie Littleton,” he said, fiddling with his clipboard and pen. “You’re going to have to sign.”
“My name isn’t Littleton anymore. It’s Abernathy. Does it matter?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head like Don Knotts.
I opened the door more. He pushed a plain brown box in my direction. “You’re not a UPS man.” I scanned the front yard. “Who is this from?” I blew a wisp of hair away from my face as he smirked.
“I just deliver them,” he stated.
“Yeah, okay, but what delivery agency has customers sign on notebook paper?” I raised an eyebrow. “Give me the box.”
“Please sign your full name, Miss.”
“This has my mother written all over it.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to place the man. His stance was familiar, but I had no clue to his identity. I took the box after scrawling the words Princess Leia Organa on his legal pad. “Thank you.” I forced a toothy smile and shut the door. I shook the box. Nothing. I shook it harder. Nothing. I carried it into the kitchen and put it on the counter, then poured myself some juice.
There was no breakfast.
There was no unexpected company.
There was no coffee brewing.
There was no anything.
Tired and sluggish, I assessed my package, square, brown, and lightweight. The doctor warned me about fatigue, but I doubted my lack of energy was zapped from radiation. It was still too early in the treatment.
I shuffled back to my bedroom, kicked off my slippers, dropped my robe on the floor next to my bed, and climbed back in. My bed didn’t judge. It coddled my weary soul. I pulled the covers over my head and closed my eyes, then uncovered my head just as quickly so I could stare at the ceiling and think about the anonymous package that sparked curiosity. I tried to place the man at the door. His plaid shorts reminded me of camp. My forehead beaded with sweat. I kicked off the duvet willing the air-conditioning to click on then spread my arms across the whole bed. If Beckett were here, he would have gotten a good swift blow. The overhead fan spun, making the rays of light flicker across the ceiling like Morse Code. “These hot flashes suck,” I mumbled. “God, I hate that word, suck, but they really do.”
My hands felt clammy as the dew on my skin spread. In a huff, I scrambled to the shower, dropping my pajamas in my tracks, and quickly turning on the tepid water. I glanced at my thinner-than-usual silhouette in the mirror. If I sucked in my belly, I could see my ribs. If I saw myself on the street and I were a stranger, I’d say, “That girl needs to eat some cake.” I faced myself. My eyes focused on my bruised skin, its purple tone reminiscent of ripe eggplant. I carefully touched the healing incision then jerked my hand away afraid to connect with it.
I whisked back the shower curtain and hurried into the refreshing streams of water. I squealed taking in a sharp breath. It was cold. I needed the jolt.
I expected my mother.
I expected a visit from Chloe.
I touched the stitches on the side of my head.
I wanted the water to wash away the year. I worked so damn hard getting my degree, applying for the principal’s opening, serving on committees, attending after-hour events to show my dedication, and where did it get me? Nowhere. What did Jenny McBride have, that I didn’t? I doubted she even liked kids. I closed my eyes pushing away the disappointment, trying to remember my original desire to guide students into the future with some sort of dignity regardless of their destiny or dreams. I pressed my fingers to my eyelids. How the hell did I become a master teacher to others, but ignore my own wisdom?
Trying to please others and doing good deeds to achieve human worth was tiring. I wanted my footprints to lead others in a positive direction and how would that happened if I continued down the path I had chosen? I gulped for air and water pelted against my teeth. I scrubbed my head vigorously, careful not to touch the stitches, massaging the roots, getting out the particles of disgust, disease, and distain. I screamed into the air, “I want to be whole again.”
Cold water washed away the suds, while I clenched my fists. I gave myself three minutes, the time frizz control conditioner needed to do its job, to regain some sort of composure. I turned the water gauge warmer then set the showerhead to pulsate. Jet streams pelted my back, sending messaging blows down my spine.
How was it possible that in one split second my life was turned upside down, broken to bits, and shaken like a cupful of dice? I’ve seen it before from a distance, and preferred it that way. I counted to sixty, just like the kids do in my classroom when they want to tell me something, but need time to collect themselves. “One, two, three, four, five, six, times ten,” I chanted. I grinned at my cleverness. I unclenched my fist, washed out the conditioner, turned off the water, and wondered how I could spend my day being productive.
When I returned to the kitchen, the package hadn’t moved. I sipped at the orange juice I’d left on the counter and ran my fingers over the cool brown cardboard pondering the contents, pondering the troll-like deliveryman in plaid.
I rummaged in the drawer for my Pampered Chef scissors, tough enough to do any job, maybe I should have written that on my resume, tough enough for any job. I cut the clear packing tap and opened the box. Inside was a white porcelain teacup. The rim was dotted with pink circles and at every fifth circle there was a pink breast cancer awareness ribbon. A pink piece of tissue paper inside the cup adorned a white ribbon.
The pressure behind my eyes began to build. I blinked away the nagging sensation. I didn’t have the energy for a second meltdown. The day was just beginning.
I lifted the gift wrapped in tissue and undid the ribbon. Inside was a necklace. In that instant, I regretted my insensitivity. How did I let myself dismiss my mother’s need to reach out? When your child has a disease, you own it, too. It infects everyone no ma
tter how hard you try not to let it.
I fingered the elegant sterling silver charm that dangled from a delicate chain. I was never delicate, just practical, and driven. Bradley and Beckett had been my charms.
The half of heart had jagged edges as if someone snapped it in two. I knew who wore the matching half. I dug through the Styrofoam peanuts to retrieve the card, which confirmed my thought. I read it aloud. “‘When you are ready to accept those things that only loved ones can give you, your heart will be whole again. You do not choose life. Life chooses you. Glad.’”
I set the card on the counter then stroked the small trinket wondering how the hell she managed to get the upper hand on all things gone sour. Undoing the clasp, I put the necklace on even though I couldn’t bear to wear one more ounce around my neck for it just might make the scales tip with the chip already on my shoulder. I couldn’t take another face-plant, but my mother was worth the risk.
With Beckett’s rug gone, the wooden floor in the library glistened in the daylight. I imagined the room filled with my things. It was time to call Paul. He needed to get this job done and now. I needed my space, something I never really owned. I poked the numbers on the telephone and waited for him to answer.
“Hi, Paul, it’s Maggie. Yup, and first of all, I’d like to apologize for the other day. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging. Sorry.” I twirled my hair around my finger as I spoke. “Oh, that’s great. Really, an estate sale? Can’t wait. It sounds perfect. Sure. Tomorrow would be good.” My voice trailed off. “Oh, I’m sure it will look great. We have to start somewhere. Even better.” I took a deep breath as he stroked my bruised ego from his end of the telephone. “A picture, what a great idea, I’ll look for your text. Sure. Bye now. And Paul.” I paused. The words got stuck in my throat. “Thank you.” I ended the call.
My phone chimed and I eagerly opened the photograph. The desk sat on two black steel pedestals, simple, sleek, perfect. How could he find something so right, even if it wasn’t what I had in mind? Underneath he wrote the specs. 63” long, 4 drawers, iron pulls, for the contemporary you.
Maggie's Way (Montana Bound Series Book 1) Page 8
