Bringing Maggie Home

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “So why not just say so?” Meghan’s tone held a thread of disbelief. “Why show up and, like Grandma said, sabotage our time together?”

  Hazel spluttered. “I never used the word sabotage.”

  Meghan grinned. “Okay, I inserted that. Because that’s kind of how it feels to me.” She angled a weary look in her mother’s direction. “Surprises are nice, Mom, but this visit doesn’t feel like a surprise. It feels like a sneak attack.”

  Hazel clamped her lips tight and resisted adding anything to Meghan’s statement. Her granddaughter had never been a timid child, but she’d always been respectful and sensitive to other people’s feelings. Hazel had never heard her utter an unkind word to or about anyone. Her boldness in addressing her mother took Hazel by surprise. Hazel couldn’t imagine having been so straightforward when she was as young as Meghan. She wasn’t that straightforward even now, and no one would call her young.

  Meghan gestured to the suitcases still standing sentry beside the front door. “You asked why I needed so much luggage. One of those suitcases doesn’t have a stitch of clothing in it. It’s all…memorabilia.”

  Margaret Diane frowned, but she remained silent.

  Hazel couldn’t. “What do you mean?”

  Meghan’s dark eyes lit. “Do you remember when I came out the first summer you moved to Nevada? You lived in Carson City then.”

  Memories swept over her of the adorable child with missing front teeth, crooked ponytails, and scraped knees. “I remember.”

  “You gave me your old camera—the one that took the picture, then spit out the film so we could watch it develop.”

  Hazel laughed. “Oh, yes. You had so much fun with that Polaroid. You said the camera was sticking out its tongue every time the picture emerged. I believe I snapped a photo of you imitating the camera. We must have used ten boxes of film.”

  “Thirteen.” Meghan giggled. “I saved every last picture in a shoe box. I kept the photos from our other summers together, too. I brought them all with me.” She propped the foot sporting the cast on the edge of the coffee table, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I also brought empty scrapbooks and stickers, stubs from movie theaters and museums, and T-shirts from Disneyland, and—”

  Hazel waved her hands, laughing. “Gracious, Meghan, what are you planning to do with all that?”

  Meghan’s grin turned impish, rolling back the clock to her preteen years. “Reminisce. Fill up the scrapbook pages. Make a pictorial map of our years together.” Tears glistened in her eyes, and her bright smile faded. “I can’t believe your eightieth birthday is next month. I’ve been thinking and thinking what I could do to make it special, and then when I found out I’d be here for the big event, I thought, why not make a scrapbook of memories?”

  She sat up, excitement erasing the glimmer of moisture. “I brought things from our summers together, but we don’t have to limit it to you and me. Since Mom’s here, she can help, too, and make pages representing her years with you. I know you’ve got photographs from her childhood, and you’ve got to have some from when you were a girl on the farm with your parents. We can even include those. Make it…a timeline of your entire life.”

  Her entire life? Then that would include— Cold chills attacked. Hazel rose, her joints popping with the effort, and crossed to the coat closet next to the front door. She took out a light sweater and draped it over her shoulders, then remained with her back to her daughter and granddaughter, staring into the shadowy space and attempting to rein in her galloping emotions.

  “A timeline of your entire life.” She couldn’t do it. Not without sharing things she hadn’t shared in seven decades. But how could she tell Meghan no?

  She turned and pinned her gaze on Margaret Diane, her rebellious child. Her potential rescuer. “What do you think of this idea? Of course, we’re presuming you intend to stay for the entire length of Meghan’s visit. Perhaps we’re mistaken.”

  The preparatory school where Margaret Diane taught American and world history and political science didn’t open again until early September. She had no reason to return to Little Rock before then, so she had the freedom to stay. Not since Margaret Diane lived under her roof had they been together for such an extended period of time. What kind of mending might they be able to accomplish if they had six weeks together with Meghan as their mediator? But if Margaret Diane stayed, and if Meghan talked her into this timeline-of-life scrapbook, Hazel’s deepest shame would be laid bare in front of the two people she most feared disappointing.

  Her heart alternately begged Stay, stay and Go, go…

  “I wouldn’t have brought the dogs if I only intended to stay for a short time. I couldn’t board them for more than a month.”

  Meghan arched one brow. “Does that mean you’re staying the whole time?”

  “That was my intention.”

  Hazel nodded, torn between relief and regret.

  “Unless”—Margaret Diane shot a glare across the room, as piercing as an arrow from a crossbow—“you don’t want me here.”

  Hazel slowly shook her head, her chest aching. “You’re my daughter, Margaret Diane. Do you really think I’d order you to leave?”

  “You did it once before.”

  Yes, she had, but Margaret Diane had conveniently neglected to share what precipitated the command. And Hazel had no desire to dredge it up again. Not with Meghan sitting there with bruises from head to toe and a cast on her foot. They needed to set aside their differences and allow the girl they both loved to fully heal.

  Hazel returned to her chair and took a long, slow draw of her sweet tea. The ice had mostly melted, watering down the strong flavor she preferred, but she drank it anyway. When she nearly drained the glass, she set it aside and aimed a smile at Meghan. “So it’ll be the three of us, then.”

  One of the dogs—the one with long, wavy hair on its ears, haunches, and tail—sat up and released a little yip.

  Hazel cringed. “Or, more accurately, the seven of us. I doubt the dogs will be much help in putting together a scrapbook, but surely we three with human hands can manage it.” She sighed, leaning back and letting her gaze drift to the vaulted ceiling and the fan blades slowly circling. “You know what they say about a three-strand cord—it’s not easily broken.”

  Meghan

  Why did it seem Grandma was talking about something other than putting together a scrapbook? The sudden melancholy in her voice and her expression raised Meghan’s sympathy. And concern. She glanced at Mom, who also frowned at Grandma, but Meghan couldn’t discern if Mom was concerned or just puzzled.

  Meghan cleared her throat. “If you don’t want to build the scrapbook, Grandma, we don’t have to do it.”

  Grandma jerked, the way people did when waking from a bad dream. She met Meghan’s gaze. The faraway look faded away, and the familiar glow of love and affection in her eyes returned. “You brought everything for that purpose. Of course we’ll do it. But for now…” She pushed herself from the chair, more slowly than previous times, as if she’d suddenly remembered her age. “Let’s take your suitcases to your room and get you settled. Margaret Diane’s things are already in there, but if we can talk her into putting the dog carriers in the utility room or on the patio in the back—”

  “I’m not putting the dogs out on the patio in this heat, Mother!”

  “—there’ll be plenty of space for both of you.”

  How would she last for six weeks playing buffer between Mom and Grandma? Tiredness struck hard. Meghan lowered her cast to the floor and reached for her crutches. “The bedroom in my apartment is half the size of your guest room, so even with the dogs and Mom in there, I’m sure I won’t feel smooshed.” She turned to her mother. “Would you take the biggest suitcase and my duffle to the room? The other one we can leave in here since we’ll probably do all the sorting and so forth on the floor.”

  Without a word Mom shifted the dogs aside and stood. She grabbed the two pieces of luggage Megh
an had indicated and carted them around the corner. The four dachshunds bounced along behind her with their ears flapping and tails wagging. When Mom was out of sight, Meghan sighed and aimed an apologetic grimace at her grandmother.

  “I’ll try to talk her into keeping the dogs locked in the bedroom. I know you don’t like them running all over the house.”

  Grandma shook her head. “No, honey, don’t bother. No need to stir conflict. I’m just glad she didn’t bring the fish, the cats, and the ferrets, too.”

  “She doesn’t have the ferrets anymore.”

  “No?”

  “She traded them for guinea pigs. Six of them.”

  “Oh, my soul…”

  They both laughed, and to Meghan’s relief some of the tension dissolved. They began ambling up the hallway to the guest suite at the back half of the house.

  “You know something, Grandma? I’m really looking forward to putting the scrapbook together. I realized when I was packing the pictures and stuff that I really don’t know much about you. I mean, beyond you as a grandmother.” Meghan pinched her brows together, sending her thoughts backward. “Especially since I’ve never had any contact with my father’s family, I’d really like to know as much as possible about Mom’s. I think it gives a person a sense of security—and stability—to know where she came from, what kind of people are in her gene pool, you know?”

  Grandma chuckled, but it sounded raspy. Forced. “It might scare you a little bit. Did you ever consider that?”

  Affection flooded her. She paused and released one crutch to give Grandma a one-armed hug. “If your parents were half as wonderful as you, I come from good stock. I’m not worried at all.”

  The furrow in Grandma’s brow spoke of her worry, though. Another gravelly chuckle eased the deep lines. “Well, dear granddaughter, we shall see how much this old brain of mine recalls. Sometimes the good Lord, in His wisdom, allows some things to slip too far into the recesses of memory to be recovered. If that’s the case, I hope”—tears winked in her eyes, turning her brown irises a tawny russet—“you’ll forgive me.”

  Five

  Late July 1943

  Cumpton, Arkansas

  Hazel Mae

  Hazel sat up in her bed and listened to the sounds creeping through the plaster wall separating her room from Mama and Daddy’s. Ten nights in a row she’d heard Mama crying. Heartbroken wails. Noises that made Hazel’s chest hurt so bad she could barely breathe. She’d also heard Daddy’s voice, soft and low, as soothing as he was when Hazel or Maggie got scared from a bad dream or fell down and hurt themselves. But tonight…

  Mama’s sobs came same as the nights before, but Daddy didn’t answer soft and soothing. Angry words—harsher than he’d ever spoken to anybody, even to Hazel when she confessed she’d lost Maggie—exploded.

  “Mae, she’s gone, an’ no carryin’ on is gonna bring her back. If you don’t get ahold of yourself, you’re gonna make yourself sick an’ drive me back to the bottle!”

  Mama’s mutters came next, but no matter how hard Hazel strained, she couldn’t make out the words. Daddy talked loud enough for their miles-away neighbors to hear.

  “I ain’t stayin’ one more minute in this bed if you don’t stop your cryin’. I mean it, Mae, stop it or I’m headin’ out the door.”

  Silence fell. Hazel held her breath, her heart beating like the bass drum in a parade band. She lowered her head to her pillow, her breath easing out on a long, slow sigh. She closed her eyes, eager to let sleep carry her away.

  Then a sob—just one, but one that made Hazel think somebody was being choked—erupted. And wails followed it, the loudest and most keening yet.

  Hazel pulled the covers over her head. A door slammed so hard the walls shook. Thundering footsteps pounded past her door and down the stairs, Daddy’s mutters and curses blasting out. She cowered under the covers for long minutes, anguish for Mama and worry about Daddy tearing her in two. What should she do? What could she do? Would anything help?

  She lay still, staring wide eyed into the nighttime shadows for what seemed like hours, until Mama’s wails softened into hiccups and finally died out. She waited for Daddy’s feet to come up the hall, but all she heard was a hoot owl from the tree outside and the wind’s whisper. Maybe Daddy’d gone out to the barn. If he was inside the barn, up in the hayloft or huddled down in the corner of a stall like he used to do before Maggie came along, he wouldn’t know Mama’d stopped crying. Someone should tell him so he’d come back in.

  Hazel slipped out of bed and crept to her door. The hinges squeaked when she eased it open, and she cringed at the creepy sound. Would Mama wake up? She stood still as a scarecrow on the threshold and listened, but no sound came from Mama’s room. Sucking in a breath, she hurried on tiptoes to the stairs, down the risers, and out the back door.

  Slivers of moonlight flowed between the tree branches and spotted the dirt path worn smooth by years of trekking back and forth to the barn. The ground felt as cool as clay against her bare feet—a comforting touch. At the other end of the path the old barn’s doors lolled wide like a pair of open arms, inviting her in. She scampered toward the barn, her cotton gown flapping in the light breeze and her feet pat-patting a steady rhythm, and entered the dark space rich with the scent of animals, hay, and old wood. Daddy smelled just like it when he came in from milking. She’d always loved the smell.

  She pulled in a deep breath, flaring her nostrils to absorb the barn’s perfume. Another aroma sneaked in, a sickly sweet one she didn’t love. Not at all. She rubbed her nose hard to erase it. She took a step deeper into the barn, her pulse stuttering. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was here. The flowers-soaked-in-sugar smell gave him away.

  “Daddy?”

  Rustling noises came from the last stall on the left. Gathering her courage, she scuffed across the floor in that direction. A square window above the stall let in enough moonlight for her to see Daddy slouched against the barn wall. An open bottle was tucked next to his hip. She hugged the stall post and stared at the bottle. Where’d he gotten it? Far as she knew, he hadn’t had a drop since Mama’s belly was all swollen with Maggie.

  “What you doin’ out here, girl?” Daddy’s slurred words let her know he’d helped himself to more than just a few sips of the whiskey.

  “Lookin’ for you.” She let go of the post and crept closer. Close enough to see Daddy’s chin quivering. She swallowed. “Mama stopped cryin’.”

  His face scrunched into a horrible scowl. “Cryin’ an’ cryin’. The mournfulness of it. I couldn’t listen to it anymore.”

  “She’s done.” Hazel spoke soft, hardly a whisper. As she recalled, the drink made his ears mighty sensitive. “All quiet now. So you can come back in.”

  He hung his head, hanks of his thick, dark hair falling across his forehead. He covered his eyes with his hand. “No. I can’t.”

  She moved a few more inches, close enough to touch his upraised knee. “Do…do you need help walkin’?” It had been a long time, but she still remembered the days when Daddy sometimes couldn’t stay on his feet and Mama had to hold him up. “I can help you. I’m big enough.”

  “Ain’t that.” He slid his head down until his forehead collided with the inside of his elbow. He curled his hand over his hair. His whole body jerked. Little shuddering jerks. Then funny sounds—squeaks and short coughs and hiccups—came out. It took a minute for her to understand, and when she did her mouth dropped open.

  Crying…Her daddy was crying.

  She hadn’t known big, strong daddies cried. Her chest tried to turn itself inside out. She wrung her hands, so scared and uncertain and helpless, and her legs went rubbery. As rubbery as Daddy’s had ever been when he’d taken to a bottle.

  She dropped to her knees at his side. She touched his convulsing shoulder with her fingertips, afraid to touch him but also afraid not to. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry.”

  His arms snaked out and snatched her against him. His face presse
d into the curve of her neck, and the awful sounds continued. She burrowed as close as she could even though the smell of the liquor made her want to heave. She held him as tight as her puny strength allowed and bit down on her lower lip to hold back her own tears. She’d done such an awful thing. No wonder Daddy hid his face from her. Would he or Mama ever look at her again without remembering how she’d lost their baby girl?

  The preacher at church said when you’d wronged somebody, you should ask for forgiveness, but she didn’t know of anybody doing something as bad as what she’d done. If she asked, would Mama and Daddy forgive her? She swallowed hard and prayed for the courage to ask.

  “Daddy…Daddy, will…Can…”

  “Please forgive me, Hazel Mae. Please, please forgive me.”

  Hazel went as stiff as a mouse under a rattlesnake’s glare. “W-what?”

  Daddy caught hold of her shoulders. He pushed her away but kept his grip, holding her at arm’s length. His brown eyes, all watery and red rimmed, stared hard into her face while his fingers pressed so tight she knew they’d leave bruises behind. “If it hadn’t been for me, you girls wouldn’t’ve gone to the thicket. She wouldn’t’ve wandered off. I’m so sorry for hintin’ to your mama for that cobbler. Please forgive me.”

  Tears rolled down Hazel’s cheeks, warm and salty. They touched her lips and burned where she must’ve bit down too hard. “I…I…”

  Daddy shook her. Not a hurtful shake. A needful one. “Forgive me, Hazel Mae. Will you forgive me?”

  Hazel nodded hard. “I forgive you, Daddy.”

  His face crumpled. He pulled her close again and buried his moist face in her hair. “Thank you, girl. Thank you.”