Maggie's Baby

by Colleen French

  Maggie started up toward the dunes, following the path that led off the beach and onto the street where her oceanfront house stood.

  Kyle scooped up the remainder of the breakfast and ran to catch up with her. “I really think you should let me drive you to D.C. This is silly. You’re going. I’m going. If nothing else, it’s a waste of fossil fuel.”

  She looked at him. She felt so tired. So old. No thirty-three-year- old should have to feel this way. “I just want to be alone, Kyle. I don’t want you to see me a wreck. Crying.”

  He looped her arm through his and escorted her up the sandy path. “That’s half your trouble. You haven’t cried enough.”

  She pushed back a lock of her shoulder-length hair. It was dirty and tangled. “Kyle, I’m afraid if I start crying, I won’t be able to stop. Ever.” A sob rose in her throat and she caught it before she made a sound.

  Kyle hugged her. “Ah, sweetheart. If I could take the pain from you, I would.”

  Maggie knew it was true. Kyle was that kind of friend. “I’m a physician,” she reasoned aloud. They reached the paved road and turned toward her house. “I deal with death and dying every day. I should be handling this better.”

  “You’re handling it fine.”

  At her doorway, Maggie stopped and turned to Kyle. “I'll just meet you at the memorial service. We’ll go from there to Stanley’s folks’ house afterward.”

  He squeezed her arm. “You sure, hon?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Three o’clock, right?”

  “Yeah. Would you mind calling my mom and dad and reminding them?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’d better call Lisa, too. Early, before she has her first Bloody Mary. Otherwise, she won’t make it.”

  “Don’t tell me your entire family will be there.”

  A faint smile played on her lips. “In all their horror.”

  Kyle turned away, raising his hand to his forehead in an exaggerated manner. “Let me get my Valium out now. I can tell it’s going to be one of those days.”

  Maggie started up the steps to the first floor of her beach house. “Better bring some along for me, too. I may need it by the end of the day.”

  He turned back. “You serious? It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  She grimaced. “I told you. I told the crisis counselor at the hospital. No drugs. Hell, I’m neurotic enough as it is around my family. I don’t need any help.” She gave a vague wave and started up the steps again.

  “Call me if you need me, or if you change your mind about wanting to ride over with me.”

  She raised her hand so that Kyle knew she’d heard him and then disappeared into the house. She was going to need all the time she could get to pull herself together before the funeral.

  ~~~

  Maggie stood near the coat closet of her in-laws’ Alexandria townhouse, unsteady on her black pumps. Though not a drinking woman, she wished to God she had a vodka and tonic right now. Anything to numb the pain. Anything to get her through the rest of the afternoon.

  The memorial service had gone well. Maggie nearly choked on her own thoughts. As well as any funeral for your husband and child can go. It had taken place in Stanley’s parents’ church, the same church Maggie and Stanley had been married in five years earlier.

  Because she’d had Stanley and Jordan’s bodies cremated, there had been no viewing. No small white coffin at the altar. No lilies permeating the air with their death scent. That was how Maggie had wanted it.

  There had been an argument from Stanley’s parents, but she’d stood her ground. In the end, she’d won.

  A children’s choir had sung at the funeral, angelic voices floating upward, carrying the souls of her loved ones to heaven, perhaps. Then men and women in dark gray pinstriped suits had walked to the pulpit to proclaim what a fine businessman Stanley had been. They used words like dependable, trustworthy, and admirable. No one said Stanley was fun.

  When Jordan’s daycare mother stood at the pulpit, Maggie had concentrated on the stained glass windows of the opulent church. She had tried to decipher the pictures, excavating past memories of Sunday School, trying to remember the Old Testament stories. Wasn’t that Joseph’s many-colored coat? And there, near the vestibule, Moses parting the Red Sea? Anything not to hear Miss Jean’s voice. Anything not to hear what a sweet, bright, loving child Jordan had been.

  Had been. Past tense. Dead. Gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Maggie didn’t cry. She hurt too much to cry.

  After the service, Kyle had grabbed her arm and made a beeline for the sanctuary exit. When Stanley’s mother caught up to them and suggested Maggie should stand in the receiving line in the narthex, Maggie could have sworn Kyle had used a bad word in his hissing response. Something about receiving lines being for expletive weddings, not a baby’s funeral.

  Maggie thanked sweet God for Kyle. If she’d had to stand there and shake people’s hands, she’d have crumbled.

  “Oh, there you are, Maggie, dear.” Stanley’s parents, Eunice and Edward, approached her, joined at the hip as they usually were, with only the female of the Siamese twins apparently able to speak. Edward’s purpose in life seemed to be to repeat what his wife said. Maggie had always thought they were a strange couple, but then, whose parents who’d been together forty years weren’t?

  Eunice was clothed in black linen, a new Chanel sheathe for the occasion. Huge diamonds sparkled in her ears. She looked as if she’d recently touched up the makeup around her eyes. So, she did have a heart.

  “You left the church before us and arrived here late,” Eunice chastised. “We were worried about you. You should have ridden with us. Edward had the Cadillac washed and waxed.”

  “Washed and waxed,” Edward echoed.

  Maggie pushed back her bangs. She had never liked Stanley’s parents when he was living. Did she have to put up with their inaneness now that he was dead? “I stopped at the Kwik-Mart for ibuprofen.”

  “We have aspirin, dear. I’m hurt you wouldn’t want our aspirin.”

  “Our aspirin,” echoed Edward the canyon.

  Maggie looked down, the sparkle of her two-carat engagement diamond twinkling up at her. It was an antique from the 1920s; the ring she’d always wanted. She now wondered if the last wearer had been affected so tragically. Maybe that was why the ring had ended up at the art auction where she and Stanley found it. “I just needed a few minutes alone, Eunice.” Maggie breathed deeply. “To settle my nerves.”

  “Well, come in and say hello to everyone. Eat some ham.” Eunice caught her arm and led her across the imported Turkish carpet, down the hall toward the dining room.

  “I hate ham,” Maggie whispered. “Funeral food.”

  “Oh, God, Maggie.”

  Maggie spotted her sister coming out of the dining room. She appeared even thinner than usual, dressed in an expensive, black cap-sleeved dress and matching linen heels. Her eyes were red from crying, her dark makeup smudged.

  Lisa put out her hand and Maggie took it. Eunice and Edward waited.

  “We’ll be in, in a minute,” Maggie told them cordially.

  Her in-law twins moved on.

  Lisa squeezed Maggie’s hand, her eyes welling up as their gazes met. “I’m so sorry,” she managed to sob.

  “You said that,” Maggie whispered, tired. She didn’t know what to say to people or how to accept their condolences gracefully. Being the physician of the family, the one who dealt with death the most, she kept feeling it was her job to console them.

  Lisa let go of Maggie’s hand and reached into her Burberry handbag. She drew out a leather cigarette case.

  Maggie folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the hand-painted wallpaper of the wide hallway. She never quite knew how to deal with her sister, even now that they had become adults. They still didn’t see eye to eye. They were just too different.

  Lisa was what Kyle called a husbandizer. She was on her fourth marriage, and each man was weal
thier than the last. She spent her days going to beauty salons, tanning beds, and psychics. Still, Maggie had to give Lisa credit for being here when she’d needed her. It was Lisa who lived here in D.C., Lisa who had met her and the state trooper at the hospital the night Stanley and Jordan died. Lisa had been on the Beltway coming home from somewhere. She’d come upon the accident, identified the bodies, and had Maggie contacted.

  Maggie rubbed her temples with her thumb and forefinger. “Eunice will have a cow if you smoke in here, Lisa. It’ll discolor the Chinese wallpaper.” She indicated the wall, covered with flowers and leaves, with a nod of her chin.

  “Screw Eunice.” Lisa sniffed back her tears and lit up. She inhaled deeply before she spoke again. “I tried calling you all day yesterday, but all I got was your butler.”

  “Kyle was handling the phone for me. I just couldn’t deal with it.”

  “He could have let me through. I’m your sister, for Christ’s sake.” She sniffed again and reached into her purse to pull out an embroidered hanky.

  “He was only trying to help.” Maggie glanced down the hallway toward the dining room. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

  “Mom’s at the buffet table looking for the largest butterfly shrimp for her plate.” She blew smoke. “Dad’s in the john with his irritated bowel.” She fluttered her heavily mascaraed eyelashes. “Typical.”

  Her sister had certainly changed a great deal since her high school days and the wild years that followed, but Maggie still saw flashes of the old Lisa. She liked her mascara. She liked her cigarettes. She liked her booze.

  “And Martin? Where’s your husband?”

  “Gone to Geneva. Business. The jerk. He said to send his sympathies, but he couldn’t possibly get home before the end of the week.” She inhaled deeply, making no attempt to hide her bitterness. “Thank goodness I wasn’t killed. They’d have had to put me on ice until the Geneva matter was settled.” She looked quickly at Maggie, brushing her frail hand against her sister’s arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mags. That was insensitive.” She dabbed at her bloodshot eyes. “I just don’t know what I’m saying. This hit me hard.”

  Maggie pressed her back to the wall so that two older couples could pass down the hallway. She smiled cordially, though she didn’t recognize them.

  Lisa touched Maggie’s sleeve again. It felt good to Maggie to see her sister really did care about her.

  “So how are you?” Lisa asked.

  “Okay.”

  “No. I mean how are you? I can’t imagine how horrible this must be for you. I mean, a husband—he’s expendable.”

  Maggie flashed her a warning glance.

  “Well, maybe not a man like Stanley. But a baby, Maggie. Your son.” Lisa leaned the back of her head against the wall, careful not to muss her slick, short blond hair. It was still bleached, but at least it was professionally done these days. “I know how you wanted more children. First came the doctor’s report, now this. Considering the past—”

  Maggie lifted her hand, cutting her off in midsentence. “Lisa, please. I’m hanging together with just a little spit and paste. I can’t talk about this. Let’s just go into the dining room. I’ll get you a drink. Something to eat.” She looked at her sister, the same height she was, but twenty pounds lighter. “You could use some protein.”

  “I’ll take the drink, a double,” Lisa said. “Forget the shrimp and the horse they came in on.”

  The two sisters made their way to the dining room, where a catered buffet was spread across three mahogany tables. Maggie mixed her sister a gin and tonic and the two drifted apart in the crowd of nearly fifty people. Maggie made her obligatory greetings. She even nibbled on a cracker. But when she saw her mother coming toward her, she wished she could dig a hole in Eunice’s white carpet and hide. She didn’t think she was up to dealing with Ruth this afternoon.

  “Maggie.”

  “Mom.”

  Ruth was dressed agreeably in a navy-and-white department store dress. She’d had her hair and nails done. She looked so nice she almost appeared to belong in this dining room. Almost. “Did you eat?”

  “Not hungry.” Maggie hung onto her diet soda for dear life.

  “You should eat. The Brittinghams must have spent a fortune on this layout,” she whispered under her breath. She tapped the plate in her hand, piled with shrimp. “Royal Doulton.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “Mom. It’s a funeral. My husband and son are dead. Could you refrain from making comments on the china?”

  Ruth let out an exasperated sigh. “I was just trying to make conversation. To take your mind off it.”

  Not once had Ruth told Maggie she was sorry. Not once had she hugged her. She had, however, remembered to ask if Stanley had left her well off financially.

  “Oh, there you are, Maggie! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Maggie glanced up to see Kyle coming toward her. “I have to speak to you.” He smiled graciously at Ruth. “Would you excuse us, Mother Turner?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but swept Maggie smoothly away. He didn’t stop until they reached the kitchen, which was filled with aproned caterers.

  Maggie leaned against a counter, her sigh of relief lifting her bangs. She set down her glass. “Thank you.”

  “You owe me.”

  She raised her palm to swear an oath. “I owe you. I’ll cut you a break next racquetball match.”

  “Cut me a break, hah!” He snatched an hors d’oeuvre as a waiter went by with a full tray. “So, have we been here long enough?”

  Maggie looked up at Kyle. He was dressed sharply, as always, as if he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ. “I’ve had enough. I just want to go home and go to bed. I want to pull the sheet over my head and sleep for a week.”

  Kyle looped her arm through his and led her toward the back door. “You got it.”

  “Hey, where are we going?”

  He opened the door that led outside. “Home.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “But don’t I need to say good-bye? My parents . . . Eunice and Edward . . .”

  “Maggie, darling, you’re the grieving widow. You can do what you please.” He stopped on the stone steps. “So do you want to go home now or not? Have you had enough?”

  She didn’t have to think about it. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go. We’ll drive together. It’ll be fun. We can call and read silly bumper stickers to each other.”

  Maggie had to chuckle as she slipped past Kyle into the driver’s seat of her green Jag. But somehow the laughter seemed a betrayal to her son’s name. A weight pressed on her shoulders, spreading to her heart and her lungs, preventing her from breathing deeply. As she slipped on her sunglasses and shoved the key into the ignition, she couldn’t help wondering if she would ever laugh again without this heaviness.

  Chapter 4

  December, 1999

  “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” Maggie sang as she sat cross-legged on her lumpy bed wrapping Jarrett’s Christmas present. “Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh.”

  “Oh, please, spare me the holiday joy. There are homeless people sleeping in alleys tonight while you sing about riding through the snow in your flippin’ little red sleigh.” Lisa walked into their bedroom, a cigarette hanging from her ruby lips.

  Ruth had given up trying to prevent her from smoking in the house months ago. Despite Maggie’s protests against smoking in the bedroom they shared, Ruth had declared that if Lisa was old enough to pay taxes and be forced to fight in a war, she could smoke a harmless cigarette. Neither Maggie’s reminder that there was no draft nor her review of the dangers of secondhand smoke would budge her mother.

  Maggie stopped singing, but went on wrapping. She refused to let Lisa and her cynicism spoil her evening. Tonight was Maggie’s first night with Jarrett in two weeks, and she couldn’t wait to see him. Over the phone, he’d told her he’d planned a special night, but he wouldn’t say where they were going. All he said w
as to put on her best dress and dancing heels and he’d pick her up at six. Maggie would have to hustle if she was going to dress, curl her hair, and make it to Ivy Drive by then.

  Lisa slipped into a short black leather skirt and red-glitter tube top. She had piled her hair on top of her head, dyed in several unnatural shades of red. The new Lisa, she said. She had gotten her GED but quit Belltown Community College at Halloween—quit or flunked out. Maggie didn’t know which. But now Lisa was enrolled in Miss Sue’s School of Hair and Nail Design. She came home every Wednesday with her hair in a different style, and on Fridays the color changed. Maggie guessed no one was brave enough to let Lisa Turner do his or her hair, so she was forced to experiment on herself.

  Lisa came over to the bed and tried to peek under the wrapping paper. “What you got there? Something for me?”

  Maggie reached for the tape, sealing the end of the shirt box. “A gift for Jarrett.”

  Lisa lifted a plucked, penciled eyebrow. “A present for Jarrett? Now what could you buy the little rich boy that his mummy and daddy haven’t already bought him?”

  “It’s a ski sweater,” Maggie admitted begrudgingly. “And a picture of us from this fall.” She pushed the framed five-by-seven photograph across the bed. It showed Maggie and Jarrett in a wheelbarrow full of leaves. She was on his lap and they were laughing.

  Lisa barely glanced at the picture and then flopped down in the yellow vinyl beanbag chair. “A picture of the two of you in each other’s arms. How sweet. Course, the question is will Rich Boy be laughing when he finds out you don’t live in that fancy house on Ivy?”

  “I don’t think that would matter to Jarrett.” Maggie reached for the picture and began to wrap it in red and green Santa paper. She already felt guilty enough about deceiving him. She didn’t want to talk about it with Lisa.

  “Wouldn't matter? Right. So long as he's getting what he wants out of you.” Lisa eyed her, her meaning plain. She was talking about sex. “So, is he?”

  Maggie jumped up off the bed, her gifts wrapped. She had to get ready. It wasn’t Lisa’s business if she and Jarrett were having sex or not. The truth was, they weren’t. But Maggie knew their relationship was going to reach that point soon. She could feel it every time she was in Jarrett’s arms. And it wasn’t just Jarrett who was getting anxious. She was, too. She loved Jarrett—loved him enough to know she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. So what if she was young? That was how she felt. That was how Jarrett felt about her.