But then Maggie got her break and slowly earned a reputation that allowed her to regularly travel the world; after that her stewardship of the gallery. Over time even her social life stabilized. Morgan seemed discomfited by these developments, and there’d been times when Maggie had even sensed a bit of jealousy. It was never overt while Maggie was in her twenties; most often, it took the form of passive-aggressive digs. I’m sure the new guy you’re dating is a big step up from the last one, or Can you believe your luck?, or Have you seen the photographs in National Geographic this month? They’re really incredible.
The more successful Maggie became, the harder Morgan tried to keep the focus on herself. Usually, she’d describe one challenge after another—with the kids, with the house, with her job—before proceeding to explain how she’d solved the problems using both intelligence and perseverance. In those conversations, Morgan was simultaneously a victim and a hero, while Maggie was always just lucky.
For a long time, Maggie did her best to ignore those…quirks. Deep down, she knew Morgan loved her, and that having two young kids and taking care of a house while working a full-time job was stressful for anyone. Morgan’s self-involvement wasn’t unexpected, and besides, Maggie knew that, jealous or not, Morgan was proud of her.
It wasn’t until Maggie got sick that she began to question her most basic assumptions. Not long after the initial diagnosis—back when Maggie still had hope—Morgan’s marriage took a turn for the worse and those troubles became the focus of nearly every conversation. Instead of offering Maggie a chance to vent or express her worries about her cancer, Morgan would listen for only a short while before changing the subject. She’d complain that Jim seemed to regard her as a servant, or that Jim had closed down emotionally and wouldn’t consider counseling because he’d said that Morgan was the one who needed counseling. Or she’d admit that they hadn’t had sex in months, or that Jim had started working late at the office three or four days a week. It was one thing after another and whenever Maggie tried to clarify something Morgan had said, her sister would grow irritated and accuse Maggie of taking Jim’s side. Even now, Maggie still wasn’t sure exactly what had gone wrong in the marriage other than the old cliché that Morgan and Jim had simply drifted apart.
Because Morgan was so unhappy—the word divorce had begun creeping into the conversations—Maggie was caught off guard by Morgan’s fury when Jim packed his bags and moved out. She was even more taken aback when the anger and bitterness intensified. While Maggie knew that going through a divorce was often a miserable experience, she couldn’t understand why Morgan seemed intent on making things worse. Why couldn’t they figure something out on their own, without adversarial attorneys throwing gasoline on the fire, all the while running up the bills and slowing the process to a crawl?
Maggie knew she was probably being naive. She’d never gone through a divorce, but even so, Morgan’s sense of betrayal and absolute righteousness reflected her conviction that Jim deserved to be punished. For his part, Jim probably felt victimized as well, all of which meant a long and nasty divorce that took seventeen exhausting months to finally sort out.
But even that wasn’t the end of it. Last summer, whenever they touched base, Morgan had still complained about Jim and his new, younger girlfriend, or she’d wax on about the fact that Jim wasn’t measuring up as a parent. She would tell Maggie that Jim had been late to the parent-teacher conferences, or that he’d tried to take the kids hiking in the Cascades even though it was technically Morgan’s weekend to have them. Or that Jim had forgotten to bring an EpiPen when he’d taken the girls to an apple farm, even though Bella was allergic to bees.
To all of those things, Maggie had wanted to add, Chemotherapy sucks, by the way. My hair is falling out and I’m puking all the time. Thanks for asking.
In all fairness, Morgan did ask how Maggie was feeling; Maggie simply had the sense that no matter how awful she felt, Morgan viewed her own situation as worse.
All of that meant fewer and fewer phone calls, especially in the last month and a half. Their last call had taken place on Maggie’s birthday, before Halloween, and aside from a quick text and an equally quick response, they hadn’t even touched base on Thanksgiving. She hadn’t mentioned those things to Mark when talking about her reasons for wanting to stay quiet about her diagnosis for now. And it was also true that she didn’t want to cast a pall over Morgan’s Christmas, especially because of Tia and Bella. But for Christmas to remain peaceful, Maggie figured she’d be better off without her.
* * *
Maggie caught a cab to the gallery and arrived half an hour after closing. Despite the languid day and another dose of painkillers, she still felt thumped, like she’d been accidentally tossed into the dryer with the rest of the laundry. Her joints and muscles ached as though she’d exercised way too much, and her stomach was churning. When she caught sight of the Christmas tree just to the right of the door, however, her spirits lifted slightly. It was full and straight; since she hadn’t chosen it, part of her had feared that she’d end up with the kind of tree Charlie Brown had picked in the old cartoon Christmas special. After unlocking the door, she stepped into the gallery just as Mark was emerging from the back offices.
“Hi,” he said, his face brightening. “You made it. For a few minutes there, I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Time slipped away from me.” It was more like not having enough steam to make the kettle whistle, but why start with the doom and gloom? “How was it today?”
“Moderately busy. There were a lot of groupies, but only a couple of photographs sold. We received a bunch of online orders, though.”
“Anything for Trinity?”
“Just some online inquiries. I’ve already sent the information, so we’ll see how that goes. There was also an email from a gallery in Newport Beach wondering if Trinity would be open to doing a show out there.”
“He won’t,” Maggie said. “But I assume you passed the information along to his publicist?”
“I did. I also got all your online orders shipped.”
“You’ve been busy. When did the tree arrive?”
“Around four or so? The decorations actually arrived earlier. I’m guessing they were really expensive.”
“The tree is pretty, too. I’m sort of amazed they had a good one left. I would have thought they’d all be sold by now.”
“Small miracles,” he agreed. “I already added water in the base and I popped over to Duane Reade to get an extension cord in case we need it.”
“Thanks.” She sighed. Even standing, she realized, was taking more effort than she’d imagined it would. “Would you mind bringing my office chair out here? So I can sit?”
“Of course,” he said. He turned and vanished into the back; a moment later, he was rolling the chair across the floor, finally adjusting it to face the tree. When Maggie sat, she winced and Mark frowned with concern.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be. What with the cancer eating my insides and all.”
His gaze fell, making her regret that she hadn’t come up with a gentler response, but cancer was anything but gentle.