“Believe me, it sounds a lot more fun than what I usually do on Sundays.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Laundry. Grocery shopping. A little video gaming. Are we on?”
“I’m going to need to sleep late. I wouldn’t be ready until midafternoon.”
“Why don’t we meet at the gallery at two or so? We can catch an Uber uptown together.”
Despite her reservations, she agreed. “Okay.”
“And afterwards, depending on how you feel, maybe you can fill me in on what happened next between you and Bryce.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Let’s see how I feel.”
* * *
Back in her apartment, Maggie felt a profound exhaustion overtake her, pulling her down like an undertow. She removed her jacket and lay down in bed, wanting to rest her eyes for a minute before changing into her pajamas.
She woke at half-past noon the following day, still dressed in the clothes she’d worn the day before.
It was Sunday, December 22, three days before Christmas.
* * *
Even if she trusted Mark, Maggie was nervous about the thought of falling on ice. Though she’d slept heavily overnight—she doubted she’d even rolled over—she felt weaker than normal, even for her. The pain was back, too, simmering just below a boil, making even the thought of eating impossible.
Her mom had called earlier that morning and left a short message, just checking in on her, hoping she was doing well—the usual—but even in the message, Maggie could hear the strains of worry. Worrying, Maggie had long ago decided, was the way her mom showed Maggie how much she loved her.
But it was also wearying. Worrying, after all, had its roots in disapproval—as though Maggie’s life would have been better if only she’d listened to her mom all along—and over time it had become her mom’s default position.
While Maggie had wanted to wait until Christmas, she knew she had to call back. If she didn’t, she’d likely receive another, even more frantic message. She sat on the edge of the bed and, after glancing at the clock, realized there was a chance her parents would be at church, which would be ideal. She could leave a message, say that she had a busy day ahead, and avoid the potential for any unnecessary stress. But no such luck. Her mom picked up on the second ring.
They spoke for twenty minutes. Maggie asked about her father and Morgan and her nieces, and her mom dutifully filled her in. She asked Maggie how she was feeling, and Maggie replied that she was doing as well as could be expected. Thankfully, it stopped there and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she’d be able to hide the truth until after the holiday. Toward the end of the conversation, Maggie’s father got on the line, and he was his normal laconic self. They spoke about the weather in Seattle and New York, he updated her on the season the Seahawks were having—he loved football—and mentioned that he’d purchased a set of binoculars for Christmas. When Maggie asked why, she was told that her mom had joined a bird-watching club. Maggie wondered how long the interest in the club would last and assumed it would go the same way as other clubs her mom had joined over the years. Initially there would be a lot of enthusiasm and Maggie would listen to raves about how fascinating the members were; after a few months, her mom would note that there were a few people in the club she didn’t get along with; and later, she’d announce to Maggie that she’d quit because most of the people were just awful. In her mom’s world, someone else was always the problem.
Her dad said nothing else, and after hanging up the phone, Maggie wished again that she had a different relationship with her parents, especially with her mom. A relationship characterized more by laughter than by sighs. Most of her friends had good relationships with their moms. Even Trinity got along with his mom, and he was temperamental when compared to other artists. Why was it so hard for Maggie?
Because, Maggie silently acknowledged, her mom made it hard, and she’d done so for as long as Maggie could remember. To her, Maggie was more of a shadow than a real person, someone whose hopes and dreams felt incomprehensibly alien. Even if they shared the same opinion on a particular subject, her mom wasn’t likely to find comfort in such a thing. Instead she’d focus her attention on a related area of disagreement, with worry and disapproval as her primary weapons.
Maggie knew her mom couldn’t help it; she’d probably been the same way as a child. And it was childlike in a way, now that Maggie thought about it. Do what I want, or else. For Maggie’s mom, tantrums were sublimated into other, more insidious means of control.
The years after returning from Ocracoke, before she’d moved to New York, had been particularly trying. Her mom had believed that pursuing a career in photography was both silly and risky, that Maggie should have followed Morgan to Gonzaga, that she should try to meet the right kind of man and settle down. When Maggie had finally moved away, she’d dreaded speaking to her mom at all.
The sad thing was that her mom wasn’t a terrible person. She wasn’t necessarily even a bad mom. Thinking back, she’d made the right decision to send Maggie to Ocracoke, and she wasn’t the only parent who cared about grades, or worried that her daughter was dating the wrong kind of guys, or believed that marriage and having children were more important than a career. And, of course, some of her other values had stuck with Maggie. Like her parents, Maggie drank infrequently, avoided recreational drugs, paid her bills, valued honesty, and was law-abiding. She didn’t, however, attend church any longer; that had ended in her early twenties when she’d had a crisis of faith. Well, a crisis of pretty much everything, in fact, which led to her spontaneous move to New York and a series of awful relationships, assuming they could be called relationships at all.
As for her dad…
Maggie sometimes wondered whether she had ever really known him. If pressed, she would say that he was a product of another era, a time when men worked and provided for their family and went to church and understood that complaining seldom offered solutions. His general quietude, however, had given way to something else since he’d retired, a near reticence to speak at all. He spent hours alone in the garage even when Maggie visited, and was content to let his wife speak for him during dinners.
But the call was completed, at least until Christmas, and it made her realize how much she was dreading the next one. No doubt, her mom would demand that Maggie return to Seattle, and she’d use every guilt-based weapon at her disposal to try to get her way. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
Pushing that thought away, she tried to focus on the present. She noted that the pain was getting worse and wondered whether she should text Mark and cancel. With a grimace, she made her way to the bathroom and retrieved the bottle of pain pills, remembering Dr. Brodigan telling her that they were addictive if used inappropriately. What a silly thing to say. What did it really matter if Maggie became addicted at this point? And how much was inappropriate? Her insides felt like a pincushion and even touching the back of her hand triggered little flashes of white in the corners of Maggie’s eyes.
She swallowed two pills, debated, and then took a third, just in case. She decided to see how she felt in half an hour before making a final decision about today and went to sit on the couch while they took effect. Though she’d wondered whether the pills would work as usual, like magic, the pain began to fade. When it was finally time to go, she was floating on a wave of well-being and optimism. She could always watch Mark skate, if it came down to it, and it was probably a good idea to get some fresh air, wasn’t it?