What was she going to do? She supposed she really didn’t have to do anything. Her parents or Morgan would no doubt take care of it, but she didn’t want them to have to assume that burden. And since it was her funeral, she certainly deserved some say in the matter. But what was it that she wanted?
Not the typical funeral, she knew that much. She had no desire for an open casket, or sappy songs like “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and definitely no long eulogy from a priest who didn’t even know her. That wasn’t her style. But even if it had been—where would the funeral take place? Her parents would want her to be buried in Seattle, not New York, but New York was her home now. She couldn’t imagine forcing her mom and dad to find a local funeral home and cemetery, or to arrange for a Catholic service in a strange city. Nor was she sure her parents could even handle such a thing, and while Morgan was more capable, she was already overwhelmed with young children at home. All of which left only one option.
Maggie had to arrange everything in advance.
Rising from the couch, Maggie found a pad of paper in the kitchen drawer. She made some notes about the kind of service she wanted. It was less depressing than she’d imagined, likely because she rejected outright all the somber stuff. She reviewed what she’d written, and while it wouldn’t make sense to her parents, she was glad she’d thought to express her dying wishes. She made a note to herself to contact her attorney in the new year so it could all be finalized.
Which left only one more thing to do.
* * *
She needed to get Mark something for Christmas.
Though she’d given him a bonus earlier in December, just as she’d done for Luanne, she felt like something more was warranted, especially after these past few days. But what to get him? Like most young people, especially those who intended to go to graduate school, he’d probably appreciate an additional gift of money more than anything else. Lord knows, when she was in her twenties, that’s what she would have wanted. It would also be easy—all she had to do was write a check—but it didn’t feel right to her. She sensed that his gift for her was something personal, which made her think she should reciprocate in a similar vein.
She asked herself what Mark enjoyed, but even that didn’t lead to many answers. He loved Abigail and his parents, he intended to lead a religious life, he was interested in contemporary art, and he grew up in Indiana and played hockey. What else did she know about him?
She flashed back to their first interview, remembering how prepared he’d been, and the answer finally presented itself. Mark admired the photographs she’d taken; more than that, he thought of them as her legacy. So why not give Mark a gift that reflected Maggie’s passion?
In the drawers of her desk, she found several flash drives; she’d always kept plenty on hand. For the next few hours, she began to transfer photographs onto the drives, choosing her favorites. Some of them hung on the walls of the gallery, and though the photographs wouldn’t be part of the limited-edition runs—and thus without monetary value—she knew that Mark wouldn’t care about that. He wouldn’t want the photographs for financial reasons; he’d want them because she’d taken them, and because they’d meant something to her.
* * *
When she was finished, she dutifully consumed some food. Salty cardboard, as disgusting as ever. Throwing caution to the wind, she also poured herself a glass of wine. She found a station playing Christmas music on the radio, and she sipped her wine until she became drowsy. She traded her sweater for a sweatshirt, put on socks in place of the slippers, and crawled into bed.
She woke at noon on Christmas Eve, feeling rested and, miracle of miracles, completely pain-free.
But just in case, she took her pills, washing them down with half a cup of tea.
* * *
Knowing that it would most likely be a late night, she lounged most of the day. She called her favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant, where until recently she had been a regular, and learned that a delivery for two shouldn’t be a problem despite the large crowd expected for dinner that evening. The manager, whom she knew well and who she guessed knew of her illness due to her appearance, was particularly solicitous. He anticipated what she might enjoy, remembering the dishes she frequently ordered and suggesting a few specials as well as their famous tiramisu. She thanked him warmly after reading him her credit card number and scheduling the delivery for eight p.m. And who said New Yorkers were callous? she thought with a smile as she hung up.
She ordered a smoothie, drank it while taking her bath, and then reviewed the flash drives she’d created for Mark. As always, when revisiting her past work, her mind re-created the particulars of every shot.
Losing herself in the memories of so many exhilarating trips and experiences made the hours pass quickly. At four, she took a nap, even though she was still feeling pretty good; after she woke, she slowly got ready. As she had in Ocracoke so long ago, she chose a red sweater, albeit with more layers underneath. Black wool slacks over tights, and a black beret. No jewelry except for the necklace, but enough makeup so she wouldn’t frighten the cabdriver. She added a cashmere scarf to hide her gangly neck, and then put her pills in her bag, just in case. She hadn’t had time to wrap Mark’s gift, so she emptied a tin of Altoids and used the container for the drives. She wished she had a bow but figured Mark wouldn’t care. Finally, with a sense of dread, she retrieved one of the letters her aunt Linda had written, which she kept in her jewelry box.
Outside, the weather was bone-chilling and damp, the sky promising snow. In the short cab ride to the gallery, she passed a Santa Claus ringing a bell, soliciting donations for the Salvation Army. She saw a menorah in an apartment window. On the radio, the cabdriver was listening to music that sounded Indian or Pakistani. Christmas in Manhattan.
The door to the gallery was locked, and after entering, she locked it again behind her. Mark was nowhere to be seen, but the tree was glowing, and she smiled when she saw that he had set up a small fold-out table flanked by two fold-out chairs in front of the tree and covered it with a red paper tablecloth. On the table was a gift-wrapped box and a vase with a red carnation, along with two glasses of eggnog.
He must have heard her enter because he emerged from the back as she was admiring the table. When she turned, she noticed that he, too, wore a red sweater and black slacks.
“I’d say you look fantastic, but I think that might come across as self-serving,” she observed as she removed her jacket.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you came by earlier to see what I’d be wearing,” he countered.
She motioned toward the table. “You’ve been busy.”
“I figured we’d need a place to eat.”
“You do understand that if I have the eggnog, I won’t be able to eat at all.”
“Then just think of it as table decoration. Can I take your jacket?”
She handed it over and he disappeared into the back again while Maggie continued to survey the scene. In no small way, it reminded her of the Christmas she’d spent in Ocracoke, which had no doubt been his intention.
She took a seat at the table, feeling content, as Mark emerged from the back with a coffee cup in hand. He set it before her.
“It’s just hot water,” he explained, “but I brought a tea bag if you’d like a little flavor.”