The Fairy Trail

by Catherine Ras

  She hadn’t taken her clothes off last night, so she decided to change into a t-shirt and sweat pants. She was naked when she opened a drawer to find a t-shirt and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror atop the dresser.

  She had a baby bump. She wasn’t sure where she had heard that phrase, but she knew what it meant. She turned sideways studying her belly when another wave of nausea washed over her. She ran to the bathroom. She hadn’t had morning sickness in a while, so why now? But as she flushed the toilet and washed her face, she knew the conflict within her heart and mind was more the cause of her ailing stomach.

  Another whiff of bacon passed her nose. It didn’t make her feel sick; in fact it made her realize how hungry she was—how hungry the baby must be. She ran back to her room, finished dressing and went downstairs to find Aunt Agnes in the kitchen cooking through her own emotions.

  Maggie noticed tears on her aunt’s cheeks, but she left her aunt to sort her feelings out on her own.

  “Is there enough for two?” Maggie asked from the entrance to the kitchen.

  Startled, her aunt cleared her throat, made a small cough, and wiped her eyes with the back of her flour-coated hand.

  “Of course,” she answered in a high pitch voice as she worked to gain control. “I planned on you joining me.”

  “I’ll set the table.”

  She went about the task, concentrating on each Corelle plate decorated with a ring of green leaves around the perimeter, each piece of cheap, stainless steel silverware, and the mix and match ceramic mugs with cartoon pictures and stupid sayings. She studied her mother’s favorite mug; at least she thought it was because it seemed to be the only cup her mother ever used for coffee.

  On the side was a picture of an old lady in curlers with an over exaggerated long, pointy nose and glasses perched precariously atop it. She wore a blue house coat two sizes too large and dangled a lit cigarette between her index and third finger.

  There was no saying on this mug. Her mother just liked the picture. Maggie remembered her mother telling her once that it reminded her of her own mother, and probably herself if she ever reached that age.

  Maggie put the cup down on the table. She wondered if her mother told her that because she didn’t expect to live too long. After all, she was a heavy smoker and drinker, although not as bad an alcoholic as her father was.

  Maggie walked around the table running her fingers over the surface. The wood table top was rough with scratches, dents and gouges. One long scratch ran from the edge almost to the middle. She recalled the night her father took his steak knife and slowly ran it along the surface in defiance to his wife.

  She looked at the place where her father sat and saw the insolence in his dark, blank eyes, and his thick lips. She turned her head to the kitchen sink where her mother had been standing, challenging him, warning him with her beady-eyed stare.

  She was shaken out of her memories by her aunt’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just doing some reminiscing.”

  “Good memories, I hope.”

  Maggie mordantly tilted her head and replied in a dry tone, “There were no good memories here, Aunt Agnes.” She wanted to add, and if you were around more, you would have known that, but refrained seeing her aunt’s hurt just from the little she said

  “It’s ready. Why don’t you sit down?”

  Maggie did so, struggling with what to say, what to do, what to feel. Finally, she said,” I’m sorry.” She picked up her napkin and set it on her lap.

  Aunt Agnes brought over a pan of scrambled eggs, a plate of bacon, and another with French toast. When she noticed Maggie’s expression, she sighed. “I know—a lot of food.” She heaped a spoonful of eggs onto her plate. “Cooking is my stress releaser—helps me to think.”

  When Maggie didn’t say anything, her aunt asked, “Is there something you do to help you relax?”

  If you mean to get away from the crap that was going on in my life…

  After Maggie swallowed her bite of French toast she said, “I used to go to the woods.”

  “The woods?”

  “Yeah, a few streets over at the edge of town, there’s a forest. When I was a kid, I’d go there to play, to get away from here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aunt Agnes said with earnestness.

  Maggie put her fork down and sat back in her chair. Her eyes roamed the kitchen floor at the last spot her mother upheaved the garbage can, leaving it for her to clean up. She glared at the pantry door where the paper towel rolls sat on a shelf and the dustpan leaned against a wall.

  “You weren’t here, how could you have known?"

  Aunt Agnes set her silverware down, took a sip of coffee, and folded her hands on the table. “Maggie, I think it’s time we had a talk.”

  “That all depends on what you want to talk about.” Maggie popped a piece of French toast into her mouth and chewed it while throwing a daring glance at her aunt.

  Aung Agnes didn’t waver. She cleared her throat. “It’s no secret we both know what kind of people your parents were.”

  Maggie slammed her fork down on the table.

  “Mags, please, let me finish.”

  Maggie folded her arms across her chest and stared at her plate. She had half a thought to get up and run to the forest to ask the fairies to send her two faced aunt back to California.

  “When I first saw you, I fell in love.”

  Maggie’s stone face remained hard with disbelieving.

  “You were so tiny and beautiful—the perfect little girl. Your parents seemed happy to have you, but….” She drifted for a moment, her eyes blank. “I vowed to myself I would protect you…”

  “Well, we both know how that turned out,” Maggie snarled, but Aunt Agnes ignored it.

  “As time went by, my sister had more excuses for why I couldn’t visit. It bothered me, but I guess I didn’t think there was anything wrong—just the timing wasn’t right for a visit.

  “When you turned five, I showed up for your birthday party—without asking. Dolores was not happy.”

  “Dolores? My mother’s name was Dolores?”

  “You didn’t know that?” Aunt Agnes looked like someone who was just told they only had three weeks to live.

  “She never mentioned it.” Maggie felt like a balloon that quickly lost its air causing it to flit all about.

  “I guess I’m not really surprised. She hated her name. She hated my name, and she hated our parents for naming us what they did. I never knew why.”

  “That couldn’t really be the reason she named me Margaret, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a horrible name. Why would you name a kid Margaret, especially in today’s world?”

  “Mags, it’s not just the name, but the person who carries it. You are beautiful, and because of it, so is your name. You make your name; your name doesn’t make you.”

  “Oh, that’s deep, Aunt Agnes.”

  “It’s the truth. Why does the reason matter what your mother named you?”

  “We’re back to you not really knowing who your sister was,” Maggie shot back.

  “You’re wrong. I did know. I just did nothing about it, and that’s on me.” She took a sip of coffee, then got up and put the cup in the microwave. When she turned around, she said, “Now, will you let me finish my story?”

  Maggie nodded slowly.

  “When I came to your party, your mom heard me refer to you as Mags. I always liked nicknames. Most of my friends call me Aggie.” She took her mug out of the microwave and sat down. “I like it.

  “Your mother pulled me aside and told me never to call you that again. Your name was Margaret, and I was to go back home.

  “I was really taken aback. I asked her what I did wrong that she was telling me to go home. She didn’t really have a reason except that I gave you a nickname, and as we both know, that’s not really a reason.”

  “I remember you leaving
.” Maggie said her eyes cast downward.

  “And I remember you crying. I told you I would be back.”

  “But you didn’t come back, not until I graduated. Thirteen years went by and nothing…nada… zilch.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I actually showed up the following Christmas after your fifth birthday. When your mother saw my car pull into the driveway, she ran out of the house screaming and yelling for me to leave. She said I was not welcomed; I had no right to be there. She yanked my door open and pulled me out of the car.”

  Maggie’s eyes quickly lifted to meet her aunt’s.

  “She was out of control. Then your dad came out, and I thought he was going to pull her off, but he didn’t. He egged her on, and I realized he was drunker than she was. The neighbors were looking out their windows, but no one came to help me.”

  “What happened?” Maggie asked diffidently.

  “Your mom got physical. I won’t go into gory details, but your father finally pulled her off me when he heard the police sirens. I guess one of the neighbors at least called the police. I got in the car and left with her screaming and yelling,” Aunt Agnes chuckled.

  “How is that funny?”

  “Your dad had your mom lifted off the ground. Her arms were flailing and her feet were kicking wildly. I saw it in the rearview mirror, and I wager a guess that he got a pretty good beating himself. The last thing I saw was him trying to get her into the house. She was hanging on to the door frame.”

  Maggie smiled. “I would have liked to have seen that.”

  There was silence between them—an indecisive quietness as life waited for one of them to say something, waited for which emotion would come out of it.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Agnes,” Maggie whispered.

  Aunt Agnes reached across the table and covered Maggie’s hand with her own. “I know.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Maggie stood on the path not really knowing why she came to the forest. Her mother had just died, she was trying to work through her feelings toward her aunt, she was pregnant, and she had a lot of decisions to make all jumbled in her head.

  She was lost. She didn’t know what to do, but she didn’t know how or if the fairies could even help her. Maggie meandered through the woods walking around trees, inspecting them for any sign that a fairy might show herself. More than just hoping the fairies could solve her problems, she prayed they might tell her exactly what her problem was.

  However, when she walked around one particular pine tree, she noticed something at the base. A small blue door was hidden within a knot indented on the tree. A wooden sign hung above the door, and she knelt down to read the black printed words.

  Sorry we missed you. We are dancing in the gardens. The fairies.

  Maggie sank to the ground and cried. In their

  very unorthodox way, the fairies had always been there to help her. Their methods were peculiar and strange, to say the least, and sometimes Maggie wasn’t sure what the outcome was supposed to be. But as bizarre and unexpected as the gifts they bestowed upon her were, and as inexplicable the outcomes, the fairies were always there when she needed them.

  Why weren’t they showing themselves to her? Why the stupid sign? It made her feel as if they were mocking her. Did they think she was ungrateful for their help?

  She thought back on all the times she left the woods with a gift she had no idea how to use. She only knew what it was, she had it for year, and they’d take it back if she misused it.

  She had no idea if she ever misused one of their gifts. Maybe that was why they were a no-show. As she thought about it, she had no idea because she honestly didn’t know if she ever actually used one of the gifts. She never summoned it to happen, and the times she thought she might have used one of their gifts, it just…happened.

  She began to cry again. Maybe they weren’t here because she really didn’t know what she needed. If she couldn’t tell them exactly what was wrong, how could they help her?

  That was the problem. There were too many things that were wrong. Her mother dying left her with all sorts of decisions like finding money to bury her or what to do about the house if her mother even left her the house. She was still hurt by Aunt Agnes’s desertion. She had no job, no friends, and most of all; she was pregnant—five months and nowhere close to knowing what she was going to do.

  “If you were here, maybe you could just help me to decide what I need to do,” she shouted at the door. “But nooooo, you have to be off dancing in the flowers,” she mocked.

  Maggie stood up and started to prance around; singing a nonsensical tune of whatever notes and syllables entered her head. She threw her arms about wildly, singing more loudly and moving faster. After several minutes of this silly exhibition, she stopped abruptly.

  “Hmm.” She looked at all of the trees where she had seen fairy houses then down at the sign. She smiled satisfyingly. “I see why you’re out dancing in the gardens. It actually felt pretty good. Thanks.”

  Maggie walked out of the forest feeling that even though the fairies didn’t appear to her, they had, in some way, helped her to feel a little bit better.

  When she got home, her aunt was gone. As she meandered into the kitchen, she noticed a piece of paper on the kitchen table with scribbling on it. She stared at it. Her parents had never left her a note whenever they went away. In fact, she had never really seen much handwriting. In school, everything was typed out on the computer.

  She picked up the note gingerly as if it would go up in flames as soon as she touched it.

  Maggie, I went out to run a few errands. Please wait for me to get home so we can talk. I want to help you however I can. Love, Aunt Agnes.

  Maggie felt uncomfortable reading the word love. She had a hard time believing there was such a thing and that any of her family ever knew what true love really was. But her aunt was trying, and she promised herself she would give her aunt a chance.

  She felt tired, mostly from being overwhelmed by her predicament, but partly because of her ridiculous dance in the woods. She smiled, wishing she had a video of herself prancing around like what she thought a fairy dancing would look like. As crazy as it might have been, it had been the best she’d felt in a long time. Maybe, she thought, those fairies were on to something.

  She started toward her bedroom but stopped at the entrance to the living room. She looked at the couch. No one was there to stop her from taking a nap on it or to pull her off when they wanted her to do something for them.

  She walked over to the blue crush-velvet sofa, lay down, stretched out, and fell asleep within minutes with a smile on her face.

  “Maggie. Maggie, honey. Wake up. Time for dinner.”

  When Maggie opened her eyes, she was a bit disoriented. She had never slept in the living room before, only her bedroom. She tried to look out the front window, but her view was blocked. She blinked twice to get the sleep out of her eyes and focus back into them. Her aunt was standing next to her making, as she heard her father often say to her mother, “a better door than a window.”

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “Well, I don’t know when you went to sleep, but it’s five-thirty, and I’m hungry. I made lasagna and a salad.

  Maggie lifted herself up on her elbows. “You made lasagna?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “That tells me I’ve been a sleep for a long time.”

  “When did you lie down?”

  “I think sometime before lunch.”

  “Then you must be starved if you haven’t had lunch, and that’s not good for the baby...or you. Come on before it gets cold.”

  Aunt Agnes spun around and hurried to the kitchen.

  Maggie couldn’t help but smile. It had been a long time since someone made her a full dinner. But as she stood up, memories of her past life flooded her mind, and she warned herself not to get too comfortable with Aunt Agnes’s gestures of family bonding. However, the aroma of cooked tomatoes, melted cheese, and fresh bread
was playing tug-o-war with her apprehension.

  She couldn’t keep from smiling as she sat down and placed a napkin in her lap. “It smells so good,” she cooed.

  “Dig in.”

  As Maggie picked up the spatula and placed a large piece of lasagna on her plate, she said, “My mother never cooked anything like this.” She handed the utensil to her aunt.

  “I’m sorry. I wished I could have done more.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I need to quit taking my childhood out on you.”

  After placing a piece on her plate, Aunt Agnes put the spatula in the pan then put her hands in her lap. “I wasn’t there for you, plain and simple. I will regret that the rest of my life. But I’m here now and, I promise…I promise I won’t let you down again.”

  “I really appreciate that, but….”

  “No buts, no excuses. If you want to talk about your childhood, then do it.” She reached across the table and put her hand over one of Maggie’s. “It’s good for both of us. We don’t know everything about each other and what we went through. We’ve got time now, and I will help you with whatever you need.”

  Maggie took a bite of her lasagna. “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook?”

  “Our mother taught us. She taught the both of us, but your mom really hated to cook. She wanted to marry a rich guy so she could hire a maid to do all the cooking and cleaning. I thought that was just a childhood thing of hers, but it always stayed with her.”

  “Until she met my dad.”

  “Until she met your dad.”

  “My mom never told me about how they met. She never really told me much of anything.”

  “They met when your mom was working at the local diner. Your dad at her table one day and flirted with her. After a week of him going to the diner every day and asking for a date, she finally relented.

  “She told me the night she went out with him that she was just going to have a good time. She wouldn’t marry someone like him. When I asked her what ‘like him’ meant, she said someone who did manual labor, lower class. It wasn’t until that day that I realized how driven she was to find a rich man and how narrow minded she was.”