by Ilana Masad
“It’s okay,” Peter tells her, reading the concern on Maggie’s face. He pulls the curl at the edge of her widow’s peak, like he used to when she was a little girl. He called it her corkscrew and would pretend to try to open bottles with it. It made her shriek with laughter. “Ariel already found her on Facebook and told her. She wanted to fly out, but we told her she shouldn’t, that the doctors said you’re gonna be right as rain. They think you’ll be able to come home in the morning.”
“She was going to visit?” Maggie’s throat fills. She begins to sputter, which hurts her ribs more, which makes her cry harder. She thinks vaguely that this must be a delayed reaction to the crash, shock finally moving through her system, the awareness that she could have died just like Iris sinking in. But it’s not just that—it’s also that Lucia wanted to come visit as soon as she heard about what happened. And she knows Lucia is on a tight budget. For a few years, her younger sister had been in bad shape and Lucia loaned her money a couple of times when she was too embarrassed to ask their parents again, and then there’s Lucia’s student loans from college and more recently the MFA. She often lives on her credit cards, and spending money to fly to California seems like the most pointlessly romantic thing Maggie thinks anyone has ever wanted to do for her.
“Of course,” Peter says. He pats his pockets and finds the pack of tissues he seems to always have on him and unfolds one for her. “She’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?”
“Y-yes,” Maggie says. She’s glad that Lucia isn’t coming, though—she would feel guilty beyond measure and would try to pay Lucia back, which would probably make her angry, and they would get into a fight, and do they even know how to fight yet without breaking up? Maggie isn’t sure she ever has, with anyone.
Except, it occurs to her, with Iris. No matter how much they used to fight or fume, or how in recent years they’ve chatted about little other than dreams and true crime, she and her mom never actually stopped talking to one another. It’s not the same thing, but Maggie likes knowing that she didn’t bail on Iris.
And, she supposes, Iris didn’t bail on her either.
It’s a mistake, trying to blow her nose. “Ooooh, fuck that hurts,” Maggie moans, panting slightly. Peter frowns.
“I hope they’re not trying to rush you out of here too soon . . . Look, I’m going to try to find the doctor, okay? Oh, and here’s your phone.” He gets it from the little drawer in the speckled gray wheeled bedside table and hands it over. “The screen cracked, but Ariel thinks it’s still working.”
Maggie rolls her eyes. As if Ariel knows anything more about technology than she does. Iris always went to him with computer issues; Peter did too. Maggie used to get angry about it, this automatic, thoughtlessly sexist behavior, but she saw how exasperated Ariel would get with them and has by now decided she dodged a bullet.
There’s a string of texts from Lucia—she finally has her phone back, it looks like—as well as from Allison, whom Lucia updated on what happened. A lot of heart emojis and kiss emojis and get-well-soons. Lucia’s last text just reads, ily. A warm, pleasant pain spreads in Maggie’s chest, one that has nothing to do with her ribs, and she’s about to text back when Ariel comes through the slit in the curtains around her bed that Peter left open.
“Hey,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
She puts her phone down. “Woozy, tired. In pain. How are you, kiddo?”
He winces. “Don’t,” he says. “That’s what Mom called me.”
“Sorry.” She wonders how long this will go on, how many years from now they’ll continue talking about things their mom did. It feels like years have gone by already, rather than days. Which reminds her—she clutches at her neck, but it’s bare. She starts to panic. “Fuck—Ariel, my necklace, the one I was wearing, it’s Mom’s, I—”
“Oh yeah,” he says, and pulls it out of his pocket. “They gave it to Dad, and he gave it to me. It got a little cracked.” He hands it to Maggie, who can hardly believe that it survived with this little damage—there’s a thin crack, almost like a scar, running down one side. Quite the good-luck charm, she thinks. She lived, didn’t she? She can’t clasp it around her neck because it hurts to lift her arms that much, but she holds it tight in her fist. Ariel takes a sip out of one of those brown and ridged plastic cups that come out of a machine. “Where’s Dad, by the way?”
“Went to find the doctor,” she says. “Hey, actually.” She pauses. It’s not a good time but maybe it never will be. “Did you want to know what I found out?” she asks. “The letters?”
“Oh, yeah, they gave us all the other stuff that was in Dad’s car too. One of the letters was there.”
“‘Us?’” she echoes. “Like, they gave that stuff to Dad?” Two of the letters were there, she thinks. One was stuffed in her bag, though, the open one. The one she least wants Ariel or Peter to see.
“Yeah, but he wasn’t really paying attention, I dunno. It’s all in my car. Since his is also totaled now.”
“Fuck,” Maggie says. “His insurance premiums are going to skyrocket—two car wrecks so close together?” She’s needed to tell people this kind of news at work. It always feels like adding insult to injury—and sometimes worse, if someone died.
“Sure, I guess,” Ariel says, seemingly bemused at Maggie’s bringing this up. “Anyway. Looks like you delivered most of them, huh?”
“Yup. A few,” Maggie says. He still hasn’t answered her original question, she realizes. “So?” she prompts, and Ariel breathes sharply through his nose, as if steeling himself, but before he has a chance to say anything, another nurse comes in with Peter and a short doctor who looks too muscled for his white coat.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m Dr. Cortez. Your dad here seems worried about your ribs. We’re certain nothing has been punctured since there’s no sign of internal bleeding. Cracked ribs hurt a lot and they take a while to heal, so you’ll have to be careful with yourself for a few months. No weight lifting, no hiking, no strenuous activity. Slow walks, plenty of stretches, ice where it hurts for twenty minutes a few times a day, ibuprofen’s okay, and if you still feel stiff in six weeks, we’ll get you a referral for PT.” He speaks quickly, looking at her chart rather than at her, glancing at Peter when he does look up. “We want to do another X-ray just to make sure everything is where it should be now that the swelling has had a chance to go down. Here, Liliane will take you down to radiology.” The nurse who came in with him steps forward and Dr. Cortez sweeps out of the room.
Liliane helps maneuver Maggie out of the bed and into a wheelchair. The pain comes unexpectedly when she moves her arm one degree too far in this direction, when her neck bends like that—she’ll need to learn how to be still enough not to provoke it. A stab of impatience is added to the pain—how long will she need to deal with this? Will she be able to have sex? She would have asked the doctor if Peter hadn’t been there—she doesn’t mind embarrassing Ariel. She reminds herself she could have died. Funny, how a near-death experience hasn’t particularly altered her priorities, at least so far. Shouldn’t it?
“Uh, Dad?” Maggie says, as Liliane unhooks the IV bag from the stand and drapes it over the chair. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I want to sit shiva with you both tomorrow. Even if it’s miserable. Is that all right?”
Peter nods, and Ariel looks relieved. Liliane, ignoring the intimate moment, tells them they won’t be allowed into the testing rooms with Maggie so they may as well stay here or go home for a while.
“Okay,” Ariel says, just as Peter shakes his head.
“You go,” he tells Ariel. “Get some sleep. I’ll stay.”
Ariel looks between Maggie and Peter, seeking definitive permission.
“Bro-dude, it’s fine, go. This is going to be boring. Just pick me up tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” he repeats, grinning. She hopes he takes advantage of the quiet house and has Le
ona over.
They all head to the elevator together, and Ariel gets off at the lobby while Peter insists on accompanying Maggie all the way down to the basement where radiology is located and staying in the waiting room while she gets tested. It’s nice to have him cling like this, Maggie thinks, as Liliane helps her up onto a table and puts one of those heavy gray vests over her stomach and lap. Mostly, it’s just a relief to have him present in the world again. She wonders what Iris would think about this whole thing if she were around.
Maggie feels another set of tears start leaking from her eyes as she realizes that no one has chastised her yet. She kind of wishes they would. After all, if Iris were here, she’d be yelling at Maggie to never, ever dare to use her phone while driving again.
AUGUST 29, 2017
The next morning Maggie is sitting in the front seat of Ariel’s Jeep eating the McDonald’s breakfast she begged him to pick up on his way over—“I can’t believe you’re asking me to do that,” he’d grumbled. “I’m vegan, remember? They’re like my archnemesis!”—while Peter sits in the back because Ariel claimed that “the front is less bouncy.” It’s the first time they’ve been alone and in the same enclosed space since the morning of the funeral.
Maggie recognizes the music turned down low as her mother’s Best of Miles Davis CD, the only one that’s been in the stereo in the living room for the last decade or so. “Nice,” she tells Ariel. “Miles, I mean.” In the back, Peter sniffs loudly. Maggie can’t turn around easily, so she lowers the sun visor and snaps open the mirror, angling it so she can see Peter’s face. “Dad,” she says. “Were you and Mom happy?”
Peter, whose nose is running and whose eyes are red-rimmed but look quite dry, nods. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows hard, and tries again. “Very. I think we only got happier with each other over the years.” He doesn’t ask her why she’s asking. Ariel doesn’t either. But before silence reigns, Peter speaks up again. “Hey, guys? I want to apologize. For how I’ve been since, well, just, you know, how I’ve been. I know it isn’t acceptable. I’m your parent, and I shouldn’t have fallen to pieces.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Ariel says before Maggie has a chance. And if he’s saying that, how can Maggie be mad, still? She’s been gone.
“Yeah, Dad,” she agrees. “It’s okay.”
For the rest of the drive, they listen to the dulcet trumpet tones, saying nothing.
* * *
• • •
AT HOME, THEY leave the door unlocked so that people can come in for the last day of the shiva. Peter fusses over Maggie, getting her settled on the couch in the living room with two pillows under her back. He gets the electric blanket from his office, and a big wraparound ice pack Ariel got at CVS yesterday for her to start with—she’s supposed to alternate heat and cold for the first couple of days. “Dad, I’m okay, it’s okay, I promise.”
But he won’t stop hovering, asking her what he can get her to eat or drink, yelling for Ariel to come join them in the living room for family time. Which rather hinders her, since she wanted to get high before anyone arrives. She regrets not asking Gina for edibles.
Daphne does show up, just like she said she would, without the husband Ariel mentioned. She hugs Maggie gingerly and shows off her seven-month-old baby, still mostly bald, a series of impossibly tiny stitches in his upper lip where a cleft was recently fixed. Peter holds the little boy, and asks Daphne all the right questions that Maggie doesn’t know to ask—how he’s eating, how he’s sleeping, whether he’s had his first cold yet or not. Watching him, Maggie hopes Ariel decides he wants kids young.
When they run out of baby chitchat, Daphne tells Peter and Maggie how she remembers Iris being the best parent at fifth-grade career day. “Everyone else brought their dads, remember, Maggie?”
“I honestly didn’t until you said it. I totally forgot about that. Oh my god,” and Maggie begins giggling, “remember Gordon Efaw’s dad?”
“Wait, was he the guy who went to clean up murder scenes?” Daphne puts her hand over her mouth as she starts to laugh. Her teeth are straight now, gleaming with whitening treatments, but Maggie remembers the gesture from when she and Daphne were tweens kissing in the shadows, how ashamed Daphne had been of the crookedness, how she always tried to hide it.
“Yes,” Maggie says, “and Mrs. P kept trying to get him to stop talking and he just wouldn’t!” They keep swapping stories, and it’s almost like everything is normal, just Maggie visiting home and catching up with an old acquaintance, Peter taking a day off, Iris just happening not to be there. It’s only occasionally, when one of them mentions something Iris would be doing now, or something she used to do, that her absence becomes the weighty, permanent thing that it is.
Soon after Daphne leaves, Lucia calls and Peter gives Maggie some space. They talked last night, just enough for Maggie to convince Lucia that she’s really going to be okay, but they couldn’t dwell, since Maggie’s roommates were trying to sleep.
“Babe,” Lucia says. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, now that I’m hearing your voice. I know, cheesy, so sue me.”
“You know, cheesy is a good thing. Corny is when it gets bad.”
“But you love popcorn!”
“Not the same thing, Maggie-mine.” Lucia pauses on the line. Maggie’s face is hot. She wants to squeal into a pillow. “Is it okay to call you that?”
“Yes. Always,” Maggie says. “I miss you,” she whispers.
“I miss you too,” Lucia whispers back. They sit together in silence, each breathing into the phone. Maggie again gets the urge to tell Lucia she loves her but doesn’t. Instead, she asks Lucia about the studio, and work, and Isa and her baby, and her other friends, and their mutual acquaintances. “Not that much is different since we last talked,” Lucia says, laughing. “When are you coming home?”
In Ariel’s mouth, the question needled at her. In Lucia’s, it’s like a blessing. “Soon,” Maggie says. “Maybe a week? I need to heal enough so that I can fly without it being too painful.”
“Of course,” Lucia says. “Get well first, focus on that. For sure.” There’s a burst of mechanical sounding voices in the background and a strange ding-dong noise that reminds Maggie of something.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Nowhere,” Lucia says quickly, and Maggie is about to press when she hears the door open.
“Hello?” a creaky voice calls from the hall. “Anyone home?”
“Babe, I’ve gotta go,” Maggie says. “Someone new’s at the door.”
“Talk to you soon, Mags, yeah?”
“Def. Bye. Miss you. Bye.” Maggie shuts off her phone’s screen and tries to wipe the smile off her face. It wouldn’t do to receive company not only as an invalid but grinning like a fool. She feels so much, too much. She doesn’t understand how it can be possible to feel this full—of love, of grief, of anger. It’s an exercise in containment.
An old man wearing a pink polo shirt and pressed khakis toddles in, leaning on a very colorfully decorated walker. He has a plastic bag hooked onto two of his fingers that bangs against the aluminum and then against his legs. Maggie remembers him from the funeral.
“Maggie, right?” he asks. “Watermelon,” he adds, pausing in the middle of the room to lift up the heavy bag.
“Yeah, hi, I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name—thank you for coming,” she says. “Just a second, let me call my dad, I can’t really get up easily. DAD!” She hates feeling this dependent, but she considers the man in front of her as he looks around, patient and watchful. Maybe they’re on equal playing fields right now. It’s a good reminder that her constricted movement is temporary, while his isn’t.
Peter comes into the room. “Here, have a seat,” he says, and helps the older man sit down in an upright chair. “I’ll go cut this up. Thank you so much,” he says. Maggie can tell he’s
uncomfortable now, eager to leave the room and have something to do. Ariel has been taking a shower for over half an hour, so Maggie is pretty sure he’s just hiding in his room for a while. She can’t really blame either him or Peter—they’ve been dealing with this for days, and Peter’s clearly doing much better now than he was. It’s her turn to step up, even if stepping is currently not very easy.
“So,” she says as the man keeps looking around, apparently in no hurry to talk. “I know we met at the funeral but it’s all a bit of a blur. Remind me, what’s your name?”
“Harold,” he says.
IRIS
FEBRUARY 17, 1992
I’m Too Sexy” is playing on the radio yet again, and Iris switches the station quickly, heat rising to her face. She really wishes she could avoid the song, because every time she hears it, whether or not she wants to, she thinks of Harold and blushes. It’s been only a week since that first, heated encounter in his car—they hadn’t even had sex, but Iris had felt more stimulated, more physically alive to her senses, than she had since before Maggie was born—and she already can’t wait to see him again.
“Hey, turn it back,” Peter says, coming into the kitchen. “I like that song!” He starts mugging for her, swinging his hips from side to side wildly, and Iris starts laughing. “I’m. Too sexy for my hat. Too sexy for my cat. Too sexy for the cat in the ha-at!”