Finally, on the eighteenth lap, Maggie realized her heart was pounding erratically, and her vision was blurred. She clutched her side, dropped her pace to an unsteady walk, and headed for the little girl.
Without saying a word, Maggie dropped into the swing beside the child and smiled at her. “Hi. My name’s Maggie.”
Before the girl could respond, Maggie felt a hand take hold of her upper arm and she spun around, jerking free from the grip. Fear sliced through her gut like a hacksaw. God, please, no …
The man standing beside her wore a police uniform and a badge that glistened in the midafternoon sun. “Ma’am, I’d like to have a word with you, please.” He motioned toward a grassy area several feet away.
“Nicky! Nicky!”
At the sound of the child’s cries, Maggie turned back to her at once. The girl had jumped from the swing and was running toward an older boy and girl seated at a nearby table. Then the child glanced back at Maggie … and Maggie’s whole body went cold.
This wasn’t a blond little girl. Instead, the child running away from the swings had red hair and a freckled face. But … where did she go? Why is this happening again? What’s wrong with my eyes? Am I that far gone, Lord? Maggie stared at the child and then directed her attention back to the officer. She was sweaty and rumpled and desperately in need of a water fountain. She had never run six miles in her life, and now she was about to be interrogated by a policeman.
“I think I’m going to faint.” Maggie slipped her head between her knees and urged herself to breathe slowly. After several seconds, she raised her head and looked over her shoulder. The officer was waiting.
“I’m serious, ma’am. Get up. I need to talk to you.”
“Sorry, I just … I don’t feel very well.” Maggie rose up off the swing and followed him, terrified that she would collapse and be taken away in an ambulance or worse, be arrested in the park adjacent to the office where she worked. If her peers got hold of the story …
Help me, God … please!
When they were a distance away from the playground the policeman turned and faced her. “I’m Officer Andrew Starmer. Got a call from one of the neighbors in the condominiums across the street that a female jogger was stalking a child on the playground.”
Maggie saw black spots dance before her eyes. Breathe. Breathe, Maggie. Don’t faint now. “A female jogger?”
The officer glanced at her sweatsuit and nodded. “Did you know that child, ma’am?”
“Child?”
Officer Starmer sighed. “Yes, the one you were talking to.”
“Oh, her. I, uh … I thought she was my niece. My niece lives near here and plays at the park all the time.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Tell you what, why don’t you follow me to the car, and I’ll make a report. Just to be sure.”
Panic coursed through Maggie’s veins. “An arrest report?” She did her best to sound indignant. What have I done, Lord? Help me.
“No. Just informational. Take down your name, that kind of thing.”
Maggie wiped her hands on her pants legs and released a laugh that said there must have been a mistake. “Officer, I work across the street. I jog at this park every day at this time. I thought the girl was my niece. Isn’t that enough information?”
Officer Starmer eyed her for a long moment. Let him believe me, please … “You work at the newspaper?”
“Yes. My car’s parked there right now.”
His eyes narrowed. “Okay. Just be aware that people are sensitive about strangers getting too close to kids. You read your paper, right?”
“Sure.” Oh, thank You, God. He doesn’t recognize me, doesn’t know I’m a columnist. “Right. Definitely. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The officer glanced once more at the redheaded girl then back to Maggie. “If you’ve finished your jog, why don’t you make your way back to the office.”
“I’m on my way.” Maggie smiled at him and nodded as she and the officer headed in different directions. She was ten steps away before she remembered to exhale.
That was too close. What if he’d taken my name? What if he’d arrested me or taken me in for questioning? What was I doing there anyway? And why does the child keep disappearing? Who is she?
Come into the light, child.
What light? Maggie argued with the still, silent whisper. There hasn’t been light for years.
She had the strangest feeling she was forgetting something but she could hardly stop and think about it. Not with the officer watching her from his squad car across the park. She opened her car door just as her cell phone began to ring inside her purse on the front seat. Instantly her eyes flew to the watch on her wrist.
The boys! That was it! She had forgotten the boys.
Maggie tore open her purse and grabbed the phone, speaking in a voice that sounded half-crazed even to her. “Hello?” Her heart raced and she was assaulted by a wave of nausea.
“Mrs. Stovall?”
“Yes, I’m late to get the boys. Are they okay?” Her words spilled out in a panicky blur.
“Uh … yes. They’re back at school. They waited at the bus stop for thirty minutes, and apparently one of your neighbors verified you weren’t home. She contacted the school, and we sent the bus back out.”
This was crazy. She was losing her mind. Everything she was doing proved that. She needed to be honest, ask for help. Maggie’s mind raced.
“I … my car … ” She cast a frustrated glance upward, grasping at anything that might sound logical. “It … my car broke down and I … I was just going to call and see … make sure they were okay.”
The school secretary hesitated. “I had to contact Social Services, Mrs. Stovall. These children are wards of the state and anytime something like this happens … ”
What was she insinuating? That Maggie was an abusive foster mother? That she and Ben were no better than the foster parents she referred to in her column? Maggie thought of how she’d failed even to tuck the boys in the night before, and a murky cloud of fear suffocated her. Get a grip, Maggie. Come on. Her racing pulse was causing her body to tremble, making it difficult for her to speak.
How could I have forgotten the boys?
“What did … what did Social Services say?”
“They said these kinds of things happen and they made a note of it.” The woman paused again, and Maggie could hear disapproval in her tone, almost see the indignation on her face. And if the officer had taken her name … She couldn’t bring herself to think about it.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Please tell them I’m coming.” Maggie hung up the phone and steadied herself. How could I forget them? I love those boys. They may not be worth much in the eyes of society but right now I’m all they have. And I let them down.
You’re a wretch! Worthless. The voice in her head had changed from doubt and discouragement to a devilish hiss. No one would notice if you drove off a cliff, Maggie Stovall.
Forget about it, Maggie. Think about something else.
Images shot through her mind—the blond girl, the onions in her shopping cart, the policeman—as Maggie pulled into the school parking lot, she was horrifyingly aware that the sense of approaching doom was worse. It clawed at her with every step, making it nearly impossible for her to breathe as she found her way inside the school, comforted the crying twin boys, and led them back to the car.
When they were buckled in, Maggie rested her head on the steering wheel and began to cry, too. At first the sobs were muffled, but within a few minutes she was wailing, terrified by the despair that seemed to be sucking the life from her.
Where am I? Why am I weeping in the school parking lot and why can’t I think clearly?
“Mrs. Stovall, what’s wrong?” It was Casey and he’d stopped his own crying.
Oh no … I’ve scared him.
She straightened in her seat and quickly wiped her eyes. The child’s question cleared the fog and brought everything into focus ag
ain. She was crying because she’d been so busy looking for a little girl that didn’t exist she’d forgotten her foster boys at the bus stop. She was crying because thirty minutes ago she’d been on the verge of being arrested and losing everything she had ever worked for over the past seven years.
And she couldn’t think clearly because she was going crazy. What other explanation could there be?
“I’m fine, honey.” Her voice was still trembling, but she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a relieved look cross the twins’ faces. They believe me. Good. Now we can go home and have a normal night.
Maggie pulled out of the parking lot and headed east toward their neighborhood, fighting off another bout of tears. Normal? It had been months since she had felt anything close to normal. Most likely, she’d spend the evening barely tolerating her husband’s probing glances and tidying a house that never seemed to be clean. Then she would stumble into bed and lie awake under the watchful eyes of whatever demons had taken up residence in her home.
The thought of it made her want to turn around and drive west, maybe until she reached California or the ocean. Maybe drive the car into the ocean until it swallowed her up—along with whatever was trying to destroy her. However far it took to get away from it all. The tears came again, and though Maggie willed herself to drive home, forced herself to battle the desperation, she couldn’t still the one thought screaming through her mind …
Maybe it really was time to check herself into a mental hospital.
7
Maggie remained an emotional hurricane through a long night of ignoring Ben and his roses and on into the next morning as she tapped out a column decrying the standards in many foster homes. She could barely concentrate for the voices waging war in her head.
She focused on the computer screen and the task at hand. Come on, Maggie. You can do this. She began typing.
Something is terribly wrong with our system when we place the abused children of our state in homes where, at least on occasion, they’ll be abused again. What type of safety net is that for a child who’s falling through the cracks? The time has come to toughen the standard by which we judge people worthy of taking in foster children.
Her fingers refused to move, and she pictured the boys, alone and scared at the bus stop.
Hypocrite. Hypocrite, hypocrite. You’re the worst foster mother of all. Leaving those boys out at the bus stop while you …
“Lots of good feedback on the Social Services column, Mag.” Ron Kendall leaned against her desk so he could face her. “This the final one in the series?”
Maggie gulped. She was having trouble understanding him. Something about Social Services and a series. “Yeah … it’s a series, Ron.”
His face reflected his confusion.
What? Why’s he looking like that? What did I say? Everything about who she was seemed to be disconnecting. As if nothing she was thinking or hearing or doing made any sense at all. Ron frowned. “Hey, Mag, you feeling all right?”
The way his eyes narrowed told Maggie he was genuinely concerned, and she felt a rush of panic. If Ron was worried, then maybe she really was losing her mind; maybe it wasn’t only a couple of bad days or the fallout from having forgotten her foster boys and nearly having been arrested the day before. “I … I feel fine, if that’s what you mean.” Maggie stared back at the computer screen, hoping Ron would get the hint and leave her alone. She had just thirty minutes before deadline.
“Okay.” Ron angled his head and waited until he had her attention again. “You just haven’t seemed like yourself lately.” He chewed on his lip and gazed at the ceiling, and she had the strong sense he was searching for the right words to say. “I’m here for you, Maggie. That’s all. If something’s wrong let me know, okay?”
She forced a smile. “Thanks, Ron. I’m fine. Really.”
He walked away, and she stared at her column. Everyone knows. It might as well be written on my forehead: “Maggie Stovall is going crazy.”
Over the next fifteen minutes she finished her column and for the first time since working for a newspaper, she didn’t bother to read it through again. Instead she filed it, pulled her things together, and headed home.
It was time to get to the bus stop. She would not forget again.
Five after three.
That’s when the bus arrived. Five minutes after three. 3:05 P.M. 3:05 in the afternoon.
The number sounded in her mind like the words to an unforgettable song: 3:05, 3:05, 3:05. The boys’ bus comes at 3:05.
Maggie had rushed through every activity since early that morning, everything from getting dressed to writing her column. She would not be late this time.
It was 1:45 when Maggie shut the door of her home behind her and set out on the five-minute walk to the bus stop.
The walk involved crossing a very busy street, one that gave mothers nightmares about children getting knocked under the wheels of a speeding car or being struck by a menacing tractor-trailer. The twins—like other foster children Maggie and Ben had cared for—were absolutely forbidden to cross it alone.
Maggie moved quickly, doing her best to ignore the haunting feeling that something was chasing her, closing in on her. When she arrived at the stop she checked her watch again: 1:50. Her shoulders eased downward, and she allowed herself to exhale. She didn’t mind the wait; her feet could take it. They Would have to. She could never be like those foster parents she’d written about earlier, the type who gave a child more trouble, more pain and heartbreak. More insecurity. No, Maggie would never do that again. Even if she had to stand in place for an hour or more, she would be there when the boys got off the bus.
The temperature was dropping, and a cloud layer had taken its position in the sky above her. Maggie couldn’t help herself. She kept looking over her shoulder, sure someone was there, waiting with a hunting knife poised above her head.
Help me, God. Clear my mind so I can think again. Please.
She rocked back and forth … back and forth, licking her lips nervously as the minutes trickled by … 3:05, 3:05, 3:05. It became a rhythm that surrounded her, kept her company.
At one point she thought she saw the bus and she straightened. Yes, it was the bus all right. But …
Maggie inhaled sharply. Every face beyond the bus driver’s was that of the little girl! Ten or twenty girls with curly blond hair filled the bus, and Maggie didn’t know whether to run away or flag the vehicle down before it could get away. She moved further into the road, her eyes locked onto the busload of little blond—
The sound of a blaring car horn jarred her from her thoughts, and she reeled backwards, tripping over the curb and falling onto the sidewalk behind her. Her head smacked the concrete, and for a moment she lay there unmoving. She heard a car slow down and someone shout, “Hey, lady, you all right?”
Instantly she sat up and was assaulted by the urge to vomit. She waved weakly at the man in the car and smiled. “I’m fine.”
He looked doubtful but drove off anyway. When he was out of sight, Maggie ran her hand over the bump that was forming on the back of her head; something warm and wet met her probing fingers. Dear God, help me! I’m bleeding …
How far out in the road had she been when the car honked at her? She had thought it was a bus full of little girls, blond girls … all with the same face …
Where had the speeding car come from, anyway? There ought to be a law against driving so fast on a residential street! It was downright dangerous. Maggie fixed her hair over the wound so that the blood wouldn’t drip onto her white jacket. Did she need stitches, or would her hair be enough to stop the bleeding?
While she was trying to decide if her headache was from the fall or the anxiety that consumed her, the bus pulled up. Immediately Maggie saw the shocked look on the face of the bus driver and she realized she was still sprawled on the sidewalk. The driver opened the door and shouted above the sound of the engine. “Mrs. Stovall? You okay?”
She was on her feet,
brushing off her jeans and fixing her hair again so that the driver couldn’t see any signs of blood. “Fine. I tripped.”
His expression grew slightly less concerned. “I was afraid you’d been hit by a car.”
The children were making their way out of the bus, and Maggie choked out a laugh. “No … nothing like that. Weak ankles. Happens all the time.”
How long have I been rambling? Five minutes? Ten? Where are the little girls who were on the bus a few minutes ago? Or was that a different bus?
The bus driver was still staring at her.
“I’m okay, really. Just clumsy, I guess. Don’t know why I wasn’t more care—”
Cameron and Casey appeared at the top of the stairs. Thank, God … The boys were all right and she was there, on time. They made their way to her. “Mrs. Stovall!” Their voices rang as one as they ran the remaining few feet and threw their arms around her.
“We were scared you might not be here.” Cameron flung his backpack over his shoulder and grinned at her.
“I told him you’d come.” Casey cast her a confident smile. “You never missed us before.”
Maggie put her arms around the boys and hugged them close. If only they were my own children …
You don’t deserve children of your own. Not after what you—
“Boys, let’s go home and have some hot chocolate. Sound good?” She forced herself to be clear minded. If the darkness wanted to hound her it would have to take a backseat. This was her time with the boys, and there was no room for delusional voices. She’d waited all day to hold the twins in her arms and reassure them that she would never, never again forget them.
The bus pulled away, and Maggie looked at the boys with a frown. What are they doing? Why aren’t they sitting down? Maybe they wanted to talk first, before she made them their snack. She plopped herself down and sat cross-legged on the hard surface. “Come on, sit down at the table. I want to hear about your day.”
A Kingsbury Collection Page 40