MAGPIE

  As the coffee brewed, I grabbed my tattered notebook and a pen. My problem, I concluded, required a thorough and objective examination of recent encounters. I scratched out a list of questions first,

  Who?

  Relationship status

  When do I think about him?

  Why do I think about him?

  Am I crazy (Y/N)?

  Then I began to elaborate,

  Tom

  Never was a “status”

  Occasionally

  Wonder about sex with him

  N! Just horny

  Bill

  It’s over, but I really miss him

  More than occasionally

  I think I loved him and vice versa

  N, he needs time

  Brett

  SO done!

  Picking up dog shit

  Smell reminds me of him

  Nope, NO WAY!

  Greg

  REALLY done!

  Never

  I don’t

  Hell no!

  Adding one more, I finished the list,

  Daniel

  It’s really over

  24/7/365

  He moves me

  Y, cuz he’s a zillion miles away and I still want him!

  A fresh cup of joe in my hand, I stared at the results of my pragmatic analysis. Thinking back on a correction he made just hours ago, I made quick change to my adolescent embellishment,

  Daniel

  It’s really over

  24/7/365

  He takes me places I’ve never been

  Y, cuz he’s 1600 miles away and I still want him!

  Furrowing my brow, I examined my scribbles then inhaled sharply, “Holy shit. I love Daniel.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Something’s in the Err

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “I’m still in bed, Katie. Christ, what the hell time is it, anyway?”

  Katie was obnoxiously intrusive since the day she officially began planning her wedding. Quaint enthusiasm had turned into excessive micromanagement, and I was quickly tiring of it.

  “Here we go again, ol’ lady. It’s almost six o’clock and I know for a fact you get up at five during the week, so don’t give me a hard time, sis.” How Katie could be so oblivious to my mood was beyond me.

  “Can I get a fucking cup of coffee first, or is that task not included in your wedding plan?” Each word was hurled with precision.

  “Okay, fine, make your coffee and I’ll be over in a few. And enough of the ‘F’ bomb.” Katie hung up before I could object.

  It was Saturday and cold as hell outside. I wanted to stay in bed, maybe turn on the tube and watch a movie, or dust off the paperback on my nightstand and finally finish the damn thing. The one thing I didn’t want to do was deal with Katie at six in the morning. Shit, the sun hadn’t even come up yet.

  Cody sensed my agitation and offered a sweet wake-up kiss—a gesture I rarely took for granted.

  “Thanks, buddy, I love you too.”

  Wiping the slobber off my leg with my robe, I found my slippers and lumbered to the kitchen.

  January turned into February as uneventfully as I turned fifty-six. My folks couldn’t make it to Denver, and Katie was overly consumed with where, exactly, her destination wedding was going to take place. She’d emailed an apology, haphazardly embedded in a message about the location of her nuptials,

  Mags, help me! I love the idea of Napa, but not in July. It’s getting too late anyway. The venues book up so fast. What do you think about somewhere sunny, with lots of beaches, like the Caribbean? Would people travel there? Would you? Oh shit! Today’s your birthday! I’m sorry, Mags…do you have anything planned?!

  In fact, I did. I’d made reservations (for one) at my favorite little Italian place. After a fabulous four-course experience, I’d ducked into an indie movie theater and saw a charming foreign film, Gloria. Apparently, life can begin at any age, in Chile anyway. Home was my destination after the movie, though I was tempted to stop off for a glass of wine. Not comfortable throwing a pity party in public, however, I drove past The Grille, secretly wishing I had someone to share it with. Birthdays had become a nuisance, and I made a pact with myself that night: Only two more birthday celebrations for me—my seventy-fifth and ninetieth (if I’m lucky), amazing milestones worthy of celebration.

  The buzz of my phone roused me from my daydreaming. It was Katie.

  Coating my words with persuasive sap, I said, “Hi Katie. I’m almost put together, just come on over.”

  “Mags, it’s Daddy. He’s in the hospital,” Katie followed her dry announcement with wet sobs.

  “What? Katie, what happened? Please tell me.”

  My heart raced, and I sprinted to the bathroom with the phone held to my ear. I ran my fingers through my hair, stripped out of my pajamas and jumped into yesterday’s attire. I’d be at her house in less than five minutes.

  She told me he was at University Hospital, the new one; its fancy name had escaped me, too. Denver’s roads weren’t bad, but it was so damn cold. All I could think about was the long and dangerous ambulance ride from Georgetown, where they’d been visiting friends. And then there was the record snowfall we’d had in the mountains. Consumed by fear, stark images of a lifeless man being pulled from the still screeching van taunted my raw emotions. I raced to Katie’s house, hoping to elude the grim mirage.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been holding my breath when my mother called, “Maggie, where are you? We need you here, dear.”

  Mom’s few words triggered ages-old feelings of insecurity. My mother was extremely critical, a trait that had only intensified. She was the last person I wanted to talk to.

  “Mom, I know, I’m on my way to pick up Katie, almost there in fact. Then we’ll be on our way. Do you need anything? Have you eaten?”

  Changing the subject sometimes worked. Not this morning, however.

  “Oh Maggie, what makes you think I could eat anything right now?”

  Unexpectedly, I was teleported to the time I suggested that we plan a surprise party for Dad while Mom dismissed the idea and continued washing the dishes, reminding me that he hated being surprised.

  “Ok, Mom, I’m just concerned about you, too. We’ll be there in thirty minutes. While I have you, though, are there any updates? Have you spoken with the doctors yet?”

  All I could get from Katie and Mom was that Dad woke in the middle of the night, which had become a common occurrence lately; that they were staying with friends in an unfamiliar place didn’t help. This time, he ran a shower as if it were morning, and fell. Mom heard the thump and found him unconscious. She called 911 and they transported him to Denver. More frail than Mom and Dad, their friends stayed back, begging Katie to keep them posted.

  “Dear, if I knew anything more, I would have told you. Please just come quickly.” And with that, our call ended.

  Beware of growing into a cold-hearted, bitch, Maggie. It runs in your genes.

  Katie and I rode in silence. Her face was red, blotchy and tear-stained. Strangely, I hadn’t cried at all. I was in work mode, gathering data and beginning to draft a project plan, albeit a mental one—it would make its way to paper at some point in the day.

  “Katie, honey, we’ll find out what’s going on with Dad. Until then, please don’t make it worse for yourself. Here, hold my hand.”

  I reached over and took her hand, which was cold and lifeless. My heart hurt for her as much as it did for Dad just then. Katie was the baby, and our father adored her. I knew he loved me, but it was different, a logical sort of love. She could do anything and Dad would be delighted. I learned to sit back at watch the fireworks,

  Surprise!! Happy Birthday, Daddy!

  Katie, my sweet Katie! My goodness, look what you’ve done!

  Yes, Daddy! I planned it, and Mommy and Maggie helped. We knew you’d love it—isn’t it funny? I love you Daddy.

  You did a fine job, sweet pea. I love your deco
rations, sort of…who says I’m ‘over the hill?’ And would ya and look at that cake, I bet you and Mommy made that from scratch.

  We did! We did! How did you know that, Daddy?

  Mom was right, Dad didn’t like surprises. But the year he turned forty, I wanted to do something special. He’d been joking about becoming an “old fart,” and it seemed like the perfect time to plan something different. Still, dad never knew the surprise for his fortieth birthday was my idea. After Mom shot it down, I told Katie to carry it out; I did all the planning, while she took center stage. Some things never change.

  We found Mom sitting on a bench in the ER waiting room, staring unaware.

  “Mommy! Oh my God, why are you out here?” Katie ran over to our mother and hugged her, not letting go for an awkward amount of time.

  “Dear, please. It’s okay. I came out here to meet you two.” She gently pushed Katie away and looked over at me.

  “Hello Maggie, thank you for coming.” Said as if it were a distasteful chore.

  “Mom, come on, of course. He’s our dad as much as he’s your husband. Christ.” Stuffing my irritation deep down, I reached over and gave her a one-arm hug. “So, what’s going on? Any news?”

  “They say that he might have had a stroke. Some big shot doctor said so.”

  “You should be glad he’s being cared for by a ‘big shot doc.’”

  How had my mother grown into such a bitter woman? Looking at this stranger, I couldn’t recall when the shift took place.

  Hours of waiting took its toll on all three of us. By the time the neurologist walked over to provide an update, we’d sunk into a state of vigilant silence. The last time I was in a hospital was last year, when Tony’s partner was hit by a car; before that, Jack’s cancer treatments. The palpable recoil to the sights, sounds and smells of my surroundings kept me sharp, and I took the lead after dad’s doctor introduced himself.

  Objectively, I said, “Thank you for caring for our father, Dr. Simons. What can you tell us?”

  “Yes, how is my husband, doctor?” Mom just couldn’t help herself.

  “Well, ladies, Mr. O’Leary is doing much better. I am a neurologist and was called to examine him because he showed signs of a stroke. We ran lots of tests, most importantly an MRI, which showed negative for stroke. We ran labs, too, which showed Mr. O’Leary is hypoglycemic.” Dr. Simmons stopped and waited to see if we were following.

  I wasn’t. Confused, I asked, “I’m sorry, did you say hypoglycemic?”

  My father had never been diagnosed with that or any other major disease before. “Why didn’t the EMTs find that on the way?”

  Attempting to clarify, Dr. Simons went on, “Yes, I said hypoglycemia. And a good question. It’s a common mimic to a stroke, and not all EMTs and their units are trained to test beyond the obvious symptoms, in this case, a stroke. Often, patients with hypoglycemia present with confusion, one-sided paralysis, even coma, all of which look like a stroke. Add to Mr. O’Leary’s symptoms his age and most first responders will diagnose stroke.”

  “But why haven’t his doctors detected hypoglycemia before?” Mom and Katie listened attentively, noticeably relieved that I was managing the conversation.

  “He probably didn’t have it until now. Mr. O’Leary isn’t diabetic, is he?”

  “No, not at all.” Or at least that’s what Mom shared with me.

  “Hypoglycemia can occur at any age, though more common in diabetics. Has he changed his diet recently? Increased drinking, alcohol I mean? When were his last labs, or his last physical?”

  Dr. Simon and I were in sync, and I rattled off the information I knew of, looking to Mom for supplemental facts. In the end, it was good to know Dad would be fine and that just he needed to follow up with his doctor.

  “Thank you, Doctor, may we go see him now?” Mom was becoming increasingly anxious, and she really did need to confirm that he was alright.

  “Of course, Mrs. O’Leary, I’ll show you the way.”

  It was more important for Dad to see Mom and Katie right now, so I held back and took a seat outside of his room. I also wasn’t ready to see my father as a hospital patient. He’d been a steady figure my whole life, one of strength and power, and I wasn’t willing to see him in such a weak state. Roles change as people age, but I wanted to postpone our about-face as long as possible. For now, he was still my larger-than-life father who stood vigil those first few days after my dual loss,

  Maggie, honey, I’m right here. Your Mom and I are here with you. Come here, honey, I’m so, so sorry, my sweet Magpie. I won’t let you go…

  I leaned on him a lot after they died. He and mom stayed with me for over a month. They handled every aspect of the services, kept the fridge full, tried to get me to eat and sleep, and took care of me as best as they could. Mom busied herself with house chores, while Dad just sat with me, reading me uninteresting stories from Reader’s Digest. It was Katie who finally insisted they head back home. She swore she’d look after me and keep them posted. Dad cried the day they left; I couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

  Convinced Dad was going to be fine, we left the hospital. It was just after one o’clock, and Colorado’s winter sky was a brilliant blue, which lifted my mood considerably. Cold as it was, the high altitude sun made it feel warmer. As was the custom, Mom stayed at Katie’s house. Thankful for my privacy, I took a long hot bath and contemplated death; not from a gloomy place, but from an objective, who’s-going-to-die-next perspective. After counting all the people close to me who had died, I decided to make a U-turn and head down another rabbit hole. This time, I counted all the people close to me still living—a lengthier list, indeed.

  One name stood out and I instantly felt pangs of guilt for not staying in touch. The last time I saw Tina was Christmas Eve, but the festivities prevented us from having a serious heart-to-heart. Before that, we’d had lunch on Memorial Day, during which I’d told a pretty big lie. Tina had sensed it, but I never followed up. Having lost track, I wasn’t even sure if she and Trish were married; I’d received no invitation.

  “There’s no time like the present,” I uttered, hoping the silly cliché would sink in and convince me to adhere to it. I’d survived the past eight years cemented in the past, and it was time to quit armchair living and break out of my rigid cast.

  Quickly drying off, I threw on some sweats and picked up my phone.

  “Hello?” Tina answered in a curbed tone.

  “Chica! Hi, it’s me, Mags.” I hoped my friend would warm to my enthusiastic greeting, but she didn’t.

  In the same flat tone, she said, “Oh, hi Mags. Sorry you caught me at a bad time. We’re having a heck of a time with Rose.”

  Barely audible, I asked, “Who is Rose?”

  A few seconds ticked by before Tina spoke, her reply a complete shock, “Mags, Trish and I adopted a baby girl; her name is Rose.”

  Waves of emotions flooded my body. Love for my friend and her partner, joy for their new baby, and sadness for now just finding out about it. I’d lived so selfishly lately that it never occurred to me to reach out to my dear friend.

  A sob barely escaped and, quickly swallowing it, I said, “Oh Tina, I am incredibly thrilled to hear this news. Congratulations! My gosh, it’s so much to take in.”

  In a shaky voice, Tina said, “Maggie, I’m sorry you had to find out this way, I feel really bad.”

  “Please, please, don’t feel bad, Chica. It’s me who should and does feel bad. I’ve neglected our friendship for stupid, selfish reasons. I’m to blame. But enough, there’s a baby in the house, and you don’t want her sensing all this crap. Oops! No more cussing, either.” I was giddy with joy and couldn’t contain it. “Can I swing by sometime, please? I’d love to meet little Rose,” I whispered as if I were there, trying to keep the commotion to a minimum.

  “Mags, I would love that, really. In fact, what are you doing now? Trish and I are exhausted and could use some help from an expert.”

  It was as thoug
h no time had lapsed. Threads of love and respect connected the two of us and forgiveness sealed the bond.

  “On my way!” But first, I needed to make a stop.

  ***

  I had no idea what or if they needed anything for Rose; Besides, I’d dust off my sewing machine and make a beautiful quilt soon enough. Nevertheless, I had a very clear idea what these new parents needed, and pointed Beater toward the neighborhood wine store.

  “I’m an auntie, Jerry!” I proclaimed to the owner, a short and squat bachelor who gave bears hugs to all his regulars.

  “Congrats, Maggie. Time to celebrate then?” He said after squeezing all available air out of my lungs.

  “Yes, it is…and time to stock my friends’ wine rack. What can you set me up with that won’t force me into foreclosure?” We walked to the back where he kept a few cases of really nice stuff. I smiled, and Jerry winked back. In ten minutes, I was back on the road, two cases of Zenato Amarone della Valpolicella in the back seat of Beater. I also grabbed one bottle of Banfi Brunello di Montalcino Poggio all’Oro so we could toast to—in the words of Tevye—life.

  A new baby. I was ecstatic and went a few miles over the limit, anxious to hold their new bundle. Tina and Trish would be amazing parents, and Rose was one lucky baby. Admitting life was moving right along for everyone—hell, the world—but me, I punched the accelerator in an attempt to vaporize the subject of my rumination.

  Nevertheless, questions still arose: Had I been idling at a subconscious rest stop, waiting for…what? A toll-free highway to happiness? Christ, the energy I’d spent over the past seven—wait, eight—years pleading for salvation, a place free from agony and despair. I’d duped myself into thinking the manufactured life I’d been living was fulfilling and safe; half true, it also kept me from the people I loved. Yes, Jack and Michael died, but I still had my beautiful grandchildren, spirited sister, faithful parents, devoted friends and my loyal, four-legged best buddy.

  As my gratitude list grew, I silently affirmed more truths: I had my health; a peaceful home; a career that kept me sharp and engaged; and several more decades of life…I hoped, anyway.