Maggie stood there dumbly, hands hanging at her sides, numbed by the blow of his words. She had no reply. There was nothing more to say.
Marco stepped forward, not touching her, but close enough that she could hear him. His voice softened, almost a caress. “I do love you, Maggie. But I’m not a fool. I will not destroy the very things that make you who you are. Wherever you go in life—and you will go far and soar high—remember I loved you enough to let you go. Remember that.” Marco reached out and touched her cheek lightly, just the pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone, a whisper of touch so faint she might have imagined it. “Good night, Maggie,” he said simply and turned to go. She did not follow him, just watched him walk away, leaving her standing there wordless and bereft.
She moved through the remainder of time before the wedding in a daze that only intensified as the day drew closer. She was an observer of her own life, watching herself go through the motions of final exams, graduation day, and packing up, saying farewell to fellow students and teachers. She flew to Minnesota for the wedding, feeling as though with each mile she was heading toward a funeral not just for herself but for those she held dearest.
The wedding day dawned cloudless and warm, scented with the budding apple trees that lined the streets around Lena’s childhood home. The hours before the ceremony were a flurry of activity as a hairstylist, a makeup artist, and all of Lena’s female relatives descended on the Lindstrom home. Maggie was pulled and prodded, coiffed and spritzed to perfection. At last she slipped into the sheath dress, gazing at herself for a long moment in the mirror. A slender waif of a girl, dark curls piled high, eyes so large they almost swallowed the pale oval of her face.
“Such striking coloring,” she heard one of the aunts murmur to another. “And I’d kill for that waistline.” But their words were meaningless to her. Lena was stunning in a gorgeous strapless gown of creamy silk, with pearls at her ears and in her hair. Holding a bouquet of pink calla lilies, she looked like a movie star from the fifties.
“You look divine,” her aunts assured her. Lena blushed, looking to Maggie for confirmation.
“Stunning. As always,” Maggie affirmed, kissing Lena’s cheek, trying to quell the panic she could feel fluttering and rising like a trapped sparrow in her rib cage, threatening to choke her.
Maggie climbed into the limo for the ride to the conservatory, bunched together with several of Lena’s Swedish relatives all talking on fast-forward. They did not ask her questions. They seemed to forget she was there. After a quick makeup and hair touch-up in a side room, Maggie found herself standing at the back of the conservatory, facing Marco, who was calmly waiting at the front of the cavernous space. Light poured in from the glass walls and ceiling, illuminating the walkway, dazzlingly bright. The string quartet struck up the processional and she heard her cue. Then she was gracefully stepping and pausing, stepping and pausing down the aisle that seemed to stretch into infinity. How could this be happening? She kept a serene smile plastered on her lips, gripping her bouquet of calla lilies for dear life. She took her place beside Marco. The music reached a crescendo, and there was Lena, exquisite in her gown, sunlight catching the pearls in her hair, light cascading around her like a mantle. She had never looked so beautiful. Maggie darted a look at Marco, who was standing calmly watching his bride, a tender smile turning up the corners of his mouth. Maggie blinked, focusing on the flowers in her hand, their delicate mouths open and empty.
The ceremony seemed to last forever. Maggie felt her forced smile beginning to tremble and steeled herself. The trembling was spreading down her limbs. Her hands were shaking. The muscles in her neck tightened with the strain. She kept herself together by force of will alone. She would not fall apart, not now in front of all these people. Later, when she was alone, she could fall to pieces, but not here, not now. She straightened and willed every muscle and bone of her body to remain steady, to hold together just a bit longer.
Lena repeated her vows, her voice quavering a little. Marco spoke the words steadily, with not even a hint of nerves. Maggie watched in disbelief as Marco slipped the ring on Lena’s finger and bent his head, kissing her softly on the mouth. And then it was over. Just like that, they were married.
The reception took place in a long, stately room overlooking the glass conservatory, a sweeping space with many windows, white tulle, and soft lighting. The wedding party and three hundred guests feasted on lobster salad, Steak Diane, and lemon wedding cake wrapped in smooth white fondant. Maggie ate mechanically and smiled automatically when spoken to, giving every appearance of poise and graciousness. Inside she felt a howl of terror swelling against her breast, a swirl of darkness sucking all thought and feeling into it. It was all wrong. Everything—the soft strains of the string quartet, the lobster and glazed heart of palm salad, her sitting alone sheathed in a dress the color of new spring buds, Lena sitting with Marco, married.
She made it through the meal and toasts, the cake cutting, and finally the dancing. She danced with various members of Lena’s family and a few guests. More than one young man braved her chilly poise and asked her out as they danced, receiving a curt refusal for all their effort. She kept one eye on Lena and Marco, a dazzling couple as they turned gracefully around the dance floor. Lena was sparkling. She had never looked so happy. Marco drew her close and led flawlessly, twirling her across the floor effortlessly.
Maggie disengaged herself from her latest partner and slipped outside, needing a moment of solitude and some air. The brilliance of the day had softened into evening. Outside the reception hall the air was fresh and cool, and Maggie paused, letting the breeze flutter over her flushed skin. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the wash of light behind her and the never-ending music. Her head was pounding dully. She’d never felt so ragged or raw.
“Maggie?”
She raised her head. Marco was standing in the doorway, a dark silhouette with the lights behind him. She said nothing, and he approached her, coming to stand beside her. Together they looked at the beautiful glass dome of the conservatory, glowing softly from within.
“What a day,” he said finally. It hurt to look at him, so debonair in his tuxedo, so immaculately self-possessed, now so far beyond her reach.
“I’m going away,” she said abruptly. “To Brazil. I’ve been offered an internship for a year in São Paulo.”
Marco turned and studied her for a minute. “Congratulations. We’ll miss you.” His voice was soft with understanding, and at that moment she hated him for it.
She did not reply. After a pause Marco held out his hand. “May I have this dance? I think the band has one more number.” Maggie hesitated, then took his hand. He led her back inside, into the warmth and noise and low babble of conversation. His hand on her waist was firm, his steps unwavering as the band began to play. They danced well together. Marco led so confidently she didn’t have to concentrate on the steps. After a few turns he said, “Brazil, hmm? That’s very far away.”
“Not far enough.” She didn’t look at him, couldn’t look at him. She was afraid if she did, she would break wide open, crack like an eggshell and spill in a puddle at his wingtips. He turned them and turned them again, the strings of white light and the tall potted ferns spinning past. “Maggie,” he said, and his voice was serious, “if you ever need to come back home, you always have a place with us.”
She lifted her head then, looking him straight in the eye as the band played the final triumphant strains. “Thank you,” she said, knowing that wherever they were was the last place in the world she wanted to be.
She left for Brazil three weeks later, resolving to stay away until it stopped hurting, until she could look at him again without a shred of longing or regret. She suspected it might take forever. She settled into her internship in São Paulo, trying to lose herself in the whirl of the Brazilian arts scene.
Scarcely four months later, her mother called for their weekly chat, sharing tidbits about the neighborhood, a
sking if she was eating well. And right in the middle of the conversation, between describing how Mrs. Sanchez’s toy poodle had bitten the UPS man and giving step-by-step instructions for a new almond flan recipe that was “like a little bite of heaven,” Ana dropped a casual remark about another doctor’s appointment. Her mammogram had detected some abnormalities. Her doctor had scheduled a biopsy. No need to worry. It was probably nothing. A benign cyst. Everyone being too cautious.
But it wasn’t nothing. It was, in fact, a tumor in her breast, malignant and metastasized. Ana tried to wave it away, downplay the danger, but Maggie packed her bags and was on the next flight back. She never returned to Brazil. The next eleven months were a roller coaster of hope and heartbreak. Maggie moved back in with her mother and found a paid internship with a decent photography studio in Chicago. It was not what she had hoped for professionally, and certainly not challenging her at her potential, but it was honest work and paid the bills and kept her camera in her hand.
In the midst of rounds of chemo and radiation and medical bills and sleepless nights spent worrying, Maggie received a postcard from Marco and Lena, a birth announcement for Jonah Roberto Firelli. She mailed a blue onesie and a pack of picture books to the New York return address and taped the birth announcement to the fridge. The baby stared at her every morning with wide brown eyes. He looked like Marco.
During the final round of chemo, when Ana began to suspect her chances of remission were growing slim, she urged Maggie to call Lena. Though Maggie was unwilling to verbalize or even acknowledge that her mother might not be getting better, she began to feel the creeping ache of a world devoid of her only parent. It was unthinkable, a future too lonely to be tolerated. She resisted for a while, but in the end Maggie broke down and called Lena. She needed her friends now more than she needed to stay away.
“Did you get the onesie?” she asked, not sure how to bridge a gap of so many months of silence. “He’s beautiful, by the way.”
“I’ll fly over this weekend,” Lena announced when she heard about the cancer. “And don’t say no. No one should be alone at a time like this.” She flew in from New York three days later, little Jonah in tow. She set up camp on their couch and stayed for a week, cooking and cleaning and filling the shabby little apartment with light and warmth. For his part, Jonah was a good-natured and pliable baby who spent hours in Ana’s arms, watching wide-eyed as she sang him countless songs in Spanish, cooing and rocking him, her bald head bent over his fuzzy, tufted one.
Lena came twice more in those last months, brushing aside all protest, working tiny miracles during a few short days. She stocked the freezer with individually packaged servings of homemade turkey soup and mashed potatoes and beef stew. Hardy comfort foods easy for Ana to swallow. Lena talked of cheerful, normal things—Marco’s new design, Jonah holding his head up far earlier than was typical, her potted flower garden in New York. Never once did she pry or question. She didn’t mention Maggie’s months of silence. When she looked at Maggie, there was only compassion in her eyes, no judgment or reproach.
Maggie basked in the glow of Lena’s calm and gentle presence, soaking it up like a sunflower does the light. She needed desperately to feel known and loved in such a dark and lonely hour. She had not intended to need Lena again, had not intended to be taken back into their lives. But to be alone now was unthinkable. And she had no one else to turn to.
One night during Lena’s second visit, Maggie tried to broach the subject of her long months of silence. They were sitting in the cramped kitchen with mugs of coffee and slices of Lena’s lemon poppy seed cake in front of them. Ana and Jonah were both sleeping. Linda Ronstadt warbled a sad love song from Ana’s ancient tape player perched on the top of the refrigerator.
“I’m sorry I didn’t keep in better contact,” Maggie said, stumbling a little over the words. “The internship was so busy, and then when the cancer happened . . .” She gestured toward Ana’s closed bedroom door. She fell silent, staring down at her plate of crumbs. Any excuse sounded weak in her ears. She couldn’t possibly explain why she had needed to go away, why she had severed contact. She couldn’t articulate the potent mixture of shame, longing, and guilt that churned in her gut every time she saw Lena or thought of Marco.
Lena reached across the table and gently placed her hand on Maggie’s. “I know how hard it’s been,” she said, her tone soft but sounding a little hurt. “We love you, and we understand.”
Maggie nodded, not meeting Lena’s gaze. Lena couldn’t possibly understand, not all of it, but she understood enough to offer grace, and that was something Maggie desperately needed.
“Now, how about another slice of cake?” Lena said, breaking the solemn mood. “Because everything in life is just a little better with cake, don’t you think?”
Maggie took the slice of cake and the absolution Lena offered along with it. They never spoke of it again.
When Ana finally gave up her struggle one warm summer evening and took her last breath on earth, Lena was the first person to know. She and Marco came for the funeral. It was the first time Maggie had seen Marco since the wedding. She tensed as he walked through the door, waiting for the stilted greeting, expecting her own defenses to rise. But it was just Marco, whom she loved and had always loved and perhaps would always love. Just Marco. He wrapped his arms around her, and she sobbed against his gray pressed shirt, making a wrinkled blotch over his heart. He patted her back and murmured small endearments in Italian while Lena heated water for tea. After that there was no going back. They took her into the fabric of their lives as seamlessly as if she’d never left.
She went with them to the island for the first time later that summer. They welcomed her to the fixer-upper farmhouse they’d just purchased after visiting San Juan during a summer vacation. Lena especially had fallen in love with the slower, tranquil pace of the local culture and with the farmhouse itself. Maggie found the hard labor of wallpapering and landscaping, sanding and painting together with Marco and Lena restored her appetite and her senses.
She and Marco never spoke of what had gone before. Lena seemed oblivious to any undercurrent between her husband and her best friend. If she did suspect anything, she never gave a hint of it. And so they carried on through the ensuing years, through Maggie’s far-flung travels, Marco’s and Maggie’s rises to success, and the births of two more babies. The Firellis were all Maggie had left, the closest thing she had to family in the world, and nothing could change that fact.
There were other men in Maggie’s life. A few photographers who ran in similar circles, a handful of locals in various places around the globe. Nothing serious, nothing that held any danger of love. She was still in love with Marco. No other man could come close to that. She held her love for him before her like armor, wrapped tight against any encroaching advance. She called the shots, she decided who and where and when, and ultimately, she decided how each relationship would end.
There was a parade of them for a few years. Fernando, a Spanish chef in Barcelona; Juan Carlos, a high-end bartender in Mexico City; Michael, a nature photographer from Maine; Johan, a South African journalist covering the political situation in Zimbabwe. A few had gotten too close. Like Seamus, the Irish photographer with a dimple in one cheek, a brogue that melted her heart, and a keen understanding of human nature. He met her in a coffee shop in Prague, where they were both stationed for a series of shoots that would last for a month. They’d been together three weeks when one Saturday morning Maggie returned from the corner bakery with croissants for breakfast to find Seamus packing his suitcase.
“Where are you going?” Maggie asked, the bakery bag dangling forgotten in her hand, seeping buttery grease through the brown paper.
“Darlin’, you know I think you hung the moon,” Seamus stated matter-of-factly, looking up as he clicked the latch of his suitcase closed, “but sleepin’ three to a bed is getting mighty crowded. If you ever let him go, you know where to find me.” He placed a kiss on her brow, i
n blessing and in parting, and walked out the door. She never heard from him again. After a few weeks she erased all traces of him from her life. She simply could not give him what he wanted.
After Seamus she lost her taste for casual relationships, tiring of the transience, and unable and unwilling to cut herself loose from Marco. So she remained alone, in limbo, loving a man she could not have and finding all other men paled in comparison, their names and faces fading to insignificance in the long, long shadow cast by Marco Firelli.
Chapter Eight
WHEN THE FIRST CALL CAME FROM THE COLLECTION agency, Maggie and Lena assumed it was a mistake. It was barely a week after Marco’s death. The morning was drizzly and gray, a curtain of clouds hanging low over the water. Although the outside temperature was chilly, the kitchen was warm and snug and smelled deliciously of the bacon Ellen was frying along with eggs for breakfast. Lena was on her hands and knees scrubbing out the cabinet under the kitchen sink even though it was barely seven in the morning. She was on a cleaning spree, energetically scrubbing nooks and crannies of the house that had probably lain untouched for years. Maggie was setting the table, doling out forks and napkins to the children. When the phone rang, Ellen answered it, motioning for Lena with the eggy spatula.
“For you, dearie.”
Lena pulled off her rubber gloves and brushed a wisp of hair back from her face. She took the phone. “Yes, hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Firelli.” She listened for a moment, and then a look of puzzlement crossed her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”
Ascension of Larks Page 8