“We both felt she should be standin’ on her own two feet by now, Maggie. I kinda feel like it’s my fault for not pushin’ her to try a little harder, I let her flop around here like she had no choice, which is the same way I felt at her age, if I’m honest, I guess. I truly never thought she had it in her to take off,” Bridget said. “She was a big ol’ fuckin’ mess last summer. We all were.”
“You sure you didn’t see this coming? Teenagers hate to be without a phone. Even I know that.”
Bridget attempted to control her reaction to my obvious fury. She took a breath and launched into how long she’d been distracted, missing cues, working all those evening shifts the last few years, long before she’d fallen sick.
“She dropped Facebook in junior high after she was bullied by some older girls who had it in for her. I don’t do social media, you know that, still, I got her off it at the end of eighth grade. I never knew what else she might have been on after we got her a phone, I never saw her on it all that much so I had no cause for concern. After I found out about the cancer, I lost it for a few weeks, smoked myself into a stupor. I cannot blame my daughter for takin’ off.”
“Ok, you really aren’t helping her in any way.”
“Don’t you start to piss and moan, now Maggie,” Bobby warned. “It’s a real bad time for us. If you want to come here and be of some use, for once in your life, then that’s a different matter.”
Chapter 6
Bridget
My flawlessly dressed, jumped-up and dearly estranged little sis was attemptin’ to reengage. I get it, I mean, we never picked each other out as sisters, but that don’t mean we can’t at least put in some effort to make good on our differences after all that’s gone down. We are trying. I’ll give us that. History repeats itself, ain’t that what they say? Maggie was the first in the family to break away when there weren’t such a thing as a cell phone, email or a goddamn frickin’ text known to mankind and now here she was again, after, what, oh, only three decades give or take? Yes, sir, she was makin’ her grand reappearance, right back at the place she started out from.
Maggie ditched home for the student life, a world I have no business with. I never knew for sure where Mia was headed, though I’d had my suspicions. What I did know was it weren’t no college education she was after given her poor performance in high school.
Despite my warnin’ myself not to cave in to my sister as she was clearly tryin’ her darn best to crawl back in under my skin, I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t good to see her. When it comes down to it, to blood family, me, Maggie and Mia, for all our sins, we are all there is. And, for all my failings, family is unconditional when all is said and done.
As for Bobby and me, too bad we never did tie the knot. It’s my big regret. We’d just sorta drifted along, makin’ do.
My fancypants sister started lettin’ her shield slide down durin’ that first supper, at least layin’ off the accusations, some. Still, she kept on pressin’ me on Mia’s motives in takin’ off.
“Have you filed a missin’ person’s report?” she asked, like she was takin’ up a goddamn investigation at the kitchen table.
I tensed and snapped, no. “Mia’s workin’, okay? She wrote as much in her note. She’ll be back when she’s good ‘n’ ready, when the money runs out.”
“Mia’s eighteen, Bridget,” Maggie shot back, all puffed-up and pink-cheeked in that porcelain doll face of hers, all of a sudden, meanwhile, puffin’ out her already more than ample chest and wrappin’ her arms in front of her in a confrontational fashion. “Even you have to know she’s hardly streetwise.”
Bobby shot up from his seat in my defense, God bless him. “For fuck’s sake, Maggie, what do you know about it? Now’s not the time to come here freakin’ your sister out like this. She’s givin’ the girl space to grow up is all.”
I reached out and touched my sister’s arm. She’s big-boned, our Maggie, broad shouldered, nothin’ like me, inside or out. “You’ve looked after yourself well enough in all these years, haven’t you?” I asked her, motionin’ for Bobby to sit himself back down. “Mia’s a smart one, despite her school failin’s, she’ll manage well enough.”
Maggie raised her eyes in a way that made me wonder if she’d not done nearly as good a job of lookin’ after herself as I had figured all these years. She lowered those green eyes of hers to the table so I’d not be able to read more into what was sittin’, stewin’ behind ‘em. I waited ‘til she raised ‘em upward again, flashin’ interest and lightin’ up at the sight of a big ol’ bowl of oven-warmed comfort food, my leftover canna mac ‘n’ cheese if you please, its crispy breadcrumb toppin’ and a rich, creamy sauce bubblin’ away like nobody’s business with a pinch of paprika atop. She always did like her food and it showed. A few tablespoons of my cannabutter melts good and proper in a cheese sauce. I had taken pains to bake Bobby’s portion of cheesy pasta aside, unadulterated on account of him being sober so long and, I thank the Lord, though I’ve no religion to speak of after we both let any last spark of the Catholic left in us lapse, he’d stuck to it.
We sat awhile, avoidin’ the Mia subject while we awaited the trace amount of edible to kick in. Maggie was up front about not bein’ sure of her personal tolerance. “Only one way to find out,” she said, frankness personified, without the snarky edge I was expectin’.
I’ve learned through trial and error the ins and outs of the levels of psychoactive and medicinal compounds in the strains I’ve grown the best, out back. “There’s nothin’ much in what you’re gettin’ here to do you any damage,” I did my best to assure.
It is the healin’ properties I am after, not only the high, though for sure, I’m not adverse to a manageable amount of that, neither, considerin’ all of it I’ve been through. “You surely know that cannabis is being used for treatin’ all sorts of ailments from seizures to autoimmune diseases to migraines, nowadays,” I said. “It helps folk sleep, eases the menstrual pains . . . this little ol’ Wild West frontier business of mine is set on goin’ mainstream.”
“So that’s it, I’m your guinea pig tonight?” Maggie asked, “a willin’ subject of Bridget’s quasi-legal kitchen experiments.” She said she’d read plenty on the medicinal properties and breakthroughs bein’ made but never had taken to it herself.
We’ve been fightin’ for more than two decades for cannabis legislation reform in these parts. About damn time local elections in the last few years are finally turnin’ the laws around in favor of legalizin’ medical marijuana and, its limited recreational growth and use. “It’s legit,” I replied.
“Don’t count your chickens,” Bobby piped in. “The Feds still don’t care much for these newfangled local laws, Bridget and you’d best keep that in mind.”
Our folks had subscribed to a conservative school of thought. And they were proud of it. Bobby’s family, as with most old-time ranchers out here were all pretty much of the same mindset — limited government, low taxes. It was Maggie who never cared none for the politics of the place, windin’ us up with her loosey-goosey liberal ways. Now it was my turn to be shakin’ things up. She weren’t expectin’ this none.
“I never would have dared done it back when Mia was a kid,” I had to admit. “Times are a changin’. If I have myself all the right paperwork in order, implementin’ appropriate security ‘n all, why not grow the good stuff out here where it’s well away from anyone else’s business?”
Bobby nodded: “All I see is the rich growin’ richer, the regular folk in these parts gettin’ ripped off. If we do this right, Bridget’s business I mean, we have a chance to make a go of it, fix things up out here.”
While Bobby was taking care of the dishes, Maggie asked me what I was thinkin’ the impact of this so-called “Green Rush” means for our farm culture out west, the natural environment ‘n’ all. “It’s all well and good, Bridget,” she pressed on. “But from what I hear, there are as many people against this widespread legalization as are for it. Spec
ially when it’s right next door.”
“None of this happened overnight,” I shared what I know of the big legalization debate as far as I understand in our home county, at least. “It’s been a gradual movement, real slow. The advocators, the growers, the lawmakers whose job it is to legitimize, to govern and protect our region, truth is, none of ‘em really knows how in God’s green earth it’s all goin’ to pan out.”
What I keep my focus on is that the laws are openin’ all manner of new windows and doors for medical research and treatments. In my mind, women such as myself, those of us without too many options, if we’re smart, we’re gonna get to the top of what was for the longest time, pretty much a man’s world.
“In the meantime, I’m takin’ advantage of everythin’ I’m learnin’ along the way, thank you very much,” I declared. “For me, Maggie, it’s personal. It’s not only about my goddamn health for me, it is my livelihood.” My so-called progressive sister looked at me real confused. I figured she never expected to hear this. It’s called initiative, the pioneer spirit. I guess she never knew I still had it in me, lame ol’ Bridget, kickin’ around the roadhouse waitin’ tables the rest of her life. Hey, if I don’t launch myself into the future, who else is gonna do it for me?
“Well, thanks anyway for the meal as well as the hefty dose of food for thought, I’m heading upstairs to unpack,” she flounced off in her usual fashion. Maggie was unfoldin’ the clothin’ she’d packed as her escape gear as I climbed the stairs to check in on her. I figured I had best keep an eye on her, take responsibility in monitorin’ her tolerance level.
I perched on the edge of the double bed we’d shared as kids watchin’ her real close as she went through the motions of puttin’ her stuff away. It was the exact same bed, same saggy ol’ mattress that Mia slept on since she was a toddler. That oughta been my first clue, her climbin’ up out of her cot the second she could stand on them chubby little legs of hers. Both Maggie and Mia were the restless type. When my sister acted on her bigger, la-di-da ideas, it’d come as no big surprise. I truly never did see it comin’ with Mia.
“I’ve rented a budget storage unit in the city,” Maggie explained, her way of lettin’ me know she was here for a while. “I’ve packed up the rest of my stuff, the few items Andres left behind.”
I listened as she told me how relieved she had been that her neighbors, two young programmer dudes who work for one of the big search engines, had come to her rescue in haulin’ her couch, a mattress and a big, ol’ bed frame down three sets of stairs and into the U-Haul van she’d filled with the dregs of her marriage. “I didn’t have to ask, but, thankfully, they took it on themselves and helped me unload it all over at the storage place,” she said.
If you ask me, Andres is and always was a douchebag. I’d sized him up early on, the few times I’d been graced with his company. I never liked him — he was way too wrapped up in himself, his ego, his image, his so-called brains and starched buttondowns. Upscale Silicon Valley our Maggie had first described him to me. Ha! I never forgot it. She, on the other hand is a royal pain in the ass but somewhere inside of that manicured exterior you’ll find a good enough heart. I’m her sister. I know these things.
Maggie had chilled out a degree, given what she’d been through, despite the lingerin’ airs and graces. “Give the girl a throne,” our dad used to say. Goddamn it, I had been so jealous of her good looks, her easy way of puttin’ herself first in line. Even now, her long, dark wavy hair lets loose with barely a touch of silver. Those lively green eyes of hers bore bright in the low lit room as they locked with mine, a contrast of tired, ol’ watery blue.
She wanted, then, to know what it was the surgeon had done to me, what it looked like in the flesh. Her eyes widened all the more when I held up my sweater for the show and tell she sought. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she gasped, her hand to her mouth. “Bridget, damn, I had no idea.”
My sister was seein’ her first tit-less woman’s torso, up close and personal, if you please. The core of my body was still freshly scarred, somewhat raw to be brutal honest about it and there was a strange, lingerin’ aroma clingin’ to the stitchin’, two diagonal red slashes all that remained of the soft little buns where my breasts used to be.
“Christ. What happened to your nipples?” she asked, aghast. “Did they forget to sew them back on?”
“Not without any reconstructive surgery,” I explained. “Stop your fussin’, Maggie, I’m over it,” I said. “Anyway, it was me who said no to a new pair.”
When I’m well, I’m plannin’ on a big, ol’ chest tattoo. I’m picturin’ a beautiful owl, based on the one in our barn, its wings spread real wide to cover whatever remains of the scarrin’.
I reached down, my T-shirt and sweater still halfway up around my armpits and plugged in a string of fairy lights Mia had tacked to the wall in a half-hearted attempt at a grotto surroundin’ her headboard. The room twinkled, softly.
Maggie’s eyes welled. I watched, taken aback, as she wiped the first of her small, fat tears with the back of her hand.
“Bridget,” Maggie whispered, tenderly for once. For the first time in forever, my sister voluntarily reached out her hand to me. “You’re going to beat this, honey,” she said, tracin’ the line of scars across my chest with the tip of her finger. “We’ll beat this. Together.”
I have grown weirdly accustomed to the strange sensation that is, in truth, no sensation at all when it comes to bein’ suddenly and totally flat chested. Maggie dropped her hand and laced her fingers in mine.
Dingy granny curtains hung lifelessly across the bedroom window, the same cheap ol’ lacey drapes from J.C. Penney our mother had hung up to keep the midday sun from strippin’ the varnish on her ancient wooden furniture. I wondered why it was I had not taken any notion to better care for the place? A wash would have done these dull and dreary drapes some degree of good, though in truth, I figured they’d only disintegrate due to the compoundin’ years of dust and harsh sun. The old man hauled in the same ol’ rug of worn green shag the week the drapes and wallpaper went up, a million years back, now.
“You know, they don’t tell you any of this before they chop ‘em off,” I said, motionin’ to my chest. “There’s no feelin’ there, now, none.”
It’s real strange, walkin’ into things and not havin’ even the smallest of what I’d call a boob buffer. I lie on my stomach at night and wonder at the flatness of it all.
It tends towards chilly upstairs so close to the rafters in the wet winter months. I shook out a musty smellin’ patchwork quilt I’d stashed in an old blanket box at the foot of the bed, checkin’ for mice. I spread it as a second layer over the dusky pink chenille coverlet that Mia picked out in junior high from a pile of first-rate used beddin’ in our favorite thrift store in Point Reyes. “Good as new,” I’d reassured her.
“One by one, over the years, I let go of everyone,” Maggie spurted. “My friends — all of them, they left the city and its corporate life for the suburbs, one-by-one, two-bytwo, starting businesses, families of their own.” She was showin’ signs of attemptin’ to ready herself for bed, though she kept on stoppin’ mid-sentence. I watched as she prized off her weddin’ band, her flash diamond engagement ring and her watch. She wandered about the bedroom lookin’ for somethin’ to put ‘em in, settlin’ on a small satin pouch she found in amongst Mia’s stuff, tuckin’ her treasures in beneath the neatly folded clothes she’d carefully placed in a dresser drawer. Maggie brushed her glossy hair with one of Mia’s hairbrushes and set about cleanin’ her face with cotton wool and cleansin’ lotion from a half-used drugstore bottle my daughter left behind. I followed her closely as my sister made her way downstairs.
“What do you need, Maggie” I asked. “How’s about a nice glass of water?”
“Bridget. I’ve been a fool,” she confessed, as we stood face to face in the dim light of the kitchen. I poured her a glass of ice-cold water from a pitcher in the fridge. I figured Maggie was pretty mu
ch bombed by this point. What I had wagered would have been a more gentle effect of our supper was kickin’ in with way more impact than I had cause to anticipate, though the timin’ was about right, an hour or so after we’d left the table.
Like I said, tolerance levels differ person-to-person, sometimes it’s real dramatic and may feel dangerous to the partaker, though, as a rule it generally is not. I’ve seen cannabis take hold in all manner of ways. With Maggie, she started to giggle, spillin’ water as she wandered on into the sittin’ room.
I looked into her eyes as they filled with more of the same fat, watery tears she’d spilled on the bedcovers earlier. This time, though, she was laughin’. She clutched her curvy hips and for a good ten minutes or more, I listened as she hollered and went to, makin’ silly talk about nothin’ in particular.
Maggie’s inhibitions took a nosedive. It was like she had launched herself off a hilltop on one of those paraglidin’ contraptions or somethin’. So much so, she declared it was fuckin’ good to be home, flyin’ free and she never would have believed it.
“I feel like I’m floatin’ on a cloud, Bridg’,” she said, as she puttered around the room in slow, deliberate circles, fairly beamin’ her face off at Bobby and me. Though it was kinda funny, watchin’ my uptight sister relax into an altered state, I was all the while makin’ sure that she was okay. Nothin’ bad was gonna come of it, after all, I was the one who’d made the goddamn mac ‘n’ cheese, I knew just how much cannabutter I’d put in an’ I saw how much of it she’d gobbled. What we was findin’ out for the first time was how my sister reacts to edibles and how long she’d be high.
After about a quarter of an hour of her wanderin’ around in this fashion with her arms out in front of her, bride of Frankenstein style, she walked across the room, stood with her back to us a minute or two more before she faceplanted her body the length of the couch. I stood by patiently as my holier-than-thou little sister hummed herself into a deep and contented lookin’ sleep.
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