Woman Last Seen in Her Thirties

by Camille Pagán

  I remember staring at him, overcome with love. And then—I don’t remember why—I turned to look at my mother, who was in the front pew, weeping into a tissue. I knew that she, unlike Rose, was not crying because she felt she was losing me. She was weeping with joy because I was about to embark on the safe, stable, loving life she had always wanted me to have.

  Maybe Adam had kept his promise, I thought as I watched his bandaged chest rise and fall, then shudder frighteningly only to return to a normal rhythm. Maybe he had been the best husband he could be, and in the end, that had not been enough.

  After Jack and Zoe returned, the three of us sat sipping burnt hospital coffee and whispering among ourselves about nothing much. We must have been like that for some time when Adam’s eyes sprang open. His face immediately relaxed at the sight of us. Then he smiled, which made us smile back. For a second—only a second, but a lovely one—it seemed we were an intact family of four again.

  “Maggie,” he rasped. “How was Rome?”

  I startled. Was he making a veiled comment about my phone call from Benito’s, or was he actually interested in whether I had enjoyed the trip we were supposed to take together? “It was wonderful, actually. Thanks.” I wasn’t sure if I was thanking him for asking or for not putting up a fuss about the bill. Both or neither, it didn’t matter.

  “Good. I’m happy you went,” he said earnestly.

  I looked at him. “Adam,” I said slowly, “did you pay for a flight upgrade for me?”

  A new smile formed on his lips. So he had paid for my first-class ticket. And though that ticket had been lovely and landed me next to Jean, who of course had led me to Ann Arbor—and yes, Charlie—learning that he had done this for me made me inexplicably angry.

  “You always said you wanted to fly first class at some point,” he said. “I just thought . . .”

  He just thought it was the least he could do, given what he had put me through. He might have fallen out of love with me, but he cared. He might even still love me. But most likely, he had been looking for a way to ease his guilt.

  And with that realization, the spell was broken. We were not an intact family of four, because the man before me had decided to stop being my husband.

  It was time for me to go home.

  I stood from my seat. “Adam,” I said, “I’m relieved you made it through surgery. I’ll be sure to let your mom know you’re doing great, and I’ll call Rick to ask him to bring her to visit you once you’re out of the hospital. But I need to get back to Michigan.”

  “Now?” he croaked.

  I nodded. “Now.”

  “What about—” Zoe began, but I held up my hand. She, Jack, and I were supposed to have dinner that night. I would call later to apologize and arrange another time for the three of us to get together.

  “I’m so sorry to dash, but I must. I love you two,” I said to Zoe and Jack, and kissed them both quickly. “Be well, Adam,” I said.

  He waved weakly, looking so helpless that I almost changed my mind. As Dr. Chen told us, it would be days before Adam was out of the woods. Even if his recovery went as planned, hard times were up ahead, both for Adam and for the kids. By leaving, I was letting them down.

  But if I stayed, the glimmer of affection I was feeling for Adam might turn into something more—something that threatened to blow out the light I was still waiting to see.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The problem with not having dated since the Berlin Wall was intact was that I did not know the rules, particularly for a casual relationship. I had not asked for Charlie’s blessing to go to Chicago, and that had seemed fine at the time. Upon returning, however, I felt uneasy, like I had done something wrong.

  If Charlie felt the same way, he didn’t show it. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. We were standing on the deck at the back of his house, which was a midcentury ranch overlooking the river. “And I’m glad your ex-husband is okay.”

  “Me too,” I said. “It was good to be there for my kids.” That morning I had spoken with Zoe, who had said Adam was still doing well. If his recovery continued to go smoothly, he would be released from the hospital in a few days. Zoe and Jack would stay with him for the rest of the week, and Rick would step in if Adam still needed help after that point.

  Charlie leaned his elbows on the deck railing. Before us, the river rushed wildly. “How was it? When I saw Lucinda six months ago at a funeral, it was really strange.”

  I thought of Adam lying in his hospital bed. In a way, he had seemed more relaxed than I had seen him in a good long time. “Strange as in you missed her?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “It was more like seeing an actor from a television show in real life, but she’s dressed differently and she doesn’t behave like the character you’re used to.”

  “That sounds unsettling,” I said.

  “It was. Was it like that with Adam?”

  “No, it was . . .” I had paraded around in front of Charlie in broad daylight with my various varicosities on display. But talking to him about Adam felt even more intimate. It was like I feared he would uncover some secret feeling that I didn’t even know I was having. “For a moment it was almost like old times, and that was more disturbing than anything. That’s why I ended up coming back sooner than I’d planned.”

  “I think that was smart.” His mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. “Anyways, I’m happy to see you.”

  “Me too.”

  “Good.” Charlie straightened himself and pulled me to him. “I like us, Maggie. I know it’s early, and I understand why you have reservations about dating so soon after your divorce.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I’ve been divorced almost two years already. And I believe that if something between us is off, I’ll know it. Right now, this feels right.”

  This was a good theory. However, I was not sure I was able to put such intuition into practice.

  “You hungry?” Charlie asked.

  “Starving,” I said, grateful he had changed the subject.

  “That makes two of us. Let’s see what’s in the fridge.”

  His house was spacious, well lit—and as he had warned, messy. Laundry here, dirty dishes there, piles of paper everywhere. Charlie was thinking of selling; it was the kind of place he had dreamed about as a kid, he said, but now it mostly reminded him of his arguments with Lucinda, and he barely kept up with it.

  The kitchen was mostly clean, though, and it had beautiful cherry wood cabinets, slate floors, and a six-burner stove. I was happy to find the fridge well stocked, and Charlie and I put together sandwiches made with prosciutto, thin slices of manchego cheese, and a layer of tapenade on slices of crusty baguette. Then we returned to the deck to eat.

  “So,” said Charlie as we finished the last of our meal, “is now a good time to tell you I have a surprise for you?”

  I made a face. “Like a herpes kind of surprise?”

  He laughed heartily. “You’re a nut. No, it’s a good surprise. Come with me.”

  I followed him through a door off the foyer into the garage. He flipped a switch. The garage door inched up, and afternoon sunlight flooded into the space.

  I squinted. “It’s a . . . lawn mower?”

  He pretended to frown, and I laughed. “It’s a bike,” he said, pointing past the mower.

  It was indeed: a shiny mint-green bike with a brown leather seat and a wicker basket affixed to the wide handles. It was quite possibly the most charming bicycle I had ever seen; I could easily imagine Audrey Hepburn—or myself—riding around Rome on it.

  But a bike was not a casual gift. It was the kind of thing a person got for their significant other.

  “I know you don’t know how to ride it,” said Charlie, who had misinterpreted my hesitation. “But you can’t learn to bike without a bicycle. I saw this one when I was at the shop I used to work at, and it just screamed Maggie to me.” He looked at me bashfully. “I hope it’s not too much.”

  It was
. It was way too much.

  My throat caught. “It’s really nice. Thank you.” I had always wanted a bicycle when I was a young girl. But I knew my mother could not afford it, and that if I asked for one, she would sacrifice too much in order to get me one. I suppose I could have bought a bike after college, but by then it seemed too late. But maybe it wasn’t too late, after all. “I might end up maiming myself,” I said to Charlie as I ran my hand along the painted chrome.

  “That’s what this is for.” He handed me a large white helmet.

  “Ground control to Major Mom,” I droned as I stuck it on my head.

  “Take your protein pills and put your helmet on,” said Charlie. I smiled, slightly more relaxed; here was a man who actually caught my David Bowie reference. (Adam was more a Chet Baker kind of guy.)

  “Let’s give her a whirl, yeah?” he said, wheeling the bike out of the garage. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

  “I hope you know I’m doing this for you,” I said as I swung a leg over the seat.

  “Nope. You’re doing it for you,” said Charlie as we made our way to the flat part of his driveway. “So, butt on the seat, feet on the pedals.”

  The moment my feet were in place, the bike and I began to wobble. But Charlie put his hands on my waist. “I’ve got you,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s go.”

  I was not graceful, but each time I tipped, Charlie kept me from crashing. Within half an hour, I was riding on my own. “This is fantastic,” I called as I wheeled past him.

  “You’re a quick study,” he said after I had stopped in front of the garage. “Won’t be long before we can go on rides together.”

  When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Or not.”

  Just a moment earlier he had looked so hopeful and happy, and I had just undone that without even trying. “No, I’d like that,” I said quickly. “I’m just nervous about falling.”

  He looked at me for a moment. Then he put his hand on my back. “Don’t be,” he said. “You might fall, but you’ll be okay.”

  I awoke several days later to a bright and temperate late April morning, and decided to take advantage of the weather and walk to Maizie’s. I strolled slowly, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the fact that I had no loose ends to tie up. Jack had decided to stay in Chicago for another week to help Adam, and through him I knew that Adam was home and on the mend.

  Maizie’s was on a corner, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out toward the street. As I approached the front door, a sign taped to the glass caught my eye.

  VOLUNTEERS NEEDED—HELP GIVE WOMEN LEAVING PRISON A SECOND CHANCE

  There were pull tabs with a phone number and website at the bottom of the sign. I hesitated and then took one. If I was going to take a volunteer gig, I might as well have taken the internship with Adrian Fromm. But May was just around the corner, which meant my stay in Ann Arbor was almost halfway over; unless I intended to stay in town past August, there was no point in trying to find a job. Mostly, though, I was thinking about what Jean had said to me in Italy, about paying it forward. Maybe this would be a way to begin doing that.

  “Hi there, Maggie,” said Walter as I approached the bar. “The usual?”

  “Hey, Walter,” I said. “Yes, please.”

  A few people lined up behind me, but Walter worked fast, steaming the milk as espresso streamed into two small shot glasses, which he then poured into a to-go cup and topped with a generous dollop of foamed milk. “Cappuccino with an extra shot,” he said as he handed me the cup.

  “You’re the best.”

  “That’s what they say. Can I get you anything to eat?”

  I eyed the pile of pillowy croissants nestled beside an array of scones. “Tempting, but not today. Do you know anything about the volunteer sign on your door?”

  Walter nodded. He had a big belly, and white hair that levitated a few inches from his scalp; I often imagined him in a Santa costume. “Indeed I do. One of our regulars, Felicia, runs the organization. It’s great, but they’re on a shoestring budget, and they have a hard time finding good volunteers. You interested?”

  “I might be. But I still haven’t decided if I’m sticking around town when my lease is up.”

  “Well, I hope that you do,” he said. “But I have a feeling Felicia would be thrilled for whatever help she can get for as long as she can get it.”

  “You know, Walter,” I said, “I think I’ll give her a call.”

  I left a message for Felicia when I got home, and she called back almost immediately. Any friend of Walter’s was a friend of hers, she said after I explained how I had heard about Second Chance; did I want to come in for an interview?

  I did, and so the following day I met her in her office in Ypsilanti, Ann Arbor’s sister city. Second Chance, Felicia explained, helped women leaving prison transition to everyday life. She and two other social workers served as counselors and helped the women sort through the emotional burden of returning to society, but they relied on volunteers to find job opportunities for the women they served.

  I told Felicia that I had been hunting for a job myself and had not been successful. “It’s for the best, I think, since I’m not actually sure where I’m going to live after my sublet is up in August,” I told her. “Because of that, I can’t make a long-term commitment right now. Would that be a problem?”

  “Not at all,” said Felicia. She was short and curvy, and had a kind face that reminded me of Gita’s. “If you’d be willing to give me five hours a week for the next three months, I’d be thrilled to have you on board. What do you think?”

  What I thought was that an unpaid position would not help my long-term bottom line. But while I waited to figure out what was next, this would be a meaningful way to spend the short term. “I’d like to give it a try, if you’ll have me.”

  “Then welcome to Second Chance,” said Felicia, shaking my hand. “Conditionally, of course,” she added. “You have to pass your background check first. But your social work experience will help an awful lot. You’re not supposed to be counseling the women, technically.” She raised an eyebrow. “But you will anyway, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ve been out of the field for years, though,” I said. “I’m rusty.”

  “You don’t unlearn what you know. And I know from past hires that your life experience will be as useful as any degree.” Her smile was nearly as wide as her face. “You’re going to do just fine.”

  “That sounds terrific,” said Charlie when I told him about Second Chance the following night. “But does this mean you’re going to stay for a while? Because if you are, I might have to, too.” He popped a tortilla chip into his mouth. We were at a Mexican restaurant and had just disappointed the waiter by turning down half-price happy hour margaritas.

  I looked at him with surprise. “I only committed for three months. But back up a second—you’re thinking of leaving town?”

  “I’ve been thinking of leaving since Lucinda moved out. I’m not saying I’m going to, but I was thinking of putting the house on the market next month to at least get that off my hands.”

  “And then what?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll probably rent something in the short term.”

  What about the long term? I thought. I felt like someone had just tied a rope around my gut and pulled it tight. I was halfway through my stay in Ann Arbor; I was the one who had no real plans for the future. But Charlie’s lack of planning sounded like an admission that this—that we—were meaningless.

  But I had not been looking for something meaningful. So why was I bothered?

  “Living on the edge,” I said.

  Charlie looked at me for a moment. “Is there any other way?”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  He leaned back in the booth. “The best-laid plans can change at any minute. That’s just the way life is. So I try to enjoy whatever I have while I have it.”

  And then you move on to the next thing? I
wondered, recalling what he had said about loving change when we were at the botanic gardens.

  He continued. “By the way, I told Bob that I wasn’t returning to the support group anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.” He took a sip of his water. “Felt like the right thing to do.”

  I had skipped the last meeting, and Charlie had skipped the one before that. It hadn’t been intentional, but I had to admit I had found it easier to open up about Adam when Charlie wasn’t making eyes at me from across the room. “It probably is. Thanks,” I said.

  Beneath the booth, Charlie rubbed my leg with his foot. “So . . . you want to sleep at my place tonight?”

  I examined the basket of tortilla chips as if it were my life’s mission to find just the right chip to chomp on. For all our lovemaking, we had not yet spent the whole night together. To hear the rhythm of another person’s breath as he sleeps, to nestle against his body as you slip out of consciousness, to see his sleep-crumpled face in the stark light of morning: these were markers of a different sort of relationship than the one Charlie and I had been having.

  “Can I get a rain check?” I said, looking up from the basket. “I’m not feeling all that great tonight.”

  “Sure,” he said evenly, but the subtle line in his forehead betrayed his disappointment.

  “Sorry. I just need a good night’s sleep,” I said, barely able to avoid cringing at the sound of my own hollow excuses.

  Instead of looking at me, Charlie retrieved his phone from his pocket and ran his finger over the screen as he scrolled. He never used his phone when we were together; most of the time he forgot it at home. I had hurt him. And in doing so, I had hurt myself, too.

  But as I had told my children when they went in for their shots, a little preventive pain was far better than the alternative. After all, who knew better than I the dangers of failing to inoculate against heartache?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Dear Maggie,

  I was as pleased as punch to get your last email. Of course, I’m sorry to hear about Adam’s health problems, but it was good of you to be there for your children, even if (thank the good Lord) his prediction didn’t come to pass. But worry most about your own heart, you hear?