Driven To Distraction

by Judith Duncan

  But he could. And he was.

  A wrenching sense of loss piled in on her, and she stumbled into a chair at the end of the table, put her elbows on the wooden surface and covered her face with her hands.

  He was never coming back.

  Sobs broke from her—great sobs that came from so deep within her that her whole body shook, and Maggie let it all go. The pain, the sense of loss, but mostly the hope.

  Once she started, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t even try. It was just too much, the proverbial last straw. It was the end of everything.

  A single sound penetrated—the sound of the screen door closing. Maggie tried to stop, but trying to stop that kind of crying was a little like trying to stop a fast-moving freight train—there was just too much momentum built up.

  “Mom! What’s wrong?”

  Maggie heard Kelly go to the sink and shut off the running water, then cross the room and kneel by her, brushing her hair back. “Come on, Mom,” she prodded. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I need a tissue,” Maggie managed to say in a choked voice.

  Kelly got up and went to the counter, collecting the box of tissues. She set it on the table, pulled one out and pressed it against Maggie’s hand.

  Knowing her face was pretty much a mess, Maggie took it, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, random sobs still shuddering loose. Kelly got up again and went to the sink, coming back with a glass of very cold water. “Here,” she said softly. “Drink this.”

  Maggie almost started crying all over again. It was what she used to do when the kids were small, when they got crying so hard they couldn’t stop. And now her daughter was doing it for her.

  Kelly pressed the glass against her hand. “Come on, Mom,” she coaxed.

  Regaining a tiny modicum of control, Maggie took the glass and tried to drink, though her throat cramped up and new tears spilled over. She managed to get most of it down, though, and it did help.

  She set the glass aside and pulled two more tissues from the box, then wiped her eyes and nose again, her lips puffy, her throat raw.

  Kelly pulled a chair around the corner of the table and sat down. “Are you going to talk to me?”

  Maggie looked at her, her eyes filling up again. She dropped her gaze and folded the tissues, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ve been so stupid,” she whispered.

  “Is this about Dad or about Tony?”

  Maggie couldn’t quite bring herself to confront the truth, so she skirted it. “It’s not about your dad. He was actually was very nice when he called.”

  Resting her arms on her thighs, Kelly began rubbing Maggie’s hand. “He told me he had said some pretty awful things to you.”

  Maggie managed a wobbly smile. “Well, I said some pretty awful things to him, too.”

  Shifting in her chair, Kelly propped both elbows on the table, then rested her chin in her hands, her gaze fixed on her mother. “I know I’m only fifteen, Mom,” she said quietly, “but I’m not exactly stupid. You can tell me, you know.”

  Unable to hold her daughter’s gaze, Maggie refolded the damp tissues. “It really bothered me that I was so much older than Tony, and that scared me, I guess.” Her eyes filled up again, and she quickly wiped them, then swallowed hard. “And I guess I couldn’t understand why somebody like him could be remotely interested in someone like me.”

  “So you blew it.”

  Maggie tried to smile. “Yeah,” she whispered, “I blew it.”

  “And you’re feeling really bad.”

  Maggie locked her jaw against the renewed ache in her throat and nodded.

  “Maybe you could just talk to Tony.”

  The ache getting worse, Maggie looked away and shook her head. It took her a while before she could answer. “He’s not going to give me another chance,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’ve backed away one time too many.” She took a deep breath. “And there’s a van next door. He’s moving out.”

  Alarm flitted across Kelly’s face and she jumped up and went to the window. She stood there for the longest time, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Then she came back and knelt down by Maggie, slipping her arms around her waist. There were tears in her voice when she whispered, “I’m really sorry, Mom.”

  Another sob threatening, Maggie hugged her daughter, her voice so thick she could barely answer. “So am I, sweetie. So am I.”

  It was as if Maggie’s admitting she had made a terrible mistake was all Kelly needed to hear and, overnight, her attitude changed. They didn’t talk about Tony anymore, but they did talk about Bruce, and if nothing else, some good came out of that.

  And it was as if that one wrenching breakdown dulled Maggie’s emotional state. She still had trouble sleeping and eating, but she was able to get through each day, simply by putting one foot in front of the other. But she did begin to wonder if she would ever laugh again.

  Frank was still giving her funny looks at work, but he didn’t say anything. On Wednesday afternoon, however, he went out for coffee and came back with a big bouquet of yellow roses from the discount florist down the street. The buds were a little wilted, and some of the leaves had started to wither, but it was the thought that counted, and it was all Maggie could do to keep from shedding more tears. She had picked off the wilted leaves and was arranging the flowers in the cheap plastic vase when Stevie showed up looking fit, tanned and gorgeous.

  Closing the door, she looked impressed when she saw the roses. “Ooh, yellow roses. And what secrets have you been keeping from me, Mary Margaret?” She set the briefcase she was carrying down on Maggie’s desk, then reached past her friend and caressed one still-perfect bud.

  Maggie stuck in another bud amidst the fern and baby’s breath. “Don’t get too excited. They’re from Frank.”

  Stevie sat down on the edge of Maggie’s desk and folded her arms, her gaze thoughtful as she studied her face. Finally she spoke, her voice very quiet. “You look like hell, M and M. What’s the matter?”

  A huge lump forming in her throat, Maggie shook her head.

  Stevie didn’t say anything. She just continued to watch Maggie, then got up, picked up her briefcase and started toward Frank’s office. “Hey, Frank. You out-of-shape, cholesterol-saturated hunk, you. I brought you the spa books.” She pushed opened his door just as another bomb blast sounded on his computer.

  Frank yelled at her. “Damn it! You got me killed, and I was on level eleven.”

  “Well, Frank, dead is dead, whether you’re on level eleven or not. Now,” she said, as if getting ready to negotiate, “I won’t tell your clients you play computer games on their time if you let me kidnap Mags.”

  “Hell, take her. Just leave me alone.”

  Stevie reappeared by Maggie’s desk without the briefcase. She reached past her and shut off the computer, picked up Maggie’s handbag, then latched on to her wrist. “Come on, Mary Margaret. Auntie Stevie is taking you away from all this.”

  Maggie looked dumbly at her computer. “You shut it off,” she said, stating the obvious, “and I had a file open.”

  “I know you, Maggie. You would have saved it three times before you got up.” She started toward the door, tugging Maggie behind her. “Don’t drag your heels, M and M. You’re coming with me.”

  “I can’t—”

  Stevie gave her another firm tug. “Yes, you can. And you are. I’ll get Hans to carry you out of here if I have to.” Hans was one of Stevie’s employees. He stood about 6’4”, had muscles on his muscles and arms like tree trunks. Maggie experienced an actual flicker of amusement. It would be no contest. She’d once seen Hans hold up the back end of Stevie’s car so another employee could change the tire.

  Well aware of the fact that Stevie didn’t know what the word no meant, Maggie finally relented. Who knew? Maybe La Goddess could make her laugh.

  Stevie took full control. Without being actually sure how she got there, Maggie found herself seated in one of the window tables in the elegant l
ittle café a block away. It had a real French waiter, real linen tablecloths, and it served the best lemonade in the entire world.

  With two very large glasses between them, Stevie planted her elbows on the tablecloth and laced her immaculately manicured hands together under her chin. She stared at Maggie, a no-nonsense look in her eyes. “Okay, Mary Margaret. Give. You’re the most pathetic-looking thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Maggie looked out the window and sipped lemonade through a straw.

  Stevie heaved a sigh. “Look,” she said, sounding bossy. “I’m not going to be nice to you. I know that if I say one nice thing, you’re going to burst into tears. And I’d say you’ve cried too many already. So I’m just going to bully you, be nasty and say rude things.”

  A hint of a smile surfacing, Maggie finally looked at her friend. Which was a mistake, because there was real, honest compassion in Stevie’s eyes. Maggie’s throat got tight, and she abruptly looked away again, continuing to sip the ice-cold drink until the contraction eased. Once she thought she had things under control, she set down the glass, hooked her elbows on the table and started to talk.

  Stevie barely said anything. Once or twice she prompted Maggie with questions, but mostly she just listened. And until Maggie got started, she didn’t realize how badly she needed that. She told Stevie everything—about how she had shied away from Tony because of the age difference, except it wasn’t the age difference at all, and about the scene with Bruce and the final one with Tony, when he’d made the comment about mice in a maze and her own lack of self-esteem. The only time her voice nearly gave out was when she told Stevie about Tony moving out.

  When she finally finished, there was a long silence; then Stevie pushed aside her glass. “I’m going to tell you my big theory. Self-esteem isn’t really about self-esteem. It’s about power. It’s about taking control.” Resting her arms on the table, she took a deep breath. “People think a health spa is about egos and getting beautiful, and for some people—the shallow ones—that’s what it is. But for some of us, it’s about taking control of our lives. I used to weigh a ton, I was unhappy in my job and my life was pretty much a mess. I had handed control over to everyone else in my life—my parents, my boss, my boyfriend. And I was miserable.”

  She looked up at Maggie, her gaze serious. “I want you to do something for me, Maggie. I want you to go on a program I’ll design for you. For one month. I know, from what I went through myself, that getting fit and healthy is the first step to recovery. It won’t work if you’re doing it because you want people to start noticing you, or if you’re doing it so you’ll have great buns and thighs. But it’ll work if you’re doing it to get some control back in your life.”

  Stevie frowned and traced her finger around the base of her glass, then met Maggie’s gaze again. “I could sit here and tell you to try to patch things up with Tony, but he’s right. And you know he’s right, so leave him out of this. Do it for yourself. I’ll guarantee you—if you go into a fitness program with the right attitude, even after two weeks you’re going to start having a whole different attitude about yourself. You’re going to start feeling the physical power. And when that happens, you’re going to start tapping into the psychological power. You’re going to start feeling better and looking better, and pretty soon you’re going to start looking around and saying, gee, if I’ve accomplished all this, what else can I do? I’ve seen it happen a thousand times, and that’s why I love what I do.”

  Compassion warming her gaze, she reached across the table and squeezed Maggie’s hand. “I know how you feel, Maggie,” she said, her tone soft with kindness. “I’ve been there. And I know you just want to crawl in a hole and die, but you can’t. You need to do something constructive right now, and believe me, getting fit is the most constructive thing you can do for yourself.”

  Maggie stared at her friend, a whole new respect dawning. It made sense; even to her, it made sense. Folding her hands under her chin, she looked out the window, a terrible rush of unhappiness making her eyes sting. Too bad it was a week and a half too late.

  She waited for the feeling to ease, then looked back at Stevie, a wry smile appearing. “Are you going to make me wear one of those awful, slinky leotards?”

  Stevie grinned. “Even I don’t wear those things when I’m working out. They’re strictly marketing.” Giving a pleased little wriggle, she stood up and went back to being bossy. “Come on, Mary Margaret. We’re going shopping for some good cross-trainers. If nothing else, you’ve got to have good shoes.”

  For the second time that afternoon, Maggie experienced a twist of real amusement. She should have known that Stevie would want to go shopping.

  After the first two days on Stevie’s program, Maggie didn’t want to crawl into a hole. She just wanted to die. Every muscle in her body hurt, her abdomen felt as if a tank had driven over it and she could barely lift her arms over her head. The only good thing to come out of all the agony was that she slept like the dead at night.

  After a week on the program and two sessions with Stevie’s masseuse, the soreness disappeared, and Maggie was starting to get the hang of lifting weights. Stevie rode her like a drill sergeant, making sure she did each exercise with military preciseness. Proper form, proper body positions. Stevie didn’t allow any sloppiness in her establishment.

  After two weeks, Maggie started doing a run-walk routine in the morning before she went to work, and she started staying later at the spa. The morning-run thing she did for herself, because it gave her more energy during the day. The reason she stayed later in the evenings was because she felt so damned lost at night and so alone. She had one particularly bad night, after Kelly told her Spider had moved into the apartment over the shop. That was the night she started writing letters to Tony—ones she knew she would never send, but where she told him how much she regretted the mistakes she’d made with him and how right he’d been. She tried to explain herself in those letters. And in writing them, she often explained things to herself. It helped a bit, feeling as if she was somehow communicating with him, but those last couple of hours before she went to bed were the absolute worst. And if rank unhappiness moved in, it was usually then.

  She noticed right away that she was sleeping better. Except she was plagued with one recurring dream, of her running through a maze, looking for a way out.

  By the beginning of the fourth week, she started noticing something else—the fit of her clothes. Which surprised her, because she was at least eating again. When she finally got on the scale, she was astounded to discover that she had lost twelve pounds.

  But the most astounding thing happened to her midway through that fourth week. She was on the Stair Master, and twenty minutes into the exercise, with sweat rolling off her, she got this incredible, amazing rush. It was as if she’d just tapped into a major energy source. Feeling as if she had the strength to go forever, she set the difficulty level higher and really went for it, the unbelievable surge of raw energy pumping through her. Damn it, if she could do this, she could do anything she wanted.

  Stevie came over and handed her a dry towel, a knowing smirk on her face. “I told you,” she said.

  Maggie felt like laughing. “Get out of my way, or so help me, I’ll run right over you.”

  The very next day, Maggie signed up for diving lessons. She’d been a half-decent diver when she was in high school, and she darned well wanted to do it again. There was something so freeing about soaring up, then arching over and arrowing down into the water, the whole wonderful flight controlled by your own strength. She had never considered doing it again, because she would have had to be in half-decent shape. But by September, when the course started, she would be in good-enough physical shape. She felt like dancing and throwing her arms in the air when she came out of that registration office. Stevie was right. She had the power! And God, it felt wonderful!

  That sense started to deteriorate badly at the beginning of the sixth week. And it had nothing to do with the program or
what she was doing in her life. It had to do with Tony Parnelli.

  With increasing frequency, Maggie found herself standing in front of the living room window, her stomach in knots, watching for some sign that he was back, regret and loneliness settling on her like some shapeless weight. The loneliness was bad enough. But the regret? God, she couldn’t even measure it.

  One night it was particularly bad. She felt as if all her old mistakes were crowding in on her, and she spent hours pacing around the house, a terrible frustration building up in her chest. Deciding in a fit of desperation that she needed to do something decisive to cut those ties to the past, she marched into her bedroom, tore everything out of her closet that represented her old life and tossed it on the bed.

  It didn’t matter that it was past midnight; it all went. Tidy little suits, drab-colored skirts and slacks, uptight blouses, practical shoes—anything that represented what she did not want to be anymore she got rid of. She stuffed the whole mess into two large orange garbage bags, then marched the works out to her car and drove it all to the nearest charity drop box. She cried all the way home, experiencing a weird kind of relief, as if she’d just got rid of every drab, dull thing in her whole life. It was something she should have done years ago.

  The very next day, she transferred money from her savings account—the one for her old age. Then she picked up Stevie after work, dusted off a credit card that she rarely used and went shopping. Frank nearly fainted when she showed up for work the next morning.

  It helped. It really did. At least as far as her rebirth was concerned. But it didn’t help to heal the gaping hole in her heart.

  By the end of eight weeks, she had a new wardrobe, a trimmer body, a very much slimmer savings account, and she was really beginning to feel good about herself. Except she couldn’t stay away from the living room window, hoping to catch one more glimpse of Tony. It finally hit her, after she’d stared out the window for nearly two hours one Friday night, what her vigil was all about. It wasn’t about getting one more glimpse of him; it was about getting one more chance.