by A. Gorman
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming when I called.” I need you. I can’t breathe when you aren’t nearby. You are my safe harbor, I added silently.
“I’ll always come if you need me. I thought you knew that by now.” Maggie looked somewhat distressed, as though I were forgetting key information.
She has feelings for you. My therapist’s words came rushing back, physically forcing my back against the seat. Is it possible she still cared for me as something more than her friend? After all I’d done and everything I put her through? No. It would be too good. There was no way it could be true.
“So, talking.”
“Right, we got off topic. Talking. You talk, I’ll eat my entire pie,” Maggie nodded with finality.
“You’re going to be sick.”
“You have no faith in me. Talk.” Maggie picked up her spoon just as a picture-perfect whole pecan pie was placed in front of her, her gaze daring me to say another word about her and her pie.
“I don’t know where to start,” I sighed wearily. It was the truth. I’d bottled everything up from the time I was a child, and I didn’t know if I should start from the beginning or when everything finally tilted on the scales.
“Start at the beginning and go from there. I have all night and an entire pie to eat. We have time to get through everything,” she paused, spoon hovering over the pie as she smiled teasingly, “I know how much you love to talk.”
“Really?” I sighed. She was already giving me a hard time. Our communication issues stemmed solely from our inability to have a conversation without baiting one another. At first it was self-preservation, but it had morphed into some sort of sick game we played. Maybe it was self-preservation of an entirely different sort.
“Sorry. You’re right.” Maggie seemed genuinely upset with herself. “This isn’t easy for me. I don’t hear from you for weeks, and then all of a sudden here we are and you’re using more than one-word sentences. I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Have you been body snatched? Right, sorry.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.” I ground my teeth in frustration, running a hand through my hair as I fought for control.
Control over the way she made me feel.
Control over the guilt.
Control over the past.
A cold hand wrapped around mine and squeezed gently. I looked down at her small fingers gripping mine. The contrast in our hands telling me everything I needed to know. Her pale soft skin against my sun darkened calloused skin. She deserved so much more than me, but I was too damned selfish to give her up, and the only way I would ever come close to deserving her was to be honest with her. To come clean about all the shit I’d been dragging with me through life.
She told me a long time ago I needed to talk to someone. At the time, I’d brushed her off, but she was right. The problems weren’t going anywhere, and if tonight was any indication, it was just going to get worse if I didn’t deal with it.
“John. Talk to me.” Maggie’s soft plea broke me from my thoughts.
“My dad’s fists beating me when I wouldn’t stop crying is one of my first memories. I was probably around four at the time, and he’d been out of work for three months. Instead of spending what little money he had on food for my mom and me, he spent it on booze for himself. I remember crying because my stomach hurt so badly from the hunger. My mom was too afraid to stop him. The next day she went out and got put on assistance so I could get food. Not because she was worried I would starve to death, but because she didn’t want to upset my father again.”
Maggie’s pie lay untouched in front of her, the spoon dangling precariously from her fingers as her eyes filled with tears.
“I can’t do this if you cry the whole time. Please eat your pie. It will distract me from the fact I’m actually talking to someone.”
“But…”
“No,” I said firmly, determined to get through this once and for all. “Eat and I’ll talk. At the end you can say whatever you need to say. This is the only way I’ll get through this.”
She stared intently at me for several interminable minutes then nodded in agreement before she jabbed her spoon right into the center of the pie.
“After that, my memories are all pretty much the same. Trying to hide the bruises to protect my mom, my mom refusing to leave my dad, my dad’s fists. I once told you photography was my escape, but it was also the thing that saved me. I’d learned early on how to repress my feelings and separate myself from what was happening to me. Logically, I knew I wasn’t the reason my father was hitting me, no matter how many times he tried to make me feel like it was my fault. I always thought it strange that his attempts to teach me a lesson actually taught me a lesson of an entirely different sort.
“I still think about that fear. I’d look at my classmates and see them in their perfect lives with a normal family. Eventually, I grew big enough that he quit coming after me and my mother. Instead, he’d pick fights at a bar and end up in jail. The charges never stuck for long. I’d decided long before I graduated to run as far, and as fast, from that hell as I could. I tried to convince my mother to leave, but she had convinced herself he’d gotten better. That he loved her enough not to beat her any longer. She couldn’t see that my presence was the only reason he left her alone. I loved my mom – I still love her, but leaving her was the only way I could ever survive.
“My photography teacher knew some people in the news industry and sent them my photographs. One agreed to take me on as an intern, but I had to leave for Baghdad immediately following graduation. The funny thing was Baghdad seemed like a safer place to be at the time. After fighting in my own war my entire life, trading it in for another one didn’t seem quite so bad. At least I’d be in it by choice.”
The words poured from me – my past, the invisible scars that marred my story, every ounce of my beginnings left on the table. I’d never told anyone about my life before photography. I’d never trusted anyone enough until now.
“John….” I looked up and met Maggie’s eyes, flooded with tears. She couldn’t stop feeling everything so deeply, even if she wanted. It was one of the things I loved most about her. Every single person she met, she became invested in them. It was never surface-only with her and relationships. She saw straight to the heart of people.
“Maggie, I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me. I’m telling you because I don’t want to lose my fucking mind. I lost it back there tonight, and it just keeps getting worse. I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face to my therapist, but he keeps telling me I need to open up to someone with a vested interest in me, not just my general well being as he seems limited to. We don’t have to finish this tonight. Just starting the conversation is enough.”
Much to my own surprise, I felt lighter than I had in years. It was like ejecting chunks of my history out into space, never to be seen again. Telling Maggie hadn’t fixed the past, but it shifted my perspective. Something clicked inside of me. I always knew the way I grew up wasn’t normal, that trading one horror in for another meant there was something broken in me, but seeing Maggie process everything, watching her face shift as I spoke, helped me understand something I’d forgotten – even though I knew none of my childhood trauma was my fault, somewhere along the way I’d accepted it was something I deserved. That it was normal, and I was the problem in the equation.
“John, can I ask you something?” Maggie absently twirled her spoon in the uneaten pie, breaking the pecans free from the surface and burying them deep in the amber goo.
“Yeah.”
“None of what happened to you is okay. The people that are supposed to love you the most in this world, the ones that are supposed to protect you from the horrors, are the very ones that drug you straight into hell. Somehow, I think it convinced you that you aren’t worth loving, or the effort, or whatever you want to call it. You do know you are worth loving, right?” She refused to look
at me; she just kept drowning those stupid pecans deeper into the pan.
“I’m not sure, Maggie. We still being honest?” I reached out and lifted her chin so her gaze met mine. She nodded hesitantly as her wide eyes bored into mine. “Your family is the closest thing to feeling loved I’ve ever felt.”
Fucking coward. Tell her you love her. Tell her and be done with it.
No. If I tell her she’ll run. She’s with Deacon. I need to let her be with him.
Why the hell can’t I control this?
Maggie’s gaze fell back to her pie, hiding her reaction.
“My father loved you, John Cormick. Don’t ever doubt that for one second. You’ve also managed to win over my mom, not that it took much,” she added with an amused huff.
“And you?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
“And I care about you, of course I do; I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Her defiant eyes looked into mine, but for the first time since I’d met her, she masked the emotional war that usually accompanied the defiance.
So much of Maggie lay tangled up in that defiant expression, and for the first time in my life I wanted nothing more than to dive in and unwind it all – to know everything about anything she thought; to give her everything I had left of me and find a way to build something great between us. The realization sent a terror through me that made a mockery of the horrors I’d endured in captivity.
“These pies are going to waste,” I said, changing the subject as quickly as I could.
FOUR
Maggie actually ate the entire pie, minus the outer crust – something about it not being sweet enough. I briefly considered forcing her to eat the crust, but only to counter the amount of sugar she’d just consumed. Our conversation had reverted to short answers after the almost confession, but silence with Maggie never felt forced.
“What kind of meeting had you at the church tonight?” she finally asked as she stared into her coffee cup.
In the chaos of my breakdown, I hadn’t really explained what had brought on the panic attack in the first place.
“I was at a PTSD support group for veterans. The therapist thought it would be a good idea.”
“I think it’s a fantastic idea. Maybe being around other people going through the same thing will help you know you aren’t quite as alone as you feel.” Maggie’s eyes brightened at the idea.
“I left right after it started. It was too much.”
“I think you should go back. Not tonight, obviously, but when they meet again. Give it another chance.” Suddenly lost in thought, shifted the cup in her hands, accidentally tipping it and sloshing coffee all over the table. Completely unfazed by an apparently normal occurrence, she absently cleaned it up with her napkin as she continued, “If you want, I can go with you.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? That doesn’t make any sense.” Maggie looked at me as though I’d completely lost my mind.
“Why would you go with me?”
“I don’t know. Moral support? If you don’t want me there, just say so.”
And there we were, on the defensive with each other and right back to spiraling out of control.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” Maggie demanded, her stubbornness shining brightly.
“Come to the next meeting. There’s one tomorrow morning at nine, same place.”
“Alright, come on then.” Maggie waved the server over and handed her a wad of cash as she slid out of the booth and turned toward the door, obviously ready to leave.
By the time we left the diner the rain had subsided, leaving a chill in the air. Maggie’s teeth were chattering before she even reached the car. She’d never survive a more northern climate if Georgia’s mild fall weather had her shivering so easily. Consciously ignoring the urge to tease her about it, I quickly climbed in the car for the ride back to the church to retrieve my truck. As she left the parking lot, I tried not to think about leaving her, about not seeing her again until tomorrow, but a pathetic sort of desperation clung to me as the misery of our doomed future settled in. I knew I wouldn’t give up without a fight, but the part of me shaped from my broken childhood kept insisting the fight would be in vain. In the end, what I wanted never mattered.
“Maggie, you missed the turn off to the church.”
“I’m not taking you to the church. You’re coming back to my apartment so you can’t back out of going to the meeting in the morning.”
“This is kidnapping.”
“Now you know how it feels. Besides, it will give us time to work on our upcoming article since you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I was giving you time with Deacon.” I’d been avoiding her.
“Sure. He’s in, by the way. I’m not sure if I told you. He’s going to take a break from the trail and come do the contest. He can’t be there for the whole thing, but he said he could run through the course a few times with me. Not that we are going to make it past the first heat. Have you watched videos of these wife carrying competitions? They are insane.” Excitement bubbled up in her voice as she detailed everything she’d learned about the sport in our time apart.
Her enthusiasm drove the articles we put together, creating the impeccable articles on Dragon Boat Racing, Extreme Ironing, and Chessboxing, not to mention kept me employed. I had no doubt future articles would be just as brilliant. I did, however, seriously doubt I would survive the front row seat to Deacon and Maggie playing house in a husband-and-wife competition. I’d known all along the stories Deacon and I had heard were blown out of proportion for entertainment’s sake, portraying Maggie as an Amazonian Warrior taking on Murphy himself, but Deacon hadn’t. He couldn’t – or wouldn’t - see her for who she really was.
Maggie was headstrong and defiant, full of sheer determination to overcome. Her refusal to be beaten by something as ludicrous as gravity is what made her so special, not some fabled Herculean efforts her father had spun to boost team morale. She needed someone who would challenge and encourage her, just as her mom and dad had done her entire life. Deacon didn’t know just how much it took for Maggie to get back up every time she was knocked down, how hard it was for her to put the pain and frustration aside and keep moving forward. I’d witnessed it repeatedly on each of our previous assignments; hell, I’d even been the cause more than once. Deacon had built a gilded pedestal so high, he’d just expect her to always be the Unflappable Maggie Moore, and when the two inevitably crumbled in the face or reality, he’d spend all his time trying to rebuild the pedestal instead of rebuilding her.
At least that’s what I kept telling myself. No wonder my therapist told me I needed to be more honest with myself.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Cormick?” Maggie pulled her car into the apartment complex parking lot and turned off the ignition.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being you. For being a mirror when I needed a good hard look at reality. For coming tonight. For forgiving me when I didn’t deserve to be forgiven.” This honesty thing felt like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute.
“Are you sure you haven’t been body snatched?”
“Just take the thank you.”
“Thank you,” Maggie stammered obediently.
“No, I’m thanking you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome then. Right. Okay, come on, you.” She climbed out of the car, still looking like she’d just stepped into an alternate reality. Honestly, I was just as bewildered as she was; until now, our relationship was pure Clash of the Titans, but something had shifted tonight, and the strangeness of it had both of us unsure of how to react.
Maggie led the way up to her apartment, motioning me in ahead of her so she could close and bolt the door. She’d slowly been adding more decorations to her sparse apartment. Her small place felt far more open and inviting than my lavish high-rise apartment ever had. Though she’d argue until hell froze over, I knew it had little
to do with the choice of furnishings and everything to do with the person living in it.
“I’ll get you some sheets.” Maggie disappeared into her room, reappearing minutes later with a stack of sheets and blankets, though I would’ve been fine with the blanket draped over the back of the couch. It was her genetic imperative to make other people comfortable. I don’t think she even realized she did it. She soothed ruffled feathers wherever she went. She even managed to endear herself to a hardened former Russian boxing champion. I hadn’t met one person that didn’t go out of their way to keep the smile on her face. Hell, even Brontsky had found her another job after she’d completely butchered her first article. By all rights, she should’ve been fired.
“So, we leave in a week for the trip. Are you ready?” I asked, mostly to keep my mind from taking a Maggie-esque road trip.
“Yep. My passport is up to date, and I bought a helmet and uniforms that meet the competition guidelines.”
“We don’t have to expand the article outside of where we are now if you aren’t comfortable with it.” Yeah, it would be great for her career to branch out, but her astronomical rise to fame had already thrown her way out of her comfort zone. There was no denying her talent as a thoroughly engaging author.
“I’m ready. Besides, I don’t want to miss this opportunity. Brontsky has been really supportive of our articles and lending us out to do a freelance project is incredible. I hope it opens up more far-flung opportunities. I might not have gotten the adventure my dad and I planned, but I’m getting one I never could’ve imagined.”
That. Right. There. Her off-handed statement held in it everything that made me want to be better, to heal my past. Maggie never dwelled on what she’d lost. She didn’t focus on the fact her meticulously planned out adventure to hike the Appalachian Trail with her father would never be realized; instead, she was grateful for ones presented in its place and made the most of them.
“How do you do it?”
“Make a couch into a bed?” she asked, confused as she looked up from tucking the sheets into the corners of the couch.