Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story

by Sandra Fitzgerald

  Luke’s mobile phone’s ringing again. It rings a lot at the best of times, but it’s been going crazy today. He answers it quietly from in the kitchen, so I can’t hear what he’s saying, just the hum of his voice filling the void.

  I’m grateful for him. I’m thankful to the powers in play for bringing him to me. I honestly don’t know where I’d be or what I would do without him anymore. That thought alone petrifies me and has me spitting in jealousy, because he can leave. It would be so easy for him. He can walk up the very stairs I’m glaring at from my position on the couch and pack his bag. Toss out the things he no longer wants and go. Disappear.

  I hate him for that.

  I really do. But I love that’s he here more.

  Luke spoke to Jon yesterday and again this morning. Luke speaks to him more than I do these days. They had one of their cryptic conversations about me. I really wish people would stop thinking I’m too stupid and not understand what is going on around me.

  I’m not, you know. Widow is not a synonym for dense.

  Luke’s raised voice snaps me out of my darkening thoughts, my ears pricking to attention as he speaks. “No, I told you that would be impossible at the moment.”

  There’s silence, the scraping of a chair over the timber floor.

  “I can’t,” he growls, his tone piking my curiosity. I don’t think he’s talking to anyone I know.

  “Fine,” he barks, then is quiet for a moment. “I said it’s fine, give me a couple days to get organised.”

  I’m standing now, making my way to him. I know it’s wrong but he sounds so distressed I can’t help it. I stop short of the entrance to the kitchen and watch him pace, running his free hand through his shaggy blonde hair that could use a trim, the other hand clutching the phone still pressed to his ear.

  “I’m pretty fucking sure I pay someone way too much to take care of this shit, Alec,” he grounds out through clenched teeth before noticing me.

  His shoulders drop, and he runs a frustrated hand through the back of his hair rigorously, causing it to stick out in different directions. Then he wipes it firmly over his face, walks to me and wraps me up in his large frame. He stopped listening to whatever Alec is saying on the other end of the line.

  “I have to go,” Luke says without apology and hangs up, wraps his other arm around me and buriers his face into my hair. I shuffle closer when he doesn’t move and hold him back, waiting for him the same way he has waited patiently for me. After the longest time, I feel Luke’s shoulders soften and then the muscles in his back relax. Lastly his tightly clenched jaw slackens, and his arms hold steadfast.

  I slide my hands into his back pockets. “What’s wrong?”

  I love, no, hate how much I like the way he holds me. There’s no pretence, no expectation, only friendship and comfort. Normally it’s Luke comforting me - this time however, I’m not so sure.

  “I have to go,” he murmurs so, so quietly against my skin and tightens his embrace.

  He’s leaving me? But he can’t. Jon is.

  “Where?” I probe, even though it’s not my place to ask; he’s not mine to question. My heartrate picks up anyway, and my arms drop listlessly, suddenly too heavy.

  He’s leaving me.

  “They need me back at the office.” Luke breathes noisily through his nose and presses his forehead into the nook between my shoulder and my neck, “I don’t want to go, Maggie Mae,” he whispers, then turns to press a soft kiss to my jaw. “I don’t want to leave.”

  I’m not sure - it could be from the summer heat and our bodies being pressed tightly together, but the skin under his face feels damp.

  “Where?” It’s all I seem to be able to manage. I hold my breath, because I know what’s coming. I know where Luke’s office is based. He’s leaving me, and not to go around the corner.

  “New York.”

  My eyes instantly fill with tears desperate to make their escape. I have no right to feel this upset, but his answer feels like a punch in the stomach. A painful sob betrays me.

  “I’m so sorry Maggie. I am so, so very sorry.”

  I try to push away but he squeezes me tighter. All I want to do is run away and hide for the rest of my life, or until people stop leaving me.

  “It’s fine. Luke, it is. You have to work. You have a life outside of me.” I’m trying to convince myself more than him.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Maggie.”

  He’s lying, he has to be. I have an empty shell of a life. He has so much more.

  THREE DAYS LATER I’m standing on my front verandah leaning against the front door, watching Luke place his bags into the boot of the waiting taxi. He slams it closed, slides his hands into the front pockets of his dark denim jeans and walks up to me with his chin tucked to his chest. When our toes are touching tip to tip, he bows his solid frame and presses his forehead to mine. He closes his eyes and takes a moment before his says what’s on his mind.

  “I’m hurting you.”

  He is, but I’m not going to admit it to him. He wants to leave, so leave. I take hold of his biceps and try to tether him to me.

  “I want you to come with me Maggie. Please don’t stay here by yourself.”

  We’ve been over this already. I can’t leave, not yet. I can’t leave my girls and Brendan. As irrational as it sounds, I’m just not ready.

  I instinctively cross my arms as if to help protect myself from our conversation. “I can’t Luke, I told you.”

  He draws a slow deep breath, “You want to know a secret?”

  I’m not sure that I do.

  “Sure, why not.”

  If I sound bitter it’s because I am, and grumpy, and mad, and angry and a little pissed off, too. Not directly at Luke - at least, I don’t think it’s all directed at Luke. More towards the universe and the hand it keeps dealing me.

  “It’s selfish and wrong of me, but… I can’t stand the thought of not being able to see you… to touch you. I like being near you Maggie, you help me to feel.” Luke’s voice lowers as his head rolls from side to side over my forehead. “I miss you already.”

  “So stay.” It’s not a fair thing to say to him. I know he’s in an impossible situation but what he’s just told me hurts in the place my heart used to be, but…yeah, whatever, I’m aching too.

  “You have no idea how much I wish I could. I’m sorry Maggie Mae. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

  My eyes open to slits to notice the black t-shirt I gave him poking out from under his button down. Seeing it causes a sad smile to play around the edges of my mouth. Reaching up, I pull the collar gently then let it spring back into place. I like that he’s wearing it. Even though I can’t smell Brendan on him anymore, it smells wholly of Luke.

  “It reminds me of you,” Luke whispers, wrapping his arms around me. “I’ll hate taking it off.”

  ‘So don’t,’ I want to say, ‘stay and never leave. Don’t be another person taken from me’. But I can’t sound the words I want to say because he’s saying goodbye. “You better get going or you’ll miss your flight.”

  “I’ll catch the next one,” his voice croaks, tightening his grip on me.

  “Luke…” You can’t say things like that. You can’t make me believe when you’re offering the unbelievable.

  Luke kisses my wet cheeks, my eyes, my head, the corner of my mouth, my lips so briefly I don’t have time to kiss him back… not realising that I wanted to until it’s too late.

  Then with one last crushing embrace, he steps back and walks to the taxi, glances over his rounded shoulder, settles in his seat, looks at me through the closed window, then leaves.

  Like everyone else.

  As the yellow cab disappears into the distance I find my body lowering to the rough concrete of its own accord. I bring my knees to my chest and hug them, burying my face into the darkness they offer.

  The air’s warm, birds sing. Lawns are mowed, gardens manicured to ‘Edwards Scissor Hands’ perfection. Li
fe moves forwards. I can’t understand how everything is able to function so normally when my world is in tatters. How can the earth revolve on its axis and not tilt off course with something this monumental? It’s unfair. I feel robbed.

  After the sun has shifted and is glaring, mocking me in all its summer glory, I finally muster the courage to open my front door. Stepping into the passage, I take in my surroundings.

  Polished timber floorboards shining and dust free; the umbrella stand holding a yellow duck and a blue bird umbrella; a taller black umbrella on one side of the tall glass cylinder, and my pink on the other.

  I walk to the right and enter the kitchen, swipe my hand over the tidy dinner table with the tall clear glass vase filled with lemons set in the middle, straighten a couple of chairs that don’t need straightening. I stop in front of the breakfast bench and wipe the black granite over too. A few tiny grains stick to my palm, but otherwise it’s as clean as the table. I slide my palm across the counter all the way to the sink, pick up the dish cloth and soak up a lone drop resting in the bottom near the drain. I wring out the damp cloth and fold it methodically in half, then half again and place it in the top right corner of the stainless steel sink. Turning, I head into the lounge without the need to close an open cupboard with my toe.

  Bending over an arm chair, I pick up a cushion covered in a bright Aztec design, punch and pull and fluff it back into shape then place it on an angle on the seat. I step up to the black fabric lounge and refold the folded multi-coloured quilt, then return it to the back of the three seater. The other matching chair is perfect and needs no attention, so I fluff and rearrange the brightly coloured cushion anyway.

  I return to the kitchen to see if it could use some more attention. It doesn’t, it’s still spotless. I trudge up the stairs to Luke’s room. The bed’s been stripped; the quilt folded and resting at the foot of the mattress. Drawers are empty, the wardrobe is vacant and the window is open to let in the warm breeze. I inspect the bathroom, wiping over already clean surfaces.

  I open the hamper, take out the linen and walk purposely to the laundry. Turn on the load and wait the eighty minutes the cycle takes. Remove the contents, open the back door, walk to the line and hang out the top sheet, one fitted sheet, four pillow cases, two matching the sheets and two matching the cotton cover and one doona cover, step back and watch them billowing freely in the summer breeze.

  A handful of weeks ago I was hanging the line in order; all shorts and pants together, then all the tops. The socks with their partner pegged next to it and the underpants to finish. When they were dry I’d take them down one person at a time, start with folding the underwear, placing them in piles at the bottom of the basket then the socks hanging close to their mates for quick pairing and folding. Mattie’s pants are next, then her tops. Ella’s bottoms and then tops, Brendan’s things, finishing with mine.

  Today it will be the fitted sheet first, then the flat sheet; the cotton doona cover and the pillow cases to finish, first the sheet set, then the cover set. Then I’ll pile them on a shelf in the linen cupboard in the hall.

  I return upstairs and inspect the floor. Everything’s in order.

  I go back down; everything’s still in order.

  I sit on the couch and look at everything that’s in order.

  I turn on the television and look. Then I turn it off.

  I sit back in the seat and entwine my fingers in my lap, and look. And wait.

  The next day I wake and fold my bedding.

  I have breakfast, clean the dish.

  I shower and dress.

  I sit and look and wait.

  On Thursday I do the same.

  On Friday I do the same.

  On Saturday I open my journal to read the empty planner and notice a comment in my hand writing for the last Saturday of the month. It’s for dinner with friends at a local family bistro. I make a mental note to remember, close my journal and put it back in the cupboard by the pantry.

  Then sit in the lounge and look and wait.

  I do the same for the next week and the week after.

  And the week after.

  Jon calls and I tell him that I’m fine. My dad calls and tells me about his arthritis and I tell him that I’m sorry for his ailments and that I’m fine. Brendan’s parents call and tell me that they need to get away for a while and I tell them to have a nice trip and though they don’t ask, I tell them that I’m fine.

  Luke calls and I cry silently so he can’t hear. He tells me he’s sorry, that he’s doing his best to come back to me. And I tell him that it’s okay, that I’m fine.

  Because none of it matters anymore.

  I’m fine.

  Chapter 6

  IT’S SATURDAY AFTERNOON and I’m in the shower shampooing my hair. I lather it twice and condition it once, then rinse it thoroughly to ensure it’s clean. I soap my body and shave my legs, my bikini line and under my arms. Scrub my face, flinching as the hard spray cascades over my eyelids. I once enjoyed this process, looked forward to the pampering and the night out with friends. Today it feels mechanical and structured like a mathematical formula. I think it must be because I’m a little nervous about seeing all our - my friends and their families again. Most of whom I haven’t had contact with since the funeral.

  After turning off the taps, I wrap a thick towel around my chest then tip over and entwine another around my head to soak up the moisture in my thick hair. I dry my arms, stomach, legs and feet. I think of painting my toe nails, but don’t. I massage moisturiser into my skin and spray deodorant over my arm pits.

  I walk to the end of my bed and inspect the dress I’ve chosen to wear before stepping into my black lingerie and sliding the costume over my head and shoulders. It’s not black; I’ve opted for dark grey instead. I don’t want to look too much like the grieving widow martyr because I’m not. I’m fine.

  The dress is a little looser than it used to be, but fits well enough. I struggle with the zip and eye hook, then return to the bathroom to apply my makeup. I don’t wear much so it doesn’t take very long. I remove the towel from my head and shake out my hair, run some moisturiser through the mid-lengths and ends and blast it with my hairdryer, fingering the waves into a more orderly controlled style. I brush my teeth, swipe my lips with a nude gloss and clean up after myself.

  I walk down the stairs, sit on the couch, entwine my fingers and wait.

  For four hours.

  I UNLOCK AND open the door that leads into the garage from the laundry room. In the dim lighting I can see the outline of my car. It’s a bright orange or ‘Tangerine Orange Pearl’ to be precise, so it’s actually amazing that it’s not emitting its own light force and illuminating the dark garage.

  My car’s a current model Hybrid Subaru XV 2.0i-S. I know all this because Brendan bought it for us in the middle of last year. He was so excited that we could finally afford a new model car, he wouldn’t stop going on and on about it for ages. He actually took one for a test drive on five separate occasions. He’d drag us all out to the car lot at night to see how the different colours reflected in the dark. Gosh, he even took the girls through a carwash to test out the wipers and to see how the water beaded over the paint.

  At least that’s what he told me. I think he got a kick out of hearing the girls squeal every time the water jets bombarded the windows.

  God we laughed at him, and he got so upset with me for not taking him seriously enough.

  The day Brendan brought the new car home we loaded it up and drove around for hours. Eventually, and somewhat begrudgingly, we stopped to eat a picnic dinner at the beach. It was crazy cold winter time at twilight and we had to wrap up like Eskimos to help keep the freezing wind out. But no matter how much we begged, pleaded and whined – even with puppy dog eyes - Brendan wouldn’t let us eat in the car. He kept on looking at it with such pride, explaining something about putting racks on the roof for his surfboard. I remember him scooping Mattie up into a tight hug and asking her if she’d
like a board of her own this summer instead of sharing with Ella. I just shook my head, rolled my eyes and laughed at him and his silliness. I miss being able to laugh at his silliness.

  I press the button on the wall by the door to open the automatic garage door and then walk to the front of the car. The bonnet is covered in a hazy film of dust, something Brendan would never have allowed to happen. I go to wipe my hand across it but catch myself at the very last moment, remembering that the dust will scratch if I don’t use a soft cloth. Biting the inside if my cheek, I take sidewards steps to the driver’s side, open the door and situate myself behind the wheel. The dash and console are also dusty and the car smells stale. This time I don’t stop myself from gliding my fingers over the moulded surface; leaving shallow waving ruts and smile sadly imagining Brendan scowling at me for causing such an atrocity to his precious baby.

  I glance into the rear vision mirror and look at the two empty car seats in the back… then have to close my eyes as my heart bottoms out and convince myself that I’m doing the right thing. Leaving the house to see my friends is the right thing.

  I twist around on the seat and rest my elbow on the centre console to help shift onto one butt cheek. There is a colouring book laying open, displaying a half-finished picture of Beauty and the Beast. Ella’s pink plastic pencil case is sitting on top, ready to go for her next ride that will never come.

  Mattie has a yellow and black plastic Transformer toy resting on her seat converted into Bumble Bee, her favourite character. She used to sit with Brendan watching the movies over and over, sharing in great discussions on the different ways they could transform and how cool it would be if our car could too.

  Reaching further into the back I rest my hand on the base of Ella’s booster seat and close my eyes, praying to feel her through the cushioning. It’s pointless, I know, but we’re all prone to silliness sometimes. After taking a few relaxing breaths, I reach in further and pick up Mattie’s toy, turn and shuffle my hips to sit back behind the wheel, hugging the toy to my chest trying to feel her too, but… sometimes silly is just silly.