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

by Sandra Fitzgerald

  What’s worse is that he also has the ability to create want and need, to ask me to have courage, to embrace sensations, to acknowledge my life, to desire. To have him with me and never have to let him leave.

  The problem is that I’ve believed and felt before, then broke.

  And broken hurts.

  He shifts my hips higher and slowly starts to slide us backwards into the warm water. It bites at my cold skin, burning until I become accustomed to the temperature.

  “Take a breath baby,” he whispers and carefully submerges us, running a gentle hand through my hair before resurfacing with tangled fingers. He lays the unbruised side of my face to his chest and holds me. I feel my body twitch, and eventually relax over him and begin to drift off.

  The drop in water temperature stirs me. We’re still semi-submerged and entwined, and again I wonder, “Why Luke?”, turning on the hot tap to rewarm us.

  “Are you still fine, Maggie Mae?” he mumbles sounding as tired as I feel.

  No, I never was.

  “I’m fine Luke,” I whisper so quietly, I don’t know if he heard me, dipping my chin in the rising liquid and closing my sore bloodshot eyes once more.

  LUKE’S IN THE kitchen cooking breakfast. How he found enough food in the pantry to cook in the first place is an achievement in itself.

  “Morning,” I mumble shyly. I’m embarrassed about having to be rescued again, about sharing a bath even if he was still fully dressed, and for having a bruised face. It’s a long list.

  “Hey, you’re up. Morning back,” he offers with a quick glance, smiling like he’s happy to see me. He starts to crack a few eggs into the hot pan he is working over.

  “Morning back?” My brows meet my hair line while I attempt to decipher what he means. There’s a bell ringing somewhere, I just can’t put my finger on it.

  “Morning front be better?” he asks over his shoulder with a grin, laughing when he sees the confused expression on my face. “I like what you’ve done to the place,” he continues, waving the spatula around, splattering raw egg mix over the floor and counter. “Going for an original kind of minimalistic look?” His expression broadens to show perfect teeth, but it doesn’t quite manage to reach his eyes.

  I playfully rub my chin the way every man on earth has done at one time or another, and counter with, “Did you leave your razor in New York?” Luke’s a much safer topic than having to face my breakdown.

  He copies my action laughing, “What? It works for Chris Hemsworth. He kinda looks like me, don’t you think?”

  He does actually… though maybe he’s a tad more muscular than Luke. But there’s no way I’m telling him that.

  “Oh honey, Thor you are not,” I say with an exaggerated frown I have to work at keeping in place. Shaking my head, I step up to see what he’s cooking. The banter feels odd after months of sorrow and self-pity, but it’s enlightening. I like it.

  “You don’t think?” he laughs harder, pressing a kiss to my forehead and continuing to scrambling the eggs.

  “No Luke, I know.” I’m laughing with him now, hoping it sounds as genuine and normal as it feels.

  My heart pounds heavy, bruising thumps in my chest. It’s astonishing how natural it is to have him here. And how scary, at the same time.

  “I’d do anything, you know,” I whisper, my smile faltering. Luke turns the heat off the pan and faces me, waiting silently because he knows there’s more coming. “To have them back,” I explain quietly.

  I run my fingers through his hair, capturing some between my forefinger and thumb before tucking the lock behind his ear.

  “It looks good on you longer.” I say lowly, changing the subject because I’m to chicken too say what I’m really thinking. That having him in my kitchen reminds me of Brendan, of my children, of us as a family. They’re gone and I’m still okay with him here.

  “I know, Maggie Mae. I felt the same when I lost Sophie,” Luke says sadly, reading my mind.

  He lifts the frying pan off the burner and spoons the eggs over the toast that’s waiting on two plates on the breakfast bench. I show him the respect he’s given me time and again and don’t probe him about who Sophie is, though I’m curious to know.

  I’m ashamed to have to ask but I truly don’t know the answer and I’ve been wondering about it all morning.

  Nervously biting on my thumb nail I ask “How long have you been here, Luke?”

  “Since Christmas.”

  “No, I mean how long has it been since you came back from New York?” I ask, looking anywhere but at him,

  I honestly can’t remember. After that first morning I woke up in his arms and then Red calling me… I’ve lost time. I don’t remember it getting so cold. I don’t remember much at all.

  “Maggie,” he sighs out, not wanting to answer.

  Oh God. “You should leave, Luke.”

  Luke returns the hot pan to the stove top, and wraps me in his arms to stop me from leaving the room.

  Feathering his lips over my forehead, he takes a breath. “You wanna know why I moved from San Diego to New York?” he asks quietly, not waiting for my answer. “Because I ran out of women to fuck. I ran out of bars to drink dry and I ran out of friends to abuse the shit out of. When my wife died, it fucked me over so badly, I wanted everybody else to be fucked over too.”

  I try to pull away to see if what he’s saying is the truth, because this is Luke here, perfect Luke who always knows the right thing to say, or just what I need. When he tightens his grip, I settle on shaking my head in disbelief instead.

  “It’s true, Maggie. Losing Sophie broke me, so I know okay? I know.”

  “I’m a revolting person Luke-”

  “No you’re not, Maggie Mae. You’re a grieving person who’s too afraid to grieve.”

  I dig my fingers into his back, desperate to grab hold of something tangible and solid. “I love my family.”

  “Of course you do, and you should. Never be afraid of that, baby. Love them as hard as you can Maggie Mae. Love them big,” he implores, pressing a firm kiss to my hair and embracing me until I can barely breathe.

  Whether the hug’s for me or him, I cannot say. Nor do I care. I’ll take it anyway.

  After one last squeeze, Luke loosens his arms. “So, is that a ‘no’ to me being the next Thor then? Captain America?” Luke asks, raising his eyebrows, his smile reappearing.

  I can’t stop my eyes from rolling. “Don’t even think about trying for Iron Man. That job is so taken,”

  “What?” Luke questions in mock horror, passing me a knife and fork and taking a plate off the counter “Are you suggesting Robert Downy Jr is better looking than me?”

  “Yes,” I scoff teasingly, “but I’m so much more concerned about you knowing who all these people are.”

  “Are you kidding me? The Avengers are awesome.” Luke pulls out the chair he usually sits in and places the plate on the table, twisting at his waist to take the other plate from me and places it next to his and drags the seat back for me before sitting in his place.

  Smiling at me when I join him, he takes a stab at the scramble, holding up his fork. “Good eggs, huh?”

  “Great eggs,” I agree without even trying them. They could taste like rubber for all I care and they would still be the best eggs I’ve ever eaten.

  Luke smiles. “But we seriously need to shop. Man, that milk is something else,” he grimaces, knocking into my shoulder as he takes another fork full of the best eggs I’ve never tasted.

  “Laptop?”

  Luke points to the end of the table, giving me his okay. Standing, I reach over to pull it between us, then type in the name of a popular chain supermarket into the server, and Hey Presto, we’re online shopping.

  Luke and I end up in an endless disagreement that has me clutching at my sides from laughter. Arguing over what products we need, what brands are the best and how much chocolate is too much. As if there is such a thing. We compromise - I get to double order on the Rocky
Road, and Luke gets to double order on a particular espresso he is addicted to; going so far as purchasing a new coffee machine to go with the capsules. We end up with a list so long that there’s no way we are going to be able to get through it all in a month of Sundays.

  Luke’s standing when my fingers zero in on the keyboard again to add a tub of chocolate chip ice cream. He catches me and gently smacks my hand away from the keys with an incredulous expression. He can’t believe his eyes. Silly man, we’re talking girl and ice cream here. I go at them again, and again he flicks me away. Naturally I go straight back at them because I can (and because Luke keeps pulling the funniest expressions) and he swipes, again, which in turn leads into one of those silly hand-slapping fights. When I try for a final time, we’re tangling hands and wrists and arms until he has me in a bear hug.

  Laughing, he pulls me out of my seat as I make one last effort for extra ice-cream and accidently click on an open Tab, “Wellington Women’s Shelter.” I read out loud, but before I get the chance to ask him about it, he’s picking me up and tossing me over his shoulder, holding me out of the way so he can hit the go button on the shopping order. He snaps down the laptop lid to seal the deal, then carries me over to the sink.

  He lowers me carefully, turns on the taps and points to the water, “You wash. I’ll dry. And don’t even think about trying for the laptop again,” he tells me, smiling with his entire face. He looks relieved, relaxed.

  “Bossy,” I respond teasingly, opening the cupboard to retrieve the liquid and squirting too much into the filling sink as Luke places our dirty plates in the water with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sure you used enough?”

  “It’s my thing you know?”

  “Dishwashing liquid?”

  “Yep.” I knock into his side playfully and dive in for the first thing I lay my hands on. “So what happened after you moved to the States?” I’m surprised by my question, not having thought it through first. I have been curious, but felt it wasn’t my place to delve into his personal life, especially because I think there’s a whole world of pain hidden back there. Not that I’ve been the perfect host… more like a self-absorbed hoe-bag sucking down anything I can get my hands on to hide from the truth.

  “Well, you know Dad got that job transfer with a hotel, yeah? That’s why we left in the first place,” he starts, with me nodding my head in acknowledgement. “I got a job working there, went to college, got my degree. Then I went to work in the office with my old man, until we decided to try it alone.” Shrugging, he mulls over his thoughts. “Got married, she died. And that’s about it,” he finishes, shrugging again in conclusion. “You?”

  “Pretty much the same as you. I ended up working at the local library. Do you still surf?” I ask, thinking back to when we were younger and spent hours down at the beach, the guys out on the water, us girls sunning it up, pretending to watch wave after countess wave, then, of course, praising their epic skills.

  “Surf? There aren’t too many waves in New York City, Maggie Mae,” Luke chuckles, turning the dinner plate round in circles as he dries it.

  “Shame. You were good.”

  “Yeah?” He’s full on laughing now. “How could you tell with Brendan’s tongue down your throat?”

  “Shut up,” I snicker, smacking a soapy hand over his chest… pushing back the urge to cower at the mention of Brendan’s name.

  Chapter 11

  I’M WALKING IN from the laundry after hanging out our clothes in order - pants/bottoms, tops, socks and underwear. I’ve actually hung it out in the person like I used to as well, as in all Luke’s pants/ tops/ jocks/ socks and then all of mine. Given that it’s only the two of us, it hasn’t taken very long. It still felt good to have some normality back, though.

  When I used to do the washing for Brendan and the girls, I’d also put them away by the person. Knowing me, I’ll do the same with Luke’s when they’re dry.

  Stopping in the kitchen, I start to watch Luke preparing our lunch when the phone starts ringing, catching me by surprise because it’s the house line and not one of our mobiles.

  Luke drops the turkey slices and reaches over the counter for the receiver.

  “Hello?” There’s a pause as the caller speaks. “Oh, hi Joe, yes she’s here. Just a moment, please.”

  I raise my eyebrows in question. Luke shrugs in reply and hands over the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  I hear three clicks before he speaks. “Good morning, Margaret. This is Joe Reynolds. I trust you are well.” He clicks his tongue three times and then there is a dull tapping noise. I count three and then reply.

  “Hello Joe, yes thank you. And yourself?”

  He clicks three times. “Yes, thank you Margaret. As we discussed during our last meeting, I have been monitoring your finances - primarily your expense account - and have come to learn that you have depleted your current funds.” He clicks three times and then the faint tapping in the back ground again. He’s referring to my blowouts with Red. What do I say to that? ‘Oh, not to worry, I spent the lot on booze and my drug habit?’

  “Um, are you going to be checking on all of my expenses, Joe?” Because they’re really none of your business.

  He clicks his tongue three times. “No, of course not Margaret, but Brendan did ask me to ensure you had a sufficient amount of money to see that you remain financially stable at all times.” Three clicks; three distant taps.

  “But Brendan isn’t here anymore, Joe.”

  I hear his tongue click. “Yes Margaret, I’m fully aware of that. I am, however, wondering if you require additional funds to cover your personal expenses for the remainder of the month. Or if you require a permanent increase.” Three clicks; three taps.

  Oh… Bum. He’s being nice, and I’m not.

  “That’s very kind of you, Joe. Thank you. When’s my account due to be replenished?” I ask using his choice of words, annoyed with myself for not knowing what my money’s doing, which is never going to happen again.

  He clicks three times. “Usually by the thirtieth of every month, Margaret. If you prefer a different time period we can alter it at any time. Merely contact reception for an appointment.” Three more clicks; three taps.

  “The dates are fine Joe, and it’s not too far off, so let’s keep it as it is. I think I will make a time to see you, so we can run through a few things.” Make a few changes. Give me back some control. “And Joe?”

  Three clicks. “Yes Margaret.” Three clicks; three taps.

  “Thank you for looking out for me, I’m lucky to have you.”

  Three clicks. “You’re welcome Margaret.” Three clicks, then there is a prolonged pause as I wait for the three taps. “Brendan was a very good man Margaret, very good, very good, very good. His absence is deeply felt. Deeply, deeply, deeply.” Joe clicks his tongue three times and then taps three times.

  “Thank you Joe.”

  The line disconnects without any more clicking and tapping.

  I replace the receiver in its cradle and cup my face, breathing a few calming breaths. I’ve let this happen. I created this situation and then had the audacity to be cross with one of a few people who are looking out for me. Well that’s it. No more. It’s time to gain back some power and a little self-respect.

  “Did he give you a hard time, Maggie Mae?” Luke asks cautiously.

  I let my hands drop my hands to the counter. “No Luke. He was looking out for me. I’m the bad guy in this scenario. Joe wanted to know if I need more money. He was asking me if I needed more of my money. I can’t have that happen again.”

  “Good thing you know an awesome financial adviser then, isn’t it?” Luke replies. There’s a sparkle in his eyes when he raises my chin to look at him. His face breaks out into a full blown grin, which leaves me confused. The guy seriously looks like he just won the lottery.

  A week later, Luke and I are sitting in Joe’s office discussing my finances. How much there is – which has me nearly falli
ng out of my seat – where it all is and what’s the best way to proceed. Luke discusses some technicalities that fly straight over my head, but he promises to explain to me late.

  But the absolute best thing that happens at the end of our meeting? Joe stands, after rocking three times in his seat, walks around his sizable desk and offers a hand for Luke to shake. He approves. I don’t know why I find the knowledge comforting; however, knowing Joe approves of Luke sits well with me. Really well, because I like him too.

  “HEY, WHAT’RE YOU doing?”

  Staring aimlessly into the room I shared with my husband for over eight years. God we were so young when we got married.

  I shake my head in replace of words for my reply.

  “Need any help with that?” I can hear Luke smiling through his question, trying to be cute. He casually rests a long arm across my shoulders and takes in the view with me. “You really went to town in there. Did it help?”

  My mind’s stoic, blank. I repeat his question over and over in my head until I can almost taste it. Did it help? Honestly, I don’t know. I shrug so he knows I heard him. I know I have to go in there and not just in passing to get to my things. I have to go in there and clean up. Clean out.

  Objectively I know that it has to be done, but emotionally is another story all together.

  “How long is long enough?” I mean to bounce the words around inside my head, not pass them through my lips.

  This time it’s Luke’s turn to shrug and I’m grateful that he has no inspirational words of comfort.

  “Can there be too long a time?” I offer absently. Can you leave the past so present for such a long period that it sticks? Stays motionless, gluing you to the same place for eternity? It is tempting, far easier than having to face the truth.

  “Everything that has a beginning has an end.” I used to roll my eyes at my mother whenever she said it. It was one of her favourite sayings.

  The gold-fish is found floating upside down in his bowl… ‘Sorry Chicken, but you know everything that has a beginning has an end, too.’