“I understand . . . but not really. I guess I should say, I accept.”
Jacob wrapped his arms around Maggie and she melted into him. It was a surrender she didn’t think herself capable of with the battle scars she carried. But it was somehow different with him. If someone cared enough to transcend time and space to be with her, that said something. She surmised that he was probably not the type to hop between his fans willy-nilly. The moment seemed to last an eternity and when the time came to release; it carried with it a sort of melancholy.
Maggie took a step back and looked into Jacob’s eyes and what she saw took her breath away. It was forever. She saw eternity in those beautiful eyes. Maggie was in love. More importantly, Maggie knew that she was loved, just as Jane Eyre had known it when she looked into Mr. Rochester’s eyes. She was loved for who she was, with all the bumps and bruises and shortcomings. She was loved for the sum total of her experiences and the sweetness that still existed in her ravaged body, much like a daisy springing up inexplicably from a crack in cement. She marveled at this new revelation.
They sat down and read sonnets to one another and that evening set the pattern for many evenings thereafter. Time stood still when Jacob was around. Maggie was enjoying life. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. History had taught her well that nothing lasts forever, particularly if it was something she found as amazing and wonderful as this. Still, she forged on as if she believed in it.
Chapter 11,
in which Maggie has to subdue her inner-gypsy once more, is encouraged
to follow her dream, and has a particular curiosity satisfied
Spring arrived, and with it, the annual visit from the gypsy that lie dormant in her throughout the rest of the year. Every spring, on no particular day, this inner transient would emerge and whisper in Maggie’s ear, “It’s time.”
This signaled a yearly battle that nearly wore Maggie out. She would scream out loud that she had a job and responsibilities like all adults should. But the gypsy was relentless. She would put thoughts of travel and concerts, wild red hair dye and bandanas, motorcycles and Greyhound buses into her brain and it took every ounce of strength to overcome the voice of the gypsy.
When Maggie was 18, it was a different story. The quandary existed in the fact that she had grown up; the gypsy, however, had not.
This particular spring night, Maggie spent her slumber beating her duvet into submission. She could not for the life of her achieve a peaceful sleep. She was as restless as a polecat. When the sun broke through, she gave up and arose and then slogged through her routine blankly. Between the lack of sleep, the dizzying effects of her new-found love and the tormenting ways of the gypsy, she was going to be of little worth to anyone.
Then it came to her. It was the weekend.
This realization gave her a little burst of energy and she put on her face and got dressed, had her oats and whispered for her friend.
“Jacob?”
“I’m here.”
“Just how long have you been here? Are you ever here when I’m unaware of it? Do you watch me cry at silly movies or sappy song or when I laugh at myself for something I’ve done wrong?”
“No, ma’am, I honestly don’t generally come unless you either call me or pick up one of my books to read. Incidentally, have I ever mentioned how glad I am that you like my books? It is because you loved them so well that I was able to really get to know you all those years ago.”
“Your fairy tales—they reflect the way people feel. They are timeless. There have been times when I felt like Cinderella or that I wished I could just kiss a frog and have my prince. They have been such a source of comfort and hope to me for a long time. I think every woman dreams of having a prince come and rescue her from her dreary life and make her a princess.”
“You honor me with your words.”
“They are not flattery, Jacob. I mean it. You have kept the dreams of millions of disillusioned women alive. Just look at how many other books and movies have been based on Cinderella alone.”
“Let’s talk about your writing. You don’t work today. Why don’t you forgo the usual housework and do some writing. I’ll help you by listening and giving you feedback. What genre do you favor today?”
“Oh, Jacob, I don’t know. I’m not that good, really. I just enjoy writing for myself. It’s just a silly dream.”
“Stuff and nonsense! What do you write?”
“I write about the relationships I’ve never had. I write wonderful men and the women who appreciate them. I write about marriages that last forever with no secrets. I write what I dreamed of attaining but never quite achieved.”
“How does writing those things make you feel?”
“I don’t know, really. I usually write a bit and then my heart feels like it’s going to break for not having what I write, and then I put it away in frustration and swear I’ll never go back to it. Other times, it gives me hope that there might still be a love out there for me.”
“And now how do you feel?”
“And now I have love, albeit with a dead man. How is that for living under a bad sign?”
“Love cannot be confined to time and space. It transcends all rationale and reason. It blooms when and where it should and the other—the physical manifestation of love that people often equate with love itself—is just that—a manifestation. It is not love’s essence, despite the rubbish you see in those horrible movies and TV shows that show people jumping into bed and doing sacred things with another with no thought to what it really means. We have a love. It makes no difference that we are not in the same life. It will endure. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” Maggie said and for the first time she really meant it. “Jacob, I want to write.”
“That’s my lady.”
Maggie pulled out an old wicker chest and opened it. She pulled out dozens of packets of loose papers clipped together.
“What is all this, then?”
“Well, Jacob, it is my writing. I’ve started so many books, but never quite finished any of them. Would you do me the honor of reading through them and telling me what you think is worth working on?”
“Oh, Margaret, thank you for asking. I would be honored.”
They sat silently for hours going through them, with him critiquing and her trying to convince him that she didn’t know what she was doing. He chose several of them that he felt were the more deserving of completion. She went to the computer and heaved a great sigh.
“You can do this. I believe in you and I’ll be with you every step of the way if you’ll have me.”
Maggie smiled winsomely and began to hit the keys. She wrote until her wrists went numb and the journey became painful and more than once brought her to tears, but Jacob’s urging meant the world to her. She had never known such support and genuine love. Even so, she felt much depleted from the writing and felt the need to stop for the day.
“I think I need to be finished. I don’t know if I have any more in me, but this feels so good. I love words. I love their secrets and their power and their impact. I just want to have a voice and I feel like the books will give me that. I can say things in them that I can’t always utter in my real life.”
“I’m so happy to be along for the ride, Margaret. May I read what you have written?”
“Yes, of course, I can’t say that I won’t be a little anxious, but I would like your opinion very much.”
Jacob read and read and then read more. As he set down the last printed sheet, Maggie saw a tear in his eye.
“Jacob, are you all right? What’s the matter?”
“Margaret, this is beautiful. For as helpless as you have felt throughout your life, you certainly have command over the language. These words are the helpless ones. They have no choice but to act under your direction with the utmost submission. You have such eloquence. I think you are going to be a great writer and you are going to not only find your own voice, you are goin
g to give a voice to many who feel without hope in their own lives. There is an ‘overcoming adversity with grace’ in your tone.”
“I have always loved the act of creation. When I sew, I take this one-dimensional piece of limp fabric and I make a few cuts and stitch here and there and suddenly it is this functional and beautiful garment. I take some wood and some hand tools and take away the parts that don’t belong and it becomes this lovely object of art. I take a pencil and a piece of blank paper and create someone’s portrait. There is something so amazing about this process and it is so empowering, the manipulation of raw materials into this ethereal or useful thing. I don’t know if you grasp what I’m saying. You must. You’ve done it so often.”
Jacob could feel her growing enthusiasm. She had come to life in the last few hours.
“Oh, Margaret, you put that so well. Creation is essential to people like us. It is when we don’t use those gifts that we become stagnant and feel helpless.”
“Jacob, I have had the best day.”
“The pleasure was mine, entirely, Margaret. Until tomorrow, I bid you adieu.”
“I can’t wait to see you again.”
“Nor can I wait to see you. I wish you the sweetest of dreams. Call me when you are awake and ready to see me tomorrow.”
“I will. May I ask you a question before you go? What do you do at night while I’m sleeping?”
“It is only night here where you are. It is morning elsewhere. That is where I will be—somewhere watching someone read and waiting for you to call my name.”
Maggie enjoyed sleep like she had never before enjoyed it. And her dreams were of a man from another time.
Chapter 12,
in which Maggie engages in an altercation with her phantoms and is touched by something not tangible
Sunday came shining in through Maggie’s bedroom curtains and carried her into the day. She could hardly wait to call Jacob and when she was finally washed and dressed, she beckoned him.
“Good morning, my love.”
“Oh, Jacob, I slept so well. I can’t wait to write some more.”
“I understand completely. You’re speaking to someone who missed some major events in life because he was so wrapped up in words.”
“I love you, Margaret Naomi Austen.”
Maggie turned to Jacob with a look of astonishment.
“How dare you say that to me? I need for you to leave. Now!”
Jacob sensed that his declaration was more than she was prepared for and took a moment to collect himself before proceeding.
“I’m not sorry that I love you; I’m not sorry that I told you; I’m just sorry that you are not ready to be loved,” was all he could say before vanishing.
Maggie looked around, but soon realized he was gone—really gone. She ran back into her room and threw herself on her bed and began to sob. The furry Mr.’s prowled around, loudly voicing their concern for her. She did not know how long she slept, but she awoke from that slumber not knowing what planet she was on. Once she regained her faculties, she recounted the conversation that had thrown her into this state. She went to her desk, grabbed all of her scraps of writing, and packed them back into the wicker box and tucked them safely under her bed. She had had enough of this. It wasn’t worth it anymore.
“He’s probably not even real. Just some trick my mind is playing on me as a coping mechanism. Love has always let me down and I’m just conjuring up this spirit in order to believe that love can exist. Well, that doesn’t mean that I have to give in to the delusion. My life was going along just swell; fine as frog fur; hunky-dory; just ducky, thank you! I don’t need some imaginary boyfriend invading the sanctity of my space and monopolizing my time. I’ve got better things to do. I’m in the autumn of my life—the springs and summers of carefree love have passed and gone and I now have other more noble pursuits; loftier things to accomplish. I have my children and grandchildren to think about: my volunteer work; my job at the bookstore. I really don’t have time for this nonsense. I mean it.”
“Have you finished with your little tirade?”
Maggie gasped and spun around on her heels to find herself face to face with the very specter she was denouncing.
“What are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to come unless I beckon for you. That’s the rules, right? You told me that. I should report you! Were you just lying like every other man I’ve known?”
“I sincerely and humbly apologize for popping in unannounced, but I have to make one last attempt to reason with you, woman.”
Maggie just crossed her arms in front of her chest and took the most belligerent of stances. She was clearly ready for combat that would result in the final eviction of this phantom who had invaded her sanity.
“Look here, Margaret . . .”
“That’s Ms. Austen to you!”
This statement made her dizzy. Was she really commanding a figment of her imagination? Why didn’t she just ‘think’ him away? She squinted her eyes and pursed her lips and knitted her brow and thought to herself, “Get thee behind me! Get thee behind me!” until it became an audible chant.
“I’m still here, Ms. Austen,” Jacob interrupted with one raised eyebrow signifying his frustration.
“No, how can you be? Go away!”
“Not until I have had my say.”
“Fine!”
“Fine! Ms. Austen, I adore you and as much as you would like to talk yourself out of something you clearly believe you may have dreamed up, I have to state emphatically for the record that I am real. I exist. I am just sadly in a different state of being. Oh, that I could make myself physically real for you. You would have no defense. I want to be with you, in whatever way we can. Do you understand this? Do you think so little of yourself that you believe that you are to blame for the distasteful behavior of the men who have come and gone before me? Do you attribute their thoughtlessness to anything you’ve done or not done? Ms. Austen, there is nothing you could have done differently to bring about another outcome. They were cads—and they were brilliant at it. You could not have known how things would have turned out. They saw to that with their criminally clever schemes. They hurt you, but I will not. I promise you that. Margaret Naomi Austen, I would never do anything to harm you or your feelings in any way. I wish you could believe me. I will do whatever you ask. I am your faithful servant. What can I do more to convince you of this? Please, bid me do anything.”
Silent tears riveted their way down Maggie’s cheeks and fell to the floor. She could not speak. When she finally tried, it was more convulsive than eloquent. Between sobs, she was able to blurt out random words.
“I . . . don’t . . . think . . . I . . . can . . . do . . . this. I’m . . . just not . . . that strong.”
Jacob approached her with and looked deeply and without guile or fear into her puffy red eyes.
“I am going to leave you now. I can see that this was a mistake I should never have made. This is too much on you and my love for you far exceeds my need to spend time with you. I care for you far too much to hurt you like this. I want you to try and enjoy the rest of your life. Find someone who can give you what you need. Better yet, let him find you. But that means you’ll have to get out there—to make yourself available—more so than you do now. You deserve the best and I know you are scared, but you must not let that stop you from trusting again. There are good men out there. Please believe me. Be happy. Goodbye, dearest Margaret.”
“Wait, Jacob, I have a question,” Maggie gulped back her nearly uncontrollable sobs long enough to blurt out. “What is the circumstance under which you can touch me? You said it was conditional. What conditions?”
“It’s not important right now. Just know this. If you ever need someone . . . anyone . . . I’ll be here in an instant. Just call.”
Maggie might have wondered what that meant, but she was completely done in from the emotionality of the day that had only begun. Though it was still early, she plopped into bed, fully dressed and teet
h un-brushed, and was very shortly thereafter sound asleep. She slept through until later afternoon and kicked herself the rest of the day for doing so. She puttered around, doing odds and ends until bedtime and then crawled into bed sure she wouldn't sleep, but she did. It was the last good night’s sleep she would have for a very long time.
Chapter 13,
in which our heroine begins to question her dismissive behaviors, experiences the resulting pain, and wakes up somewhere she oughtn't to be
Maggie had trouble getting through the following day. It was a Monday and that could have been enough to make it difficult, but the thought of not seeing Jacob again and the terrible manner in which the estrangement occurred, made this one particularly troublesome.
As the week progressed, she was becoming increasingly disconnected—almost disoriented. She didn’t much care about the books. She certainly didn’t care to write. She wasn’t eating right or sleeping right and it was beginning to take its toll.
When she was able to catch some sleep, there were the nightmares; the looking over her shoulder constantly; the inconsolable pain. When she would crawl into bed, too soon after getting home from work, she would toss and turn and the furry guys would prowl around with her. They would curl up on her chest to sleep, attempting to comfort her. It felt like nothing could break the spell.
In the old days, she would pull out her Grimm’s Fairy Tales and get lost in them. But that no longer worked. She went so far as to hide her volume under the mattress. Out of sight should have been out of mind, but that wasn’t working.
Grimm's Last Fairy Tale Page 5