Bringing Maggie Home

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

Hazel pressed her hand to her forehead. “Would you not feed them at the table, please? I’d rather they didn’t presume the humans’ eating spot is also for them.”

  Margaret Diane jerked to her feet and stomped out of the kitchen. The dogs followed her, jumping over each other in their eagerness. With their departure, Hazel’s limbs went weak. She braced her palms on the edge of the counter and hung her head. Her heart continued to thrum, her pulse pounding in her temple, and her entire body quivered. She pulled in long, slow breaths, willing her pulse to calm and the fluttery feeling under her skin to cease.

  A hand descended on her shoulder and she jumped.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Meghan eased beside her, her hand still cupped comfortingly over Hazel’s shoulder. “I’m going to talk to Mom about the dogs. It isn’t fair for you to be scared in your own house.”

  So Meghan had recognized her weakness. She scrunched her eyes closed. Images of baby bunnies and a black snake swooped in behind her closed lids. She popped them open and focused on her granddaughter’s face. The concern she saw there pierced her even more than the memories.

  “No, honey, it’s all right.” Hazel straightened. A few strands of hair had fallen across Meghan’s forehead. She smoothed them into place with her fingers and tried to smile. Her lips quivered too much. She swallowed. “I love Margaret Diane, and she loves those dogs. So for my daughter’s sake, I’ll learn to share the house with them.”

  Meghan rubbed her hand up and down Hazel’s arm the way a mother would soothe a crying baby. “Mom told me she didn’t have pets when she was growing up because you hated animals. But I don’t think it’s hate as much as fear. Did a dog attack you or something when you were little?”

  “No. I was never attacked by a dog.”

  “Then why—”

  Hazel stepped away from Meghan’s tender touch. “Those pancakes are fixing to be as hard and inedible as hockey pucks. Go, sit. I’ll get the juice and syrup, and we’ll”—she drew in another shuddering breath and raised her chin—“eat.”

  Eight

  Meghan

  “I’ll drive, Mother, and you can tell me where to go.”

  Meghan choked back a chortle. Mom wouldn’t appreciate the humor, but if Grandma were less of a lady, she might really do what Mom suggested.

  Grandma paused at the door with her bright-red pocketbook, which matched her sequined ballet flats, tucked under her arm. “Meghan, are you sure you don’t want to go, too?”

  For a moment Meghan considered hobbling along behind the two of them through the grocery store aisles. But an hour or so to herself, not having to play peacemaker, appealed to her. Besides, maybe they’d get a few things talked out on the drive to and from the store. She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m going to start sorting photos and decide which ones I want to put in the scrapbook, so go ahead.”

  Grandma nodded. “All right. If you want to gather up a few more pictures, the albums from your mother’s childhood are on the shelf here in the living room. And there’s a box of loose photos in the bottom drawer of the built-in dresser in my closet. Help yourself.”

  “The morning’s half gone already, Mother. Let’s go before it gets any hotter outside.” Mom opened the front door and gestured Grandma out. “I honestly don’t know how you live with this—”

  The door closed on Mom’s complaint, leaving Meghan in silence except for the comforting beats of the antique clock and the occasional whimper coming from the bedroom, where Mom had shut the dogs in their pet taxis so Meghan could spread pictures across the floor without worrying about one of them getting carried off or chewed on. She stood for a few seconds in the middle of the living room, eyes closed, enjoying the reprieve. So peaceful…

  She gave a start and glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five, which meant it was eleven forty-five back in Arkansas. What was Sean doing by now? He always started his day with Bible reading and prayer, a practice most of the detectives deemed unmanly. Why’d the guys have to pick at Sean so much? It wasn’t like his Bible reading hurt anybody. Sometimes people were plain stupid. Even though it was Saturday, when lots of people slept in, Meghan hoped he’d still gotten up early and prayed for her and Mom and Grandma. They needed the peace he promised to request.

  The suitcase with photographs waited on the Italian tile that served as a foyer. Meghan left one crutch beside the ottoman and half hopped, half walked the few feet to the suitcase. She took hold of the telescoping handle and, again hopping on one foot, pulled the suitcase to the ottoman. With a few grunts and a couple of the milder words uttered by some of the guys in the office, she managed to pull the suitcase onto it. She flopped into Grandma’s chair and unzipped the case.

  For nearly a half hour she entertained herself by looking at the pictures and enjoying the memories they raised. Strange how the fuzzy photographs brought such sharp images to her mind. She could not attach one unpleasant memory to Grandma. And apparently Mom couldn’t find a pleasant one. Why? The question tormented her. She couldn’t balance the Grandma she loved with the woman Mom perceived her to be.

  Maybe Grandma’s photographs would help.

  She was familiar with the albums on the shelf. Every year, she and Grandma had spent time looking through the pages during her visits. So she grabbed her crutches, pushed herself to her feet, and stumped around the corner and up the short hallway to Grandma’s suite. She stopped right inside the door and smiled. As a little girl, she’d loved sneaking into Grandma’s bedroom early in the morning and crawling into bed with her. Mom grunted and fussed if Meghan disturbed her sleep, but Grandma murmured and pulled her close.

  The warmth of security flooded Meghan’s frame as she let her gaze drift around the tidy room. An unfamiliar quilt covered the bed, but little else had changed over the years. The pieces of the same sturdy maple bedroom set Grandma and Grandpa purchased after their wedding in 1963 sat in the same locations. The same silver comb, brush, and hand mirror—Grandma’s high school graduation present from her parents—rested on a doily in the center of the dresser. A collage of framed family portraits, the first with Mom as a baby and ending when she was upper grade school, decorated the same wall. And the photo of Meghan as a toothless, pigtailed six-year-old remained prominently on the corner of the nightstand, seeming to guard Grandma’s Bible.

  As usual, not a speck of dust marred any surface, and the dark-blue curtains were drawn so they fell in alignment with the inside lines of the window casing. Meghan couldn’t recall a time when her childhood apartment had been this clean—not even when Mom expected company. Another way Mom and Grandma were very, very different.

  She entered the closet and moved past the rods of clothes to the built-in chest centered on the back wall. She leaned the crutches against the shoe shelf and went down on one knee, careful to keep her good foot underneath her so she’d be able to get up again. Then she slid the bottom drawer open. As Grandma had said, a rectangular box made out of thick gray cardboard with its fitted top bolstered by strips of yellowed Scotch tape waited in the drawer. She’d seen similar boxes holding department-store sweaters when she watched old episodes of I Love Lucy reruns with Grandma. Another pleasant memory.

  A few lines written in pencil filled the upper-right-hand corner of the lid. She squinted to make out the message—Mama and Daddy, these are my secret treshures. Please do not peak. Love, Hazel Mae

  Meghan scrunched her brow, touching her grandmother’s signature. If this box contained treasures, why weren’t they being displayed in the curio cabinet that held Depression-era glass, figurines, and Grandma’s collection of little porcelain boxes painted with flowers and butterflies? Maybe she’d used the box for something else when she was younger and the childish treasures were long gone. She’d ask Grandma when she returned, but for now curiosity compelled her to lift the box from the drawer, handling it as carefully as she would a fine-china plate.

  Meghan balanced the box on her bent knee and slipped the lid free. She gave an
involuntary jolt of surprise at the jumbled mess of black-and-white photographs. This couldn’t belong to Grandma. The box slipped from her knee and landed on the carpeted floor. Photos scattered, and she grunted in aggravation. She shifted to her bottom, then began gathering the brittle images, turning them right-side up as she did so.

  One picture leaped out at her, and she froze in place with the photo staring up at her. A little girl, perhaps six or seven, with dark hair held back from her forehead by a lopsided bow sat on the bottom steps of a farmhouse porch. One arm was draped around the neck of a collie-type dog, and the other held an unhappy-looking cat in her lap. Even though the photo was black and white and from long ago, she was certain she glimpsed Grandma in the child’s smile.

  She turned it over and a handwritten note—Hazel Mae with Boots and Farley, Sept. 1940—confirmed what she suspected. The little girl was her grandmother. And there she sat, smiling, not a hint of apprehension on her face, with the family pets in her arms. So at one time she hadn’t been afraid of animals. When had her feelings toward pets changed? Generally, children who loved animals grew to be adults who loved animals—like Mom, who had more pets than everybody else in the neighborhood combined and who volunteered at the animal shelter twice a month.

  Her detective instincts kicked up a notch. Questions about Mom’s attitude toward Grandma, a tearful comment Grandma had made about the Lord sometimes letting memories slip away when speaking about the scrapbook, her obvious discomfort around Mom’s dogs when at one time she hadn’t been afraid at all, even the scrawling words secret treshures on the box combined to form a whirlwind of curiosity.

  Something in Grandma’s past had colored her. Changed her. Something sinister? Something horrific? Something deeply painful? Meghan didn’t know, but a part of her wanted to uncover it. And a part of her dreaded discovering the truth.

  Diane

  Diane untangled the reusable-grocery-bag handles from her wrists and set the bags on the kitchen counter. “Leave these—I’ll put things away after I let the dogs out.”

  “You carried everything in.” Mother began removing items from the closest bag. “I’ll put things away.”

  Diane rolled her eyes. Mother could be so stubborn. But who’d won the battle about paying for the groceries? Diane had, and she was tempted to push for the win on this one, too, but the dachshunds were yipping for attention. Besides, Mother knew where she had space in her cupboards. “All right, suit yourself.”

  She rounded the corner to the hallway. As she passed the living room doorway, she glanced in. Meghan’s ugly red suitcase lay open on the ottoman, a few photographs strewn across the arms of the wingback chair. But Meghan wasn’t there. She paused. “Meghan? Where are you?”

  “Back here—in Grandma’s closet.”

  The yips from the guest room increased in volume, but Diane headed for her mother’s bedroom instead. The closet door stood open, light painting a path across the carpet. Diane trotted the final few feet, expecting to find her daughter helplessly sprawled on the floor.

  Meghan sat with one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of her as if she’d landed a cheerleading maneuver. She looked up and smiled. “You’re back. Did you find lots of things you can eat?”

  Diane blew out a breath of half relief, half aggravation. She glanced around the space, pursing her lips. Clothes arranged by color, sweaters folded to the same width and stacked so they resembled a solid unit. Not one sock lay on the floor. Not even a piece of lint. Why did Mother have to be so well ordered in every aspect of her life, even behind closet doors?

  She shook her head and then looked at Meghan. “When you said you were in the closet, I thought you’d be like one of those ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ ladies in the commercials.”

  Meghan laughed. “I didn’t fall—I chose to sit. But you’re right that I’m stuck. Help?” She held out her hands.

  Diane took hold and pulled her to her feet. “What were you doing in here?”

  Meghan grabbed the crutches and positioned them under her arms. Then she bobbed her chin at the floor. “Looking at Grandma’s photos. Would you put them back in the box? I started sorting them by the dates on the backs, but not all of them are marked, so Grandma will have to help.”

  Diane arched one eyebrow. “They weren’t already sorted?”

  Meghan shook her head. “Nope. They were left in one big mess.”

  So there was one place where Mother’s perfection hadn’t reached. She crouched and transferred the photograph stacks to the box. She rose, lifting the box with her. She frowned at the photographs. “These are really old. I’ve never seen them before.”

  “Never?” Meghan maneuvered herself out of the closet and flicked off the light as she went.

  Diane followed her and closed the door. “No. Our family albums start with pictures of me as a baby. Other than a wedding picture, I don’t think there are any of my parents by themselves.”

  As a small child, she’d thought her mother’s and dad’s lives began as full-grown adults when she arrived on the scene. When she got older and wiser, she still felt her mother’s real life hadn’t begun until Diane’s birth. Her obsessive mothering swallowed everything else. So these photographs of Mother as a child left her disjointed and uneasy.

  She placed the box inside Meghan’s suitcase and then hurried to the bedroom to open the dogs’ crates. She knelt down and began unlatching them. “All right, Ginger, stop jumping. You’re going to hurt yourself. Miney, Duchess, that’s enough now—I’m here. Yes, yes, Molly, I haven’t forgotten you. Here you go, now, come on out.”

  The quartet, all free, pranced around her, licking, yipping, their noses wrinkling and teeth gleaming with their unique doggy grins. Diane couldn’t help laughing. She needed to herd them outside—Mother would have a fit if one of them accidentally widdled on the carpet—but she took the time to give them scratches on the neck, strokes on their silky ears, and tummy rubs when they rolled on their backs.

  She heard a chuckle, and she glanced over her shoulder to find Meghan in the doorway. Self-consciousness struck hard. She jerked upright and spun to face her daughter. “What?” The word barked out on a defensive note.

  Meghan’s smile didn’t dim. “You’re so sweet to those mutts. Is that the way you talked to me when I was a baby?”

  Pressure built in Diane’s chest. She’d always loved her daughter, never neglected her, but she hadn’t coddled her. She wanted Meghan to see herself as capable. Capable of self-soothing as an infant, of entertaining herself as a toddler, of meeting her own basic needs as a child. She thought she’d done it right because Meghan was a strong, self-assured, independent young woman. But the expression on her daughter’s face—the hopeful expectation that at one time Diane had lavished her with affection the way she did Ginger, Duchess, Miney, and Molly—made her wonder if she’d made a big mistake. She didn’t know how to answer.

  Meghan shrugged. “Never mind. Dumb question. Of course you wouldn’t talk to me like I was a stupid dog.”

  “The dogs aren’t—”

  “Stupid. I know. Just an expression.” Meghan shifted, grimacing slightly, the way someone whose sleeping limbs were waking up might react. “Grandma wants to know if the organic salad dressing needs to go in the fridge.”

  “Only after opening.”

  Meghan nodded and started to turn.

  “Meghan…”

  She angled a questioning look at Diane.

  “I never babied you. Not the way I do…” Diane flapped her hand toward the dogs, who still writhed in delight around her ankles. “Because they need to depend on me. You don’t. Do you understand?”

  Meghan gazed at her for long seconds, eyebrows pinched inward, lips set in an unsmiling line. Then she gave a brusque nod. “Yeah, I understand. You wanted me to stand on my own two feet.” She glanced at the cast wrapped in pink tape and bearing half a dozen signatures scribbled in black Sharpie. “Of course, now that I’m down to one good foot, I h
ope you won’t mind if I lean on you a little bit.”

  “You can lean a lot if you want to.” Diane pushed the statement past an unwelcome knot of regret.

  A funny, crooked smile graced Meghan’s face. “Thanks, Mom.” She turned and hobbled off.

  Nine

  Hazel

  Hazel placed the last of the canned lentils and black beans on the pantry shelf. She turned one of the black-bean cans so the label was centered and then flipped off the light and stepped into the kitchen. She’d folded each of the reusable bags as she’d emptied them and they waited in a neat stack at the end of the counter. She transferred the stack to the bottom drawer next to the refrigerator, stood up straight, and gave the kitchen a quick perusal. Nothing out of place. With a satisfied nod, she entered the living room.

  All four of Margaret Diane’s dachshunds lounged on the sofa, filling two-thirds of the space. Meghan occupied the remaining cushion. Margaret Diane sat on the floor near Meghan’s feet, and the two of them were examining black-and-white photographs. They painted such a tender picture, a smile tugged at the corners of Hazel’s mouth.

  Meghan glanced up and caught Hazel watching them. Her face lit. “There you are, Grandma. Come here and help me—some of these photos don’t have anything written on the back.”

  Hazel took two forward steps, her gaze drifting across the old photographs. Her body went cold, as if someone had dumped a vat of ice water over her head. She planted one hand on her chest. “Where did you get these?”

  “From the bottom drawer in your closet.”

  Hazel’s pulse thrummed in erratic double beats. “What were you doing in my closet?”

  Confusion marred her granddaughter’s face. “I, um…”

  Margaret Diane flapped her hand at the black-and-white images. “You told her she could help herself to the older photographs in your built-in bureau. Don’t you remember?”

  “Don’t snap at me, Margaret Diane. Of course I remember. I’m old, but I’m not senile.” Hazel grasped a handful of the fabric resting over her heart. Sequins pricked her fingers as memories pricked her mind. “I told you to look in the box in the top drawer.”