Maggie wandered the aisles. Later on she would look back and know that the breakdown truly began in frozen foods, somewhere between the boxed pizzas and bagged tropical fruit. But now…now she didn’t know what was happening, only that tears were coming quickly, filling Maggie’s eyes and making her mind a jumble of thoughts. Why had she married Ben in the first place? How had she survived so many years living a lie? Why was she so tired and what was she doing with tears streaming down her face and a cart full of tomato sauce and an overstuffed bag of onions, paralyzed by something she couldn’t see or understand?
A white-haired man with a cardigan sweater and a concerned look tapped her gently on the shoulder. “Are you all right, ma’am?” He waited for an answer.
Maggie dried her eyes. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t call a doctor and have me committed. “I’m fine.” She nodded tersely at the man. “Just…it’s been a long day. I’m tired.”
“Okay.” The older gentleman hesitated a moment longer, then continued shopping.
Collect yourself, Maggie. Get it together. You’re bigger than this; you’ve been bigger than it for years. Why should things be any different now? She thought of the little girl and how sure she’d been that this time—finally—it was really her and…
Help me, Lord…Please.
I’m here, daughter. Come into the light.
But there was no way out, no light to come toward.
Maggie began to tremble again. She was on the edge of the darkest, deepest canyon that had ever bordered her path, and the only thing stopping her from tumbling over was a threadbare rope of memories. Even that was fraying badly.
She forced herself to take deep breaths and suddenly she was at the checkstand, falling asleep on her feet. The ground seemed to shift as her eyes flew open and her head jerked back into an alert position. What was that in her cart? Onions? Tomato sauce? Where were the apples? The milk? She had forgotten every item she’d come for.
She stared over her shoulder into the store. The thought of turning around and heading back for milk was overwhelming. Too many aisles and food displays stacked high above her. Too many colors and people and sales signs fought for her attention. Suddenly the store seemed like a sinister maze, one from which she might never come out alive if she ventured back inside. She exhaled slowly Help me, God. I need You. The words felt empty, much as they had often felt lately Maggie waited for an answer. Silence. Okay Maggie, concentrate. You can do this on your own.
Over the next thirty minutes she forced herself back through the store where she painstakingly collected the three necessities and several canned goods and packaged food that would help get her family through the week.
As she pushed her cart out of the store toward her Chevy Tahoe, she congratulated herself on having survived. Whatever it was that wanted so badly to consume her, she would simply have to be tougher, think things through, and gather her determination. It was merely a matter of trying harder.
The darkness isn’t going to get me. Not ever again. I don’t need to wait for an answer to prayer; I need to believe in myself. I’m stronger than I think.
She unloaded her groceries, slipped the cart back into the nearby rack, and climbed into her vehicle. Only then, as she glanced into the rearview mirror and saw her face in the reflection, did she realize things were worse than she’d thought.
How long had she looked like this? Why hadn’t anyone said something more to her?
If the mirror was right, she was weeping without her knowing it; tears streaming down her face. Minutes passed, and suddenly she was jolted awake by the honking of a horn behind her. Two cars vying for a parking space.
I’ve been sleeping…
The realization shook her. The boys! What time is it? She glanced at her watch and her heart sank. She’d lost almost an hour. She was still tired, but she forced herself to stay awake.
Casey and Cameron needed her.
Four
MAGGIE SUPPED ON A PAIR OF DARK GLASSES, THEN RACED TO GET the boys. Since her eyes seemed bent on shedding tears, she kept her glasses on even after she and the boys got home, wearing them during snack time and while she made dinner. Everything inside her cried out for the warmth of her bed. Now, before the sun sank and the nighttime demons refused to let her sleep.
She searched the cupboards. Macaroni and cheese, that’ll work. It’s been months since we’ve had that.
Maggie opened a box of noodles and poured it into a cold pan of water. She began slowly stirring the mixture. Ten minutes passed…twenty…and suddenly one of the boys was at her side, tugging on her sleeve.
“Aren’t you going to cook it, Maggie?” He dipped his finger into the water and Maggie pushed him back.
“Don’t! It’s hot…can’t you see it’s boil—” She blinked twice. The water was not boiling; the macaroni inside was no closer to being ready to eat than it had been half an hour earlier.
She dropped the spoon on the countertop and pulled Cameron into a hug. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to push you. I thought—”
“It’s okay. You thought it was boiling. You were just trying to protect me.” His eyes raised to meet hers. “Right, Maggie?”
There was fear in his face. Her strange behavior was probably worrying both boys even though they’d only been living with her and Ben for a month.
“Right, honey. Maggie has a lot on her mind, that’s all.”
“I like macaroni and cheese. We had it last night, too.”
Last night? Maggie thought hard, but she had no memory whatsoever of the night before. She watched Cameron return to the table and then she switched on the burner beneath the pan. At the same time she heard the door swing open.
“Hey, Maggie, I’m home.”
It was Ben. Maybe he could cook dinner and she could get some sleep. That was all this was, this darkness and desperation. A simple lack of sleep. Ben tossed his briefcase and overcoat onto a living room chair and came up behind her.
“Hi.” Maggie knew she didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but she could no longer force herself. Everything about their marriage, about who she was when she was with him, all of it was a lie. What was the point of making small talk?
Ben kissed her neck tenderly and glanced over her shoulder. “Good thing we all like macaroni and cheese.”
She could hear the teasing in his tone, but she bristled anyway. “You don’t like it, you cook for once.”
He stepped back, his expression changing. “We had it last night, Maggie. I’m fine with that, but don’t get defensive with me. I’m only trying to make you laugh.”
His eyes searched hers. “How was your day?”
Maggie thought about the desperate feeling of doom that had followed her from the keyboard at work, to her jogging, to the frozen food section of the grocery store. She thought about how—without knowing it—she had wept while paying for her groceries and how she had stirred a pan of cold water and hard macaroni noodles for thirty minutes before realizing she’d forgotten to turn on the burner.
She looked at Ben and forced a smile. “My day was fine. You?”
He walked toward the boys, keeping his eyes trained on her. “Things are coming along with the Jenson murder trial. The evidence is in, and I think we’ll get a conviction.” Leaning over, he studied the boys’ homework sheets and smiled broadly. “You boys are going to be scientists one day, mark my words.”
He looked back at Maggie. “Brightest boys in Cleveland, Mag, wouldn’t you say?”
Why am I here? Why are we going through the motions when it’s all a big lie? “Yep,” she mumbled.
Dinner was uneventful, and Maggie maneuvered her fork through the pile of cheese-covered macaroni trying to figure out how she’d made the same meal two nights in a row without remembering it.
When they were finished eating, the boys went upstairs to their room to get ready for baths. Maggie dropped her fork on top of the now cold noodles and stared at her husband. “I’m not hungry.” Her voice was fla
t as she stood and moved toward the kitchen, aware that Ben’s eyes followed her.
“Sit down, Maggie.”
His voice was not angry, but neither did it leave room for negotiation. Maggie set her plate in the sink and returned to face her husband. There was nothing she could think to say, so she waited.
“What’s wrong with you, Mag?”
She sighed and studied her fingernails for a moment. “Nothing.”
Ben shook his head. “There’s something wrong. Either something with you or something with me or something with both of us. But I’m tired of walking around here acting like everything’s okay.”
Why didn’t I tell him the truth from the beginning? Then he never would have married me, and we wouldn’t be in this mess. “Okay” She leveled her gaze at him. Her voice sounded tired as she continued. “You want to know what’s wrong with me, I’ll tell you.”
Ben waited expectantly. There was love in his eyes, so much so it pained Maggie to know she was hurting him. But sooner or later he would have to know that she wasn’t the sweet, Christian girl he thought he’d married. Maybe if she told him now, at least part of the truth…
Not too much, Maggie. Don’t tell him too much.
She drew a deep breath. “I’m tired of pretending.”
Ben couldn’t have looked more dazed if she had just announced she might like to dye her hair pink. “Pretending?”
“Yes.” Maggie crossed her arms. “All day long I pretend. I pretend to be this wonderful Christian woman worthy of handing out advice to half the people in Cleveland, then I pretend that managing foster children is a satisfying substitute for having babies of my own. And when you get home…” Her voice trailed off and she saw his eyes fill with fresh pain.
“What, Mag? When I get home, what?”
The walls of the dining room began to close in on her. Why, God? What’s happening to me? How come I can’t leave it alone and let it go? She gripped the edges of her chair.
Come on, tell him. He’s waiting. Tell him the truth about how you feel. At least give him that. This isn’t someone you love, remember? He’s hurt you; he’s the enemy.
“Ben, it’s just—” Her voice was barely a whisper and this time she could feel the tears gathering in her eyes. “What I’m trying to say is, well…I pretend with you, too.”
He hesitated, and a flash of fear skittered across his eyes. “Come on, Maggie. You’re overreacting, having a bad day or something. I mean, there’s nothing here that can’t—”
“No! You’re wrong.” She was trembling now, crying openly and raising her voice. “I’m telling you how I feel. Don’t you understand?”
Ben was silent, and Maggie saw his eyes were wet, too. Tell him, Maggie. You’ve lied to protect him long enough. It’s your turn to hurt him for a change.
She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them she felt stronger than before. He had done this to her, after all. Forced her to live a lie, to pretend she was the perfect Christian girl, and then later, the ideal wife. What choice had she ever had but to lie to him?
Maggie exhaled and steadied her voice. “The truth is…you don’t know me, Ben.” She leveled her gaze at him and held it there. “You never have.”
His face grew pale, then flushed—all in a matter of seconds. He stood and turned away. Maggie gazed out the window where the sun had not quite settled beyond the nearly bare tree line. I hate this; all of it. Her arms ached, and she recognized the feeling as familiar. Aching, empty arms. The same way they’d been that May morning so many years ago…
Stop! The order echoed in her heart and stopped all other thoughts. She shifted her gaze to Ben and then, without saying another word, without stopping and doing up the dinner dishes or looking in on Casey and Cameron, she stood and dragged her feet up the stairs. It took the rest of her energy to tear back the comforter that lay twisted on her unmade bed and bury herself beneath.
There, still wearing her clothes and shoes, with visions of the little blond girl filling her mind and the sun not quite set in the evening sky, Maggie Stovall willed herself to sleep.
Five
THE COLUMN WAS FAIRLY SCATHING, AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT KATHY Garrett’s coworkers at the Social Services department were saying. Kathy found that hard to believe. Now, after going nonstop through lunch, she finally had a moment to read it for herself.
“Okay, where is it?” she muttered as she pulled the paper out of its plastic sleeve and spread it on the table. Kathy was a fan of “Maggie’s Mind” and figured that if the columnist had taken on the department there was probably some merit to her argument. She opened the paper and saw the headline at the top right side of the front page: “Maggie’s Mind: The Real Abuse of Abused Children.” Kathy studied the columnist’s picture that accompanied the article and was struck by a familiar thought. Something about the reporter’s eyes was more than a little familiar.
She dismissed the idea and delved into the article, immediately swept up by the picture Maggie painted. Children shuffled from one home to another, experiencing enough trauma to destroy their psyches and change them forever into societal misfits. Maggie’s view was simple: Social Services was a system desperately understaffed and far too quick to place kids back in a dangerous environment because of some noble idea that children are better off with their birth parents.
Kathy closed her eyes and pictured the children she’d seen pass through the system in just that manner. Maggie was right. Many times the department’s good intentions to keep children with their biological families only made matters worse. And there was nothing anyone at Social Services could do to prevent it from happening again, not until laws governing parental rights were changed.
Kathy could see why the column upset the staff at the department, but she silently applauded Maggie for having the courage to take on a federal agency and illuminate an issue that was every bit as troubling as the columnist had described it.
Of course there was the other problem with the system—one Kathy was sure Maggie would inevitably tackle in future columns: the lack of quality foster homes. Sometimes, it seemed, the need for foster homes throughout the state was so great only a cursory safety check was done on the applicants. Motives certainly could not be checked, and since Social Services provided foster parents with a stipend to provide for the child’s food and clothing, there would always be those who provided substandard care as a way to make money.
She thought of her appointment later that night—pictured the lonely little girl—and her eyes burned with the beginning of tears. Amanda Joy Brownell. The child had been in the system so long she had only a very slim chance of ever being adopted. Foster care was also difficult. The better foster homes tended to take young children; not seven-year-old girls with a history of removals.
It isn’t her fault, Lord. Kathy hung her head as two tears splashed onto the newsprint and worked their way into the layers of paper beneath. Kathy remembered the day she was called to the hospital to talk with the girl’s biological mother, a wide-eyed twenty-three-year-old who had been convinced that being a single mom would ruin her life. At least before the delivery. But that day at the hospital the young mother had broken down and wept, so distraught over giving up her baby that Kathy had asked her to reconsider. Instead the girl had been adamant, repeating over and over that giving up the baby was something she had to do.
Kathy stared out her window across the tree-lined parking lot. The sky was slate gray, and most of the leaves had fallen from the maples. Thanksgiving was coming, and Christmas. Another year gone by, and still Amanda Joy had no place to call home. The situation—like so many others Kathy worked with—was enough to break her heart.
Where’s her birth mother today, Lord? Kathy released a slow breath and wondered like she had a dozen times before about the girl’s young mother. Did she regret her choice to give the baby up for adoption? Kathy still remembered her hesitation as she’d signed the paperwork that day at the hospital, and again as she took the ne
wborn girl from the trembling arms of her mother and whisked her into the waiting arms of Stan and Tammy Brownell. Most babies were placed through private adoption agencies housed in decorated suites on the fifteenth floor of a corporate high-rise in downtown Cleveland. Kathy remembered thinking it unusual that the young mother chose to come to Cincinnati’s Social Services Department to give the baby up.
At first Kathy had been happy for the Brownells—a couple without the means to adopt privately but with a great desire to have a child. Her opinion changed after she met with them. The couple seemed so serious and somber…Kathy had a very real feeling that although their home study was complete, the placement wasn’t right for the baby girl. Either way—as with most of her cases—there was nothing Kathy could do but pray about the situation.
She hadn’t expected to see the little girl again.
Kathy cringed like she always did when she thought of the accident, the frozen tree limb that had fallen on the Brownells’ car, killing them both instantly. Since the Brownells had no extended family, Amanda Joy was made a ward of the court and again Kathy was called in to help. She had met the child at her kindergarten class that day and escorted her to the office, where together with the school counselor they revealed the awful news.
Amanda’s reaction had confirmed Kathy’s fears from years earlier. The child had stared at her nailbitten fingers and scuffled her feet nervously. “Will I still be living at their house?”
Kathy had been confused. “Whose house, honey?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Brownell’s.” The girl’s eyes were dry.
The words had hung in the air a few moments. “You mean your house, your mom and dad’s house?”
Amanda shook her head. “I’m not allowed to call them Mom and Dad. They said it wasn’t formal.”
Looking back Kathy wasn’t sure which realization hurt more, the fact that Amanda Joy was once again without parents or the fact that she’d been little more than a favorite guest in her home for all of her five years. Since then Amanda had spoken kindly of the Brownells, so Kathy knew they had not been harmful in any way. They just hadn’t given her the love and acceptance a child deserves.
When Joy Came to Stay Page 4