Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story (10 page)

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. Life 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.