Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story (3 page)

“
Meh,
not bad.”

“
I’ll
give you not bad,” he growls, diving at me… showing me exactly what
his
not bad
is like.

Chapter 2

IF IT’S AT all possible to cleave claw
marks in the ceiling, I just did.

The girls are
awake and squealing their hearts out, running down the hallway on
their way to wake us. Their excitement is infectious, but boy it’s
early.

I feel hung over
only without the alcohol after having a couple of hours sleep. Our
Play House… um…
construction
went on a little longer than
planned.

I haven’t really
drunk since being pregnant over six years ago. It was one of my
morning sickness triggers. I used to start reaching whenever I got
a sniff of beer. Wine wasn’t so bad, Scotch - no way, and even now
some alcohol sets me off.

The bedroom door
flies open and two very happy and very loud little girls race in
and start jumping all over us, singing at full volume, “Wake up,
wake up, Santa’s been.”

Ella grabs hold
of the top sheet and tugs with all her might in sheer desperation
to get us to hurry up and move. Brendan’s hand snaps at the covers
laughing but, embarrassed because he’s in all his naked glory and
has always been a little modest in front of the girls.

“
Hold
up there Ellie baby, let Daddy put some pants on first,” he
chuckles, blushing.

“
No
Daddy, there’s no time. You have to, have to hurry. Santa’s
here.”

“
Come
on you Monkeys,” I interject, buying my prudish husband time.
“Someone hand me my robe,” I command in a regal tone, “I must be
dressed to meet Santa.” I pinch the singlet top I’m wearing for
emphasis. “This will never do.” I smile broadly as both girls climb
off the bed and sprint to the walk to search for the right robe. “I
must have the lavender gown I received for Mother’s Day,” I
conclude pompously and dramatically throw the covers aside,
accidently on purposely fling it partially off Brendan. But he’s
faster and clamps it down with a quick hand and narrows his eyes
before flashing the goods.

“
Don’t start what you can’t finish, Love.”

“
Oh I
can finish it -” I start before being cut off
mid-sentence.

“
This
one Mummy?” Mattie asks in her little bird voice, dragging the
dressing gown behind her as Ella climbs back onto the bed, looking
annoyed.

“
Yes
baby, that’s the one,” I coo, taking it from her and sliding my
arms into the sleeves.

Bobbing up and
down on the bed, Brendan bounces his butt on the mattress,
attempting to keep his privates under wraps while trying to shimmy
into the pair of boxer shorts he leaves close by in case he has to
get up during the night.

“
Right.” I’m using my commanding tone again while I tie my
robe loosely so the fabric drapes and conceals the fact that I’m
not wearing a bra. The boobs just aren’t what they used to be after
breast feeding two babies. “Are we ready to see what Santa brought
me for Christmas?”

“
I’m
more interested in seeing what the Old Man got me,” Brendan yells,
picking Ella up and flinging her over a shoulder, then squatting
down to take Mattie into his free arm, spinning them around before
heading down the stairs singing Jingle Bells at the top of his
voice while the girls scream with joy. I dart into the wardrobe,
snatch the camera off the shelf and chase after my
family.

They’re already
huddled around the Christmas tree when I reach the living room.
“Wow, did you guys fly here or something?”

“
Daddy did, Mummy,” Mattie cries wide-eyed.

“
Don’t be silly, Dads don’t fly, Mattie,” Ella says, rolling
hers.

“
Did
too,” Mattie protests, crossing her arms, then looking to Brendan
for confirmation. “Didn’t you Daddy.”

“
Who
wants to open their presents?” Brendan calls out, defusing the
developing argument. He reaches under the heavily decorated tree to
retrieve a box wrapped with a large gold bow and reads the name
tag. “What do ya know? This one’s for Mummy.”

Smiling big, he
rises up on his knees to pass me the package as I fake glare but
secretly love that he got me another present. Taking the sides of
his face, I press soft kiss to his lips, murmuring love and
thanks.

“
What
are you waiting for, girls?” Brendan cheers. “Go look in your
stockings.”

I lift the
camera and take a few shots, shaking my head at my husband as he
dives under the tree looking for his own gifts, smiling to the
point of pain and loving every minute of this moment.

Christmas day,
my favourite –
okay
.

One of my top
ten favourite days of the year.

I’M FRANTICALLY
WASHING the last of the dishes that are too big to fit in the
already full and running dishwasher. I nudge an open cupboard door
closed with my foot, then shake off the excess water and soap from
my hands, splashing it all over the floor as I reach for a clean
tea towel to dry up.

“
How’s the turkey looking?” I call to Brendan through the open
kitchen window. I see his mouth open and close but miss what he’s
saying. I nod and smile anyway. I don’t have time for bad
news.

The table’s all
set with a red table cloth, white plates and crystal champagne
glasses. The girls scattered some tiny glittery gold reindeer to
finish the effect. The cold food is on the breakfast bench ready
for serving. Vegies are keeping warm on the hot plates; potatoes
are in the oven crisping nicely. I haven’t put the bread rolls in
yet because they only take a few minutes and I don’t want them to
burn, and then go cold. The Christmas pudding is boiling steadily
in the huge pot that gets pulled out once a year – to cook the
pudding. Trifle’s in the fridge, creamed and decorated by the girls
and my famous, although not very traditional, chocolate mousse is
resting next to the trifle.

Slamming the
last cupboard door, I screw up the now damp towel and throw it into
the dirty clothes basket on my way past the laundry, racing
upstairs to change before everyone arrives.

We’ve had a
fantastic morning opening our gifts and ended up having a huge
paper fight that was probably more fun than opening the presents.
Santa got the girls far too much as usual, the standouts being the
Ginger Bread House. Ellie loves her new pink and purple roller
blades and Mattie thinks her new orange and black scooter is, and I
quote:
“Aawesooommmmeeee.”

I’m struggling
with the hook sewn to the top of the zip on the dress Brendan gave
me. It’s soft summer cotton, fresh and light and feels luxurious as
the fabric gently flows over my rounding curves. I’m watching my
feet while I walk into the bathroom to apply my make up with a
slight frown. I wish I had enough time to paint my toenails now
that I want to wear open toe heels to match my new outfit instead
of the regulation Mummy flats I normally don, when I hear a
piercing high pitch scream coming from the front yard. Reflexively
my entire body freezes and goes into parent mode.

I’m positive
that was - oh hell no, that’s Mattie screaming.

Then I hear
Brendan’s much deeper voice explode with a guttural noise that
sounds like it is being retched from the pits of hell itself. More
high pitched shrieks quickly follow with Ellie’s cries mixing into
the macabre ensemble.

Then the
absolute worst possible noise anyone could conceivably imagine
hearing in their entire life.

The sound of
screeching tires.

A painfully
deafening pregnant pause.

The slam of
solid impact, crumpling metal.

Then
nothing.

The nothing’s
the worst sound of all.

I’m bunching
fabric around my hips, running down the stairs two at a time. My
heart’s pounding blood through my ears as I blindly grab for the
front door handle. In my confusion I lay one hand flat on the
stained wood, pressing against the stupid door whilst trying to
open the thing at the same time. Rattling the lock until my mind
and hands are able to coordinate and finally get it
open.

I sprint
bare-footed down the front step, over the coarse, decorated
concrete drive, tripping over strategically placed volcanic garden
rocks. The skirt of my new dress keeps tangling with my legs and
eventually causes me to stumble onto the street, ripping at the
skin on the tips of my toes and the tender soles of my feet while I
desperately take in the scene before me with jerky erratic
movements. The overwhelming sight causes my breath to snag and my
brain to deny.

My blurry vision
is so tainted with distress everything appears awash in a filmy red
hue. I’m overwhelmed by someone’s screaming in a piercing tone fit
to burst. It’s a hysterical, manic sound that carries through the
entire neighbourhood. It’s the sound of harrowing pain, of sheer
desperation.

Strong hands
take hold of me from the side, pulling me and encasing me under
their arm while they attempt to turn me away from the carnage,
trying to get me to stop screaming, repeatedly assuring me that an
ambulance is on its way. Help is coming.

My face is now
buried into the front of a button down shirt. The small plastic
buttons press into my damp cheek and a protective arm is covering
my eyes. I can hear words spilling out around me, recognising the
familiar voices of our neighbours as they call out my name, my
family’s names. My mind is in a vortex of confusion, not allowing
me to process anything in a coherent order. I can’t understand why
I need an ambulance, why my family are laid awkwardly across the
bitumen.

As I push away
from my protector, the dull haze slowly clears and my eyes begin to
focus on a frenzy of people spilling out of emergency vehicles with
flashing lights and blaring sirens being shut off. Police dart from
car to ambulance, from person to person, abruptly conversing and
repeating statements into static walkie talkies, their messages
carrying into the unknown.

A tall figure
moves into my line of vision and shakes me hard. He’s speaking - no
he’s
yelling
words I can’t hear. For some unknown reason I
become fixated on the fact that he’s wearing a wet shirt. I run the
back of finger over the dampness and look up in
question.

“
Jon?”

When did he get
here?

There’s so much
sadness and pain in his eyes, I step closer and cup his face to
comfort him. I’m about to tell him that it’s going to be okay,
everything’s going to be fine, when my brain finally begins to
catch up. With reality unfolding around me, I realise with shocking
clarity that Jon’s expressing these feelings to me. For
me.

It all comes to
me in a rush, slamming into me. Like a speeding four wheel
drive.

I frantically
jerk and pull and kick and scream and scream and scream. “No, no,
nononononononono.”

I stumble off
the curb and move one surreal leg at a time, attempting to process
the sight of my girls’ limp bodies, lying bloody on the asphalt in
spasmodically bended forms while grown men and women lean over
them.

Jon grabs hold
of me and tries to lead me in a different direction. I slap him
away with numb, hands only to find myself tangling with him. He’s
not the right Cartwright brother. I want my husband. I need to find
him. Brendan will know what’s happening - he’ll know what to
do.

“
Brendan!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but my voice comes
out sounding like it’s underwater. I twist and turn but Jon
tightens his grip, so I start yanking my arms, only to feel the
grip squeeze into my muscles. I stop still and robotically look
up.

“
Let.
Me. Go.” My voice sounds feral. I hardly recognise it as
mine.

“
Maggie Mae, I need you to calm down.”

“
Let
Me Go. I need to find Brendan.”
I need to find him
now.

I uselessly
twist my arms, begging him to let me go. Jon shakes me gently to
capture my attention and closes the space between us, demanding me
to focus on him and nothing else. He holds my rabid expression for
long beat, before subtly shaking his head from side to side,
telling me no. I feel my head mirror his movements, a mechanical
action that’s confusing. I still don’t remember Jon getting
here.

I fake calmness
and the very second Jon relaxes his iron grip, I make a break for
it and launch my body sideways, heading to the first form I see.
It’s my Ella lying on her back, surrounded by people in uniform.
Her left leg is at an odd angle, her rollerblade clad foot caught
awkwardly on the road. Blood is pooling beneath her caramel brown
hair and a large man is repeatedly pressing down hard onto her
chest.

Worried that he
might hurt her, I’m about to tell him to be more gentle with my
baby girl when I notice Mattie out of the corner of my
eye.

I dart over to
her, but can’t get close enough because there are more people
blocking my way. Her eyes are wide open and her jaw is slack. A man
has his ear pressed to her chest, and then starts pounding far too
roughly over her ribs, causing a horrific snapping noise to echo in
the mayhem.