Maggie

The man turned his head and died. It was to be expected, the doctors had given up on him weeks ago—they were surprised he lived that long. It wasn’t his first time in the hospital, a year ago he’d had the same problem; the family had gathered then and begun their mourning. But even before his first visit, his case was doomed—it was her fault really, she’d given up on him long before the doctors did. And when she gave up, he gave up.

Two years before, days before Christmas and he sat stunned, refusing to join in any festivities because of what she’d said. “I got the job in New York, Robbie,” she told him. “That’s great, Maggie! I’ll find a job out there too, when are we moving?” “You don’t understand. I’m going…alone.”

He stared at her. Her cool brown eyes were serene and certain. Their eyes locked and she turned, her long brown hair swept around her shoulder. “Why, Maggie?” he choked the question out. “I’m leaving tonight,” she said, smoothly, sweetly, and firmly. It was final and she was gone.

They’d met ten years before. It was late summer, nearly fall. The sun was burning leaves red and the breeze cooled the shade. A small pond was shimmering yellow and white ducks swam gently as the sun flittered through tree tips. She was sitting on a wooden bench tossing stale pieces of bread in the pond. He had a golden retriever, Jami. Her name was Maggie Lane; his was Robert Blight. She was thirty; he was twenty-six. Her divorce had been final for two weeks; he had a girlfriend, Hillary.

It was half past seven; the time Robert usually walked Jami. He knew every person in the park except Maggie. “Hello, stranger,” he called cheerily. Her eyes locked his and dropped down again, her fingers crumbling bread and feeling her empty left ring finger, the weight of invisible gold still pressing heavily upon it. “Mind if I sit here?” “Yes.” “Oh, I’ll be going then.” He walked away. Maggie smiled.

The next day at half past seven she was there again. “Can I sit here?” “No—yes, I mean—you really should ask better questions. Maggie laughed…nervously. They chatted as the buttercup sun shimmered lower, kissing tree tops and then horizon until it finally vanished, leaving only misty blue scattered with early stars. Midnight came and reluctantly they parted, exchanging numbers and forming plans to meet again.

Maggie and Robert fought for the first time two days after he broke up with Hillary. They fought about Jami; Maggie won. The next fight was about Robert’s job; Maggie won. It was an intoxicating kind of argument, an addiction that caught them everyday and promptly followed by an intense apology session.

Robert dedicated her life to Maggie. Robert changed his job, his apartment, and his life for her. She didn’t change anything. She enjoyed her time with him. After one year they returned to the park bench and had a picnic dinner at half past seven. “I love you,” he whispered in her left ear. She was silent. “I love you,” he whispered louder. Maggie smiled. He studied her lips. She laughed, kissing him gently.

She never said those three words he longed to hear. His every action begged for her love. His every movement was dedicated to her. “I love you,” he’d say, but Maggie only laughed. When she left, Robert’s only words were, “Maggie, I love you” scrawled on an empty envelope. He failed the first time. The note was the same the second time: “Maggie, I love you.” The third time the note read the same: “Maggie, I love you.” The third time he succeeded. They found him on the cold bathroom floor. Whispering, “Maggie, I love you,” he turned his head and died.

Enticement

There was a couple long boarding on Elaine’s street. She didn’t care, the swoosh of wheels on asphalt captured her attention for only a moment before she returned to blankly staring at her Spanish homework. She had books spread around her on the lawn, and she skimmed a page of one, reading and understanding nothing. This is the last time I cram, she thought.

The girl continued flying up and down the street, curving side to side and weaving around obstacles, but the boy stopped and called, “Hey, do you want to try?” “I’ve gotta study she called back.” It was an excuse, but not the real one, she had no desire to interrupt the couple with her clumsiness, and she hated being the odd one out. “Oh, come on, you can study later.” Elaine looked at him, studying he’s smile which ended in dimples and reflected in his brown eyes. “Oh, ok,” she stood up, leaving her scattered books.

The boy’s name was Henry. “Have you ever done this before?” “No, and I’m really bad at stuff like this, so I’ll probably fall.” “It’s easy, you’ll be fine. Stand like this,” he demonstrated. She tried, but wobbled. He steadied her and she grasped Henry’s arms firmly, fearing the fall that would certainly accompany the loosening of her fingers. Eventually she did let go, and though failing perfection, managed to roll down the street.

The girl glided by and watched them, but Elaine could not read her face. She came nearer and Henry said, “Elaine, this is my sister, Mary.” Both girls smiled, but Elaine’s was the broadest—it wasn’t a couple after all.

Gum (8.8)

I have a photo of a man whose name I don’t know. Half of the blood that runs through my veins is his, this nameless man’s. It’s not a proper photo; it’s a strip of $3 photo booth pictures taken on one of my mom’s few dates with this man.

Sometimes I think I have his eyes, but it’s hard to tell. They’re kinda blurry. Maybe his lips? I might have his laugh, ‘cause I don’t have Mom’s. Hers is bubbly and bright; mine crinkles deep and high.

I imagine the date, and their laughs mingling in the cramped, sweaty booth. There was likely dirt and gum stuck on the floor. Maybe she even dropped a piece and there it rests, stale and hard, the only remainder of that date—aside from the pictures and me.

Turn Left (Cat's Exercise)

Turning left, blinker set, steady stream of rain and cars, Amelia craned her neck, stretching her vision and striking the gray-brown car mat with her left foot rapidly. Her mother’s words echoed, “He’s not well, Amelia…hurray, please.” Amelia clutched the old beige phone, “What did the doctors say?” “Just hurray,” her slow, worried words increased the receiver’s weight.

Amelia turned to her younger brother, sitting in the passenger seat, “Dad’ll be fine.” Brent drew his lips tight; eyes burning with water and trained straight ahead, staring at nothing. “He’s strong Brent.” “Amelia…he’s…last time was too close.” “But he pulled through, he can do it again.” Brent leaned forward, flipping through radio static. An old song came on—Amelia knew every syllable, but she didn’t sing, instead she drifted to the kitchen of the house they’d lived in when she was five. She was dancing with Dad on the yellow linoleum floor, her feet on his. Mom hummed gently as she finished dinner and Brent knocked toys together in his play pen. It had been a nightly occurrence.

Tears fell from Amelia, matching the clouds drop for drop.