Maine: A Novel Part 17

aAre you okay, Mommy?a Maggie would say. Or aDo you want to talk?a Her mother would tell her everything: that they were broke, that Maggieas father was a lowlife, and that head been having an affair for a year, an affair that her uncle Patrick had known all about and helped to cover up.

aMy own brother,a Kathleen said. aCan you believe that?a aI canat believe it,a Maggie said, wrapping her hands in the long sleeves of her nightgown, wishing they could all go home again.

aAnd even my mother is against mea"no surprise there,a Kathleen went on.

aWhy is Grandma against you?a Maggie said.

aShe thinks Iam not trying hard enough in my marriage,a her mother said, incredulous. aShe thinks Iall go to h.e.l.l for refusing to let myself be walked on for fifty years. What kind of example would I be setting for you if I stayed? Iad sooner have us live on the street.a Maggie wanted to cry. She had heard about h.e.l.l in CCD, and her grandparents had spoken of a place called Limbo, where unbaptized babies floated around for eternity on tiny wings, unable to ever see their families again. She didnat want her mother in h.e.l.l. She didnat want her father to be with someone else. She didnat want to have to live on the street. She told herself to act like a grown-up. She walked to where her mother sat and threw her arms around her, burying her face in Kathleenas thick sweater.

aOh, hey, itas okay,a Kathleen said. aWeave got each other, kiddo. And weave got Grandpa. Heall take care of us, always.a The following autumn, the situation improved. Her father started paying child support, and they were able to move into a small house in Braintree. Her mother joined AA. She apologized to Maggie for asking too much of her, for treating her like an adult when she was only a child.

aYou didnat treat me like an adult,a Maggie said, sensing that this was what Kathleen wanted to hear.

aI did,a her mother said. aEven though youare my little petunia, I think of you as a friend. But I should have known better than to drink like that around you. I still remember how scary it was when my mom used to drink when I was a kid.a aWhen did she stop?a Maggie asked.

aWhen I was eleven,a her mother said. aAbout your age. My father threatened to leave her if she didnat sober up.a aWhy?a Maggie asked.

aShe was nasty,a Kathleen said. aIf I cried because Iad had a bad dream, shead shake me really hard and tell me to get to sleep, or else goblins would come and get me. One time she drove me and your auntie Clare and uncle Patrick right into a tree.a aDid Grandma join AA too?a Maggie asked.

aNo, sweetie,a her mother said. aThatas not exactly her style.a aDid not drinking anymore make her stop being nasty?a Maggie asked.

aWhat do you think?a her mother said with a wink.

Two weeks went by without any word from Gabe. She had told him not to reach out, but maybe she hadnat meant it. Ironic that this was the first request of hers he had ever actually honored.

She pa.s.sed the time reading and writing and eating the occasional meal with Alice and Father Donnellya"Connor, as he wanted to be called. She went to the beach, though it was still too cold to swim. She called Kathleen and her friend Allegra often from Aliceas phone, just to hear their voices.

Every day, Maggie walked for hours to ensure that she would be exhausted by nightfall. One afternoon, she had traveled along Sh.o.r.e Road, past the Cape Nedd.i.c.k Lobster Pound and Connoras church, and fishermen casting their lines over the side of a bridge. She walked and walked until she found herself in the middle of York Beach, five miles away, a slightly seedy town bustling with color, full of T-shirts and movie posters and seafood places with red-and-white-checkered plastic on every table. She walked past the tattoo parlors and the chocolate shops and the tarot room, past the coin laundry and the Goldenrod, where a man was making salt.w.a.ter taffy inside the window. And because it was what the Kellehers always did in York Beach, she made her way, zombielike, into the arcade, and played four rounds of skee-ball. She left the tickets she earned hanging from the machine like a long jagged tongue, for some lucky young kid to come across. She walked home without saying a word to anyone.

Usually the ocean air worked better than the strongest sleeping pill. But now, just like during those months after her parentsa separation, she was up nights, worrying.

She tried to lose herself in work at nighta"she wrote a few dating profiles; she took on a freelance magazine a.s.signment about how to lose your love handles in ten easy steps; and she had begun to look at the national news online for atrocious murders she could pitch to her boss at Till Death Do Us Part. But at some point, she had become obsessed with reading baby websites. She knew too much already and she was only two months along. By the third trimester, her baby was supposedly going to move once every other minute. She would feel punches and kicks from within. Her b.o.o.bs would swell up and she would have stretch marks traversing her pale belly. Her body would never look the same again. When she gave birth, she should expect at least twelve to fourteen hours of excruciating labor.

And that was all while the child was inside her. One night, watching the evening news with Alice, she saw a segment about two million cribs being recalled because they were crushing babies to death. If cribs werenat even safe, how would she ever manage to go a day without panicking about this childas well-being?

There were so many questions to be answered once she returned to New York, but Maggie couldnat face them yet. Maine never changeda"the same faces, the same homes, the same blue sea. Here, she felt that she could float, as if in amber. Just stay still.

The next step was telling Kathleen. As the days pa.s.sed, Maggie composed the letter in her head. She even sat down and started writing it, about seven different times. Finally, one rainy night as she watched a storm far out on the ocean, she sat down and typed.

Dear Mom, When was the last time I wrote you a letter? Not just a birthday card or a silly note on the fridge, but an actual letter. I think it was that one summer you sent me to sleepaway camp, and I was absolutely miserable without you. I wrote you every day, and you wrote me just as often. I told you I was lonely, no one liked me. You responded that it was scientifically impossible for me to ever be alone, because I had you.

Iave been thinking of writing you a letter lately, but Iam pretty sure Iad chicken out and never actually put it in a mailbox. E-mail is easier when thereas something youare struggling to say. You just hit asenda and then give the regret and anxiety ten seconds to kick in.

Iam missing you in Maine. I know we have our phone calls, but as discussed, I barely get cell service here, and each time I call you from the landline in Aliceas house, I know sheas listening to every word I say. Itas been over two weeks since I arrived, and the days are flying. Do you remember the way time moves differently here? A day goes by in an hour, and the nights seem endless. (Here, I find I am still slightly scared of the dark. It never actually gets dark in New York, now that I think about it. Maybe thatas why I like it so much.) I love the simple routine of cottage lifea"I have twelve more days until I have to clear out, and Iam already dreading saying good-bye. Each morning I get up early and walk the beach alone. I walk up to Rubyas and buy tea, a paper, and groceries for the day. I have been frequenting Caf Amore with alarming regularity. (I am often one bite away from a blueberry French toast overdose.) Then I go home and write for a few hours, maybe have lunch or dinner with Alice. Sometimes we watch TV together at night. Itas nice. Sheas still her crazy self, but we have had our moments. Most of the time I am alone, which I like. Iave had a lot to think about.

There is something Iave been trying (or, in some cases, trying not) to say each time weave talked these past few weeks, but I canat seem to get the words out, which is strangea"Iave always known that I can come to you with anything and you will support me, help me make it right. Iave always known that with you I can be my true self, whatever that means.

The thing Iave wanted to say (Jeez, I can barely manage to write it) is this: Iam pregnant. Needless to say, my emotions lately have run the gamut between terrified, bewildered, and elated, especially given my situation with Gabe. But Iave decided to settle on the last of these feelings. I am having this baby, and Iam happy. Truly happy. Sitting here in the living room in the cottage, I remember so clearly that spring when wea"you, me, and Chrisa"lived here. You were panicked then, but look what you made of it. I have no doubt that raising a child alone is beyond difficult. Iave thought through all the challenges. But I know I wonat be alone: Iall have you.

I thought by writing this instead of saying it over the phone, Iad give you the time to really process it before reacting. I know you might be worried or freaked out or disappointed in me. Please think about it for a while, as I have, before you respond, okay? Iam here in Maine, tucked away safe, and I feel that (for now at least) everything is right with the world.

Love you always,

Maggie.

P.S. I think there might be some weird s.e.xual tension between Grandma and her priest.

Ann Marie.

When the phone rang, Ann Marie was clipping coupons from the Sunday circular at the kitchen table, same as most Monday mornings, unaware that something big was about to happen. She pressed the cordless receiver between her shoulder and her cheek so she could continue cutting out a three-for-one special on Windex. Shead leave one bottle here at the house and bring the other two with her to Maine the next day.

If they had it to do over again, she would have asked Pat to put less gla.s.s on the architectural plans for the big house in Cape Nedd.i.c.k. It got so dirty. Though it did have a gorgeous view of the beach from almost every room. Focus on the positive. That was a motto of hers.

Someday that house would be theirs. Then perhaps shead make a few changes. The kitchen, for instance, was almost too modern. The cottage had to staya"Pat wouldnat have it otherwisea"but maybe they could do more landscaping, allow for more of a real yard for the grandkids to run around in, and a proper driveway.

ah.e.l.lo?a she said now.

aIam calling to speak with Mrs. Ann Marie Kelleher,a said a woman with an English accent.

aThis is she.a aMy name is Louise Parnell. Iam calling from the Wellbright Miniatures Fair offices with some wonderful news. Your dollhouse, entry number 2374, has been selected as a finalist in our annual worldwide compet.i.tion.a Her heart sped up. Could this really be happening? In some ways, she had almost expected it, but then shead tell herself not to be silly, that it was just a fantasy. She knew the decisions were being made this week, but she hadnat thought it would happen on a Monday. (After church on Sunday, while Pat went to get the car, she lit a candle for this very reason, and then felt ridiculous about it.) aA finalist?a she said softly, as if she might have misheard.

aYes. You should be very proud. Out of over two thousand contestants, youave made the top ten. The finals take place September first in London. All expenses paid for you, plus one guest.a G.o.d help her, she immediately envisioned herself walking hand in hand with Steve Brewer down a cobblestone street.

aThatas wonderful,a she said, and then, almost as a sort of consolation to Pat: aMy husband will be so excited. He studied abroad in London one semester during college.a aI expect you know all the rules and restrictions already, but weall be mailing you a packet with the relevant information later today.a aOh, I know them,a Ann Marie said. She had practically memorized the compet.i.tion section of the Wellbright website. The finals required you to submit a brand-new house. You couldnat have any outside help or even use a preexisting floor plan from one of the trade publications. You had to decorate it from the ground up. The grand prize winner got to have her house featured on the cover of Dollhouse World magazine, a five-thousand-dollar Wellbright gift certificate, and a brief lecture tour of craft fairs in the United Kingdom.

Last yearas winner had been at it for decadesa"she owned two shops in Canada. And here was Ann Marie, with only a yearas experience under her belt. After she hung up, she went to the dollhouse and actually kissed the front door. Then she removed the canopy bed from the master suite and kissed that too.

aOh, you beauty,a she said to the house. aThank you.a Unsure of what to do next, she squealed like a child and bolted upstairs. Raul, her trainer, would be proud. She hadnat run this fast since high school.

aPat!a she called. aHoney!a He emerged from the bedroom in his suit, straightening his tie.

He chuckled. aYes?a aI won! I won! Well, Iam a finalist, anyhow. I just got a call from the Wellbright people.a aThatas great,a he said.

She tried not to let the fact that he sounded slightly underwhelmed stand in the way of her joy. This wasnat really his thing, she reminded herself. But she kept pushing.

aOut of two thousand applicants, they only picked ten.a aThatas fabulous. Iam so proud of you. Why are we standing in the hall?a aAnd we both get to go to London, all expenses paid, for the grand prize judging.a Now he nodded, his eyes widening.

aLook out, world, here comes my wife, the interior designer.a aOh, Iad hardly call myself that.a aSo you build it here and they judge it across the pond?a aRight.a aYour dollhouse will make one h.e.l.l of a carry-on,a he said. Of all things.

aYou send it ahead, silly,a she said.

aShould we go out to dinner tonight to celebrate?a he asked.

aThat would be nice.a aItas our last night together before you ship off to Maine,a he said.

aI know. I have so much to do before I can start working on my house.a aYouare going to start today, huh?a he asked, sounding amused.

aThereas not much time!a She thought of everything she had to do: She needed to finish packing. She needed to go grocery shopping and pick up her motheras prescriptions and drop them off to her. Which meant shead probably end up staying for lunch and helping her mother hang those blinds in the den. She had told Patty that shead buy bathing suits for the kids at the Fileneas sale. Then she had to come home and cook some meals for Pat to heat up while she was away. Plus maybe go over to Aliceas house in Canton and retrieve whatever her mother-in-law needed from there. She had library books to return. The car was filthy. She should get it washed. She needed to remind the girl next door to water her plants while she was gone.

Ann Marie suddenly felt deflated. It was only a dumb contest. It couldnat fix the fact that Fiona was gay, that Little Danielas life was a mess, that everyone expected her to do everything at all times. And shead never have enough hours to make her dollhouse perfect. She needed a break.

After Pat left for work, she cried. She sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands and just let it out. Sometimes that could be good for a person. She allowed the pity party to continue for a few minutes, and then walked into the front hall. She looked at herself in the mirror on the wall and laughed. What was she crying for anyway? Maybe the news had been too good. Her kids always bawled at their own birthday parties when they were young, overwhelmed by the attention.

aAnn Marie Clancy, you need to get a grip,a she said out loud. (Sometimes she still thought of herself by her maiden name, even though she had changed it to Kelleher nearly thirty-five years earlier.) aYouare a finalist. A finalist!a She felt a bit better. She went and looked at the dollhouse again. Then she called Patty at work. She dialed the office number, and Pattyas cheerful secretary, Amy, picked up.

aPatricia Weinsteinas office,a she said.

Each time Ann Marie heard this name spoken aloud it was unrecognizable for a moment, even eight years after Patty had gotten married. She had to dig for ita"My daughter Patty Kelleher is now someone named Patricia Weinstein.

aItas her mother,a Ann Marie said. aIs she in?a aHold on, please.a Patty picked up, sounding frazzled.

aHowas Foster feeling?a Ann Marie asked, before even saying h.e.l.lo. He had had a bad cold all weekend, a sore throat and a terrible cough. Patty had called her, worried as could be, on Friday night, and Ann Marie had told her calmly to make him a hot toddy with lemon and honey and a dash of whiskey, like her own mother used to make.

aHeas okay,a Patty said now. aHeas on the mend.a aAre you making sure he gets plenty of fluids?a aYup.a aGood girl. And heas at school now?a aOh yeah.a aHmm.a Ann Marie probably would have kept him home for one more day to let him rest.

aIave got some big news,a she said.

aOh?a aRemember I told you I entered my dollhouse in that prestigious compet.i.tion?a aUm, sort of.a aIam a finalist! Daddy and I get to go to England for the judging in September. Which means I have to build an entire house by then, which is daunting, if you ask me.a aYou do realize the house you have to build is only three feet tall?a aWhat do you mean?a aJust teasing. Thatas really cool, Mom. Congrats.a Ann Marie might have liked to talk about it a while longer, but Patty changed the subject. Joshas mother would be looking after the kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays while Ann Marie was in Maine. Patty was trying to find a polite way to ask her not to swear around the children.

aJosh says she was always this way. The woman talks like a truck driver. I really donat want to have to explain to Maisy what as.h.i.ta means and why she canat say it at preschool.a aPatty!a Ann Marie exclaimed on instinct. She had rarely heard any of her children use profanity.

aWhat? I wasnat actually saying it.a A short while later, Ann Marie pulled her car keys off the hook beside the back door and hurried out to start her errands. The spring in her step was back, and it lasted all daya"through traffic jams and department store lines and listening to some woman ahead of her at the deli yammering into a cell phone about her next-door neighboras alopecia.

It lasted through an afternoon at her motheras apartment, where the dark carpets and thick old wallpaper made the rooms feel physically heavy, and the framed photographs everywhere were caked with dust: here were Ann Marie and her sisters at their First Communions and on the beach, always with their little brother, Brendan, in the background, haunting them like a ghost. He was now fifty years old, if he was even alive. Ann Marie often wondered about that.

Her father had been born in that apartment, back when the rent was only thirty dollars a month. He had never lived anywhere else in his life.

After she left, the drive through the old neighborhood warmed her with its familiarity, but it embarra.s.sed her too. The three-story wood houses looked as worn as they had during her youth. She had often brought her children here, and they had loved being so close to the beach, even though some of the rougher types made them nervous. They werenat built for this environment. Out in front of the L Street Bathhouse, a group of old Irishmen in their scally caps stood around talking and laughing. Each year on New Yearas Day, they plunged into the frigid harbor, and everyone in the neighborhood came down to cheer them on. Ann Marie gave them a wave now, happy to be heading home.

All day she had been designing the new housea"the grand prize winnera"in her head. She thought it ought to be brick. She had seen some beautiful brick houses at the fair, though they were rare. Shead wire it for electricity herself, as she had learned. She would make sheets and facecloths from the best she had in the hall closet, the high-thread-count linens she reserved for guests. The kitchen should be all white. In the living room, she envisioned a stately family portrait over a fireplace, with maybe a couple of hunting dogs in the foreground. What if she commissioned a local Boston artist to paint it? That had to be worth a few extra points.

She felt so energized that she decided to launder all the bath towels in the house while she made Pat two chicken and broccoli ca.s.seroles, a roast beef, mac and cheese, and a ziti bake.

Late that afternoon, she showered for dinner. Afterward, wearing just her terry-cloth robe, Ann Marie decided to have a celebratory gla.s.s of wine. She poured until the golden liquid was almost at the rim of the gla.s.s. She took a big sip.

She went into the office and sat at the computer. At last. Pat wouldnat be home for a couple more hours. It was finally her time. She began making her purchases, AmEx in hand. Pat might moan a bit about the bill, but she would simply remind him that they were getting a free trip out of this, so really they were saving money in the long run.

A free trip. She felt terribly proud.

Ann Marie would have to have all the items express mailed to Briarwood Road, since thatas where she would be for the next month. It wasnat ideal. Shead either have to finish building the house there and have it shipped from Cape Nedd.i.c.k (did she trust the sleepy little UPS Store in York, a few miles from the cottage?) or transport everything back home to Newton in the middle of July. All her tools were here. But there was always a silver lining.

Ann Marie pictured herself on the screen porch of the cottage alone, opening each box, pulling out her treasures. Shead have hours to work in peace these next ten days before Pat and the Brewers arrived in Maine. That was something.

She focused on her shopping.

The house she had had her eye on forever was a three-story Newport brick, with shingles and white trim and a widowas walk. It had eleven rooms, a floor-to-ceiling height of ten inches, sixteen windows (two of them working bay windows complete with window seats), and a detailed staircase with a molded banister.

The house cost more than a thousand dollars. She thought it was worth it.

She bought gray shingle dye and a little doghouse and border plants for the yard, and then she added an old-fashioned push mower and a rake. She bought a Victorian hat vanity for a hundred dollars. (She had never even heard of a hat vanity before, but now she realized she most definitely needed one.) She bought a love seat and a dining table and a tiny iron and even an electric mixer, no bigger than a silver dollar.

When she looked at the clock on her computer screen, she was shocked to see that an hour had pa.s.sed. She went to the kitchen for more wine, then came right back into the office.

She chose fabric for the window treatments, but decided to go down to the store in the morning and pick it up in person, rather than buy it online. That way she could make sure it was high enough in quality before she paid.

She went to a site that sold heirloom collectibles and bought a hand-carved desk and two newspapers to place on top. She added an antique umbrella stand.

Ann Marie imagined the father in this brick house coming in from a long day of work. Perhaps he was named Reginald, an Englishman. He might have a thin mustache. His wife (Evelyn?) greeted him at the front door each night in a pink gown, her cheeks rosy, her smile a bit mischievous. The children were already bathed and asleep. Dinner was on the table.

She watched the page load for Puckas Teeny Tinies, where she bought a little tin of coronation biscuits, a gla.s.s milk bottle, a dozen eggs the size of baby aspirin, a burlap sack of flour, a basket of ceramic vegetables, and a miniature box of chocolates, the top slid halfway open, a green ribbon cascading downward. Reginald would bring them home to Evelyn for their anniversary.

A thrilling wave washed over Ann Marie as she imagined how beautiful the house would be. It was silly, but she somehow felt more beautiful because of it. She wanted to share this with someone, someone who would understand. She sat back in her chair and got b.u.t.terflies in her stomach, knowing what she was about to do. She typed in the familiar address for the Weiss, Black, and Abrams website, and as she so often did, she clicked on Steve Breweras name. Then she did something she had never done before. She clicked on the E-mail Stephen Brewer link.

A message window popped up, and she wrote: Hi there! Had to let you know a I think the Life magazine you sent was a good luck charm. Iave just found out that I won the most important dollhouse compet.i.tion there is. There are over 5,000 compet.i.tors, and I won it! So thanks, old chum. xo Pat walked in at six thirty. It had been an hour since she had hit SEND and Steve Brewer still hadnat replied.

Ann Marie was frantic. Had she seemed like a braggart? He could simply be busy. In a meeting, maybe. But why did she have to go and exaggerate like that? And, oh Jesus, that xo? What was she thinking? She blamed the xo on the chardonnay. She blamed the whole thing on the chardonnay.

They drove to dinner and Pat said she wasnat very talkative, and then he said he had run into Ralph Quinn, the father of one of Fionaas childhood friends, Melody Quinn, at the post office. Ralph had told Pat that Melody was engaged, and now Pat told Ann Marie as much. Her mood grew even more sour, but she tried to smile and act pleasant throughout the meal. It was sweet of her husband to take her to dinner.

She drank more wine, ordered a steak. While Pat talked about his business, she said a hundred silent Hail Marys, praying that Steve Brewer would have written her back by the time she got home.

He hadnat.

Ann Marie couldnat think straight. The wine made her a bit dizzy. She imagined his wife, Linda, reading the e-mail, figuring it all out. Linda might call Pata"or she might act like nothing had happened and then slap Ann Marie silly in front of the entire neighborhood at their next book club meeting. Theyad have to move.

She thought of sending another e-mail to explain the first, but what could she say? I was drinking at five oaclock in the afternoon and thought I ought to contact you? Oh yes, that would make her look much better.

What on earth was happening to her lately?

She had trouble sleeping that night. Through the walls, she could make out the sound of Pat snoring down the hall, and she almost wanted to go to him for comfort. Instead, she decided to put her nerves to good use. There was no sense just lying there. She went to her craft room and switched on the light. Quietly, she began to pack what shead need for Maine, transporting everything out to the trunk of her car: she carried towels and sheets and ribbons and stuffing in two giant beach bags. Silly, considering that shead need only a tiny piece of each, but better to be safe than sorry.

Next, she brought out a stack of dollhouse magazines for inspiration.

She made three more trips. She hoped none of the neighbors could see her there, wearing her nightgown, lugging her sewing machine and glue gun and sc.r.a.p basket and tiny cans of paint and brushes across the lawn, bathed in moonlight, the dewy gra.s.s cool beneath her feet.

By the time she woke the next morning, Steve had written back: Hey, congrats! Youare a wonder. This calls for a celebratory drink. Say, July 1?

Ten days from now. The day he was coming to Maine with his wife. It wasnat the most romantic thing he could have said, but then she had written him on his work account. And now a conversation had begun.

Youare a wonder. That was something.