Secrets She Left Behind (41 page)

Maggie

I
WAS ON THE DEBATE TEAM IN HIGH SCHOOL. MR. FARMER
took me aside one day and said I could be anything I wanted to be, but he’d love to see me go into politics or law because I could always make my case without getting flustered. I was always so calm, he said. My swim coach said the same thing, that I might not be the best swimmer on the team but I never choked at a meet.

I was never really all that calm, though. I was just good at faking it. Since the fire, I couldn’t even do that. Now, I sat in my car in front of the New Drury Memorial Church—that was actually on its sign,
New Drury Memorial—
and shook all over. I had to find the courage to come out of hiding, Dr. Jakes had said, and I knew he was right, as usual. Keith was the person I most wanted to hide from, but after Keith came Reverend Bill, who was probably in the church right at that moment. Even before the fire, he’d made me uncomfortable. He never smiled and he was weird and he hated my family. Now, when I knew he had to hate me more than he’d ever hated anyone, I was going to have to face him.

I got out of my car slowly, like invisible arms were trying to keep me inside. I shut the door quietly because I felt paranoid. Maybe Reverend Bill was watching me from inside the church. The windows were stained glass, though, so he probably couldn’t see
me even if he was looking. I tried the front doors of the church, but they were locked and I felt relieved. I tried, right? Nobody home. But I could already hear what Dr. Jakes would say if I told him I gave up that easily. So I walked along the sidewalk that circled the brick building until I came to a door at the rear. I turned the knob, hoping that door would also be locked, but it opened easily. Didn’t even squeak on its hinges.

I was in a hallway, a men’s room on my left, a ladies’ room on my right. On the wall next to the ladies’ room was a photograph of the old church. It caught me by surprise and I looked away from it quickly, but I could still see the pretty little whitewashed building in my mind. I remembered the pine straw around it, how it crunched beneath my feet as I poured the fuel. I remembered thinking that pine straw would catch quickly and what a great fire it would make for Ben to fight.
Damn.
I really, truly couldn’t stand myself sometimes.

I wanted to turn around and leave, but I saw the partially open door next to the men’s room and read the wall plaque next to it: Reverend William Jesperson. I’d come this far. I had to do it.

There was a window in the door and I could vaguely make out Reverend Bill’s reflection in the glass. I knocked softly.

“Come in.”

Ugh. I remembered that voice. I forced myself to walk inside.

He looked up from his desk. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it, but he leaned back in his chair and put down the pen he’d been holding.

“Miss Lockwood,” he said.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked. My voice came out high-pitched, like a little girl’s.

He motioned to a wooden chair and I sat down, resting my hands flat on my lap.

“I’m here because I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for what I did,” I said.

“It’s about time,” he said. “You got out of prison when?”

“Five weeks ago.”

“Five weeks and this is the first time you’ve come to me,” he said. “And all those months in prison, I didn’t hear a thing from you, either, did I?”

“No, sir.” He wasn’t going to make this easy on me. Why should he?

“What are you doing now?”

“You mean…” I didn’t know if he meant right that minute or what. “I’m doing…I’ve been doing community service at Brier Glen Hospital.” I couldn’t tell him I might never be able to work there again. I just couldn’t.

“Three hundred hours,” he said. He had my sentence memorized.

“Yes.”

“You think three hundred hours is enough?” he asked. “You think that year in prison was enough for what you did?”

“No, Reverend. I know it’s not.”

He picked up his pen again and leaned over the notepad on his desk, ignoring me. His long face had taken on a ruddy color and all of a sudden I felt his
fury
at me. It radiated out of him, like a force in the room. I didn’t blame him for it. He was an unlikable man, but I’d hurt him and his church in a terrible way.

“I’m sorry,” I said again as I stood up. He wasn’t going to say anything else, so I started for the door.

“Feel better now?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” I stopped and looked at him and instantly wished I hadn’t. I could have handled seeing a typical ugly Reverend Bill
sneer on his face or even the red-faced fury, but his eyes were damp, his lips quivering. That I couldn’t take.

“Who was that apology supposed to help?” he asked. “Me, or you?”

I turned my hands palms up in a helpless gesture. “Both, I think. It’s…I really meant it, if that’s what you’re asking.” I couldn’t take this. Couldn’t take seeing Reverend Bill look human for a change.

He returned to his writing, and I had the feeling he wanted to hide that naked sadness in his face. “You can do community service here, you know,” he said, his pen moving.

“What…what do you mean?”

He didn’t look up. Kept writing, writing, writing. “We still have a lot to do to the interior of the church,” he said. “We sponsor a food program on the mainland and run a day care in Hampstead. I could go on and on. We do more for the community than you could ever guess. There’s plenty you could do.”

Oh my God. Work for him? Never.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

I nearly ran back to my car. I wanted to get away from the church and away from him. I didn’t want to think about his quivering mouth, or about his question: Who was that apology supposed to help? I knew the answer. My apology had been sincere and totally heartfelt, but I’d finally gotten around to making it in order to help myself.

Which was why I couldn’t go straight to Marcus’s tower to see Keith, like I’d planned. I needed a break first. Talking to Keith wasn’t going to go well. I knew it. He hated me as much as one person could hate another, and I was so afraid of his anger. Not that he’d hit me or anything, but that he’d yell and find a way to hurt me with words. I was most afraid to see the physical damage I’d done
to him. I wasn’t sure I could take seeing him like that, knowing I was responsible. The bottom line was, like Reverend Bill had implied, apologizing to Keith would be for
me.
To help
me.
Like I’d be using him to clear my own conscience.

Or was that just a cop-out?

Whatever. I wasn’t going to go to the tower without a break.

I drove home, and as I was pulling into the driveway, I saw a yellow kayak docked near the end of our pier. Did Andy get his kayak? Then I spotted a woman—
Jen?—
running up the pier toward the boat.

I put my car in Park and jumped out.

“Jen!” I called, walking across our side yard toward the pier. It
was
Jen. That shimmery dark hair and skinny body were unmistakable. “Jen!” I shouted, louder this time.

She stopped and turned around. Waved. Then started walking back up the pier toward me. I felt
joy
at seeing her. All that stuff about her not coming to pick me up when I was stranded and her splashing me in the ocean was instantly forgotten.

“Hi!” I said as we met in the side yard near the pier. “Did you get a kayak?”

She glanced back at the boat where it rocked gently next to the pier. “A rental. I just felt like trying it out.”

“Cool,” I said.

“I stopped by to make sure you were okay,” she said. “I felt bad about the other night. Not coming to get you.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I got towed.”

“Excellent.” She shook her head with a roll of her eyes. “It was stupid. I had a guy there. I always hate it when girls shaft their female friends because of a guy. Sorry I did that to you.”

I practically loved her for saying that.

“I get it,” I said. “How’d it go with him?”

She shook her head. “It was okay.” She glanced back at her kayak again. “I’ve got to get going. I just wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“Come in for a while,” I said. I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted so much to get back to the pedicure-and-movie feel our friendship had in the beginning.

She shook her head and started moving backward toward the pier. “Can’t,” she said. “Not today. But I’ll call you and we can get together, okay?”

“Okay.” I watched as she turned and ran up the pier toward her boat again, wondering where she had to run off to in such a hurry.

I walked into the house through the unlocked porch door and instantly smelled it: citrus. Oranges or lemons or whatever it was, and I knew that Jen had been inside the house.
Just to see if I was there,
I told myself. Probably poked her head inside the door from the porch and called my name. But even as I made up reasons for why she might have come inside, I stood in the middle of the room, breathing in her scent, feeling strangely chilled to the bone.

Sara
Here and Now
April 2008

A
MAZING! I’VE CAUGHT UP TO THE PRESENT IN THESE NOTEBOOKS
! It shocks me to realize how much I’ve written, how many notebooks I’ve filled in the past six months, and—yes—how much better I feel. Maybe it’s simply the passage of time that’s helped, but I think it’s the writing. Self-indulgent, I know. Especially all I wrote about Jamie. Remembering him. Wallowing in those ancient memories. Oh, he was so imperfect! Just like everyone else. But writing about him made me remember all that I loved about him. The joy I felt back then was intense. The grief, equally so, but I don’t regret a minute. If I’d never had Jamie in my life, I wouldn’t have my son.

We just passed the one-year anniversary of the fire. Physically, Keith is doing much better. He still wears the compression bandages, but they’ll come off sometime during the summer. From an emotional perspective, though, I’m afraid his anger and bitterness are boundless. I forced him to go to a therapist a couple of times, but he won’t go back, and there isn’t much I can do to make him. His anger comes out in all sorts of ways and while it’s often aimed at me, I know its true target is Maggie. All the Lockwoods, actually.

During my weeklong bout with the flu back in October, Laurel took time off from work to drive Keith back and forth to physical therapy in Jacksonville every day, in spite of the fact that he refused to say a word to her. For a while, I let her be my personal slave. She bought our groceries and picked up Keith’s prescriptions and paid for repairs on my car, and I felt justified in letting her do all of it. After a while, though, it no longer felt right. I think my anger was starting to fade. I didn’t want to be her friend again—I doubt that will ever happen—but I also didn’t want to abuse her, and that’s what I felt like I was doing. She was no more responsible for Maggie’s actions than I was for Keith’s smoking marijuana or skipping school. So I apologized to her, and although she said she sincerely
wanted
to help, I stopped calling her. We haven’t spoken in a couple of months, although I see her here and there. It always feels strained. We’re cordial to one another, nothing more.

Here is what I worry about now: In September, only five short months away, Maggie will get out of prison. It’s one thing to bump into Laurel from time to time; it will be another to bump into Maggie. It will be
unbearable
for Keith to see her flitting around the island, free as a bird. I try to remind myself that she’s Jamie’s daughter, and I know that, deep down, a part of me still loves a part of her. Yet Keith is first in my heart and always will be, and I worry that seeing Maggie free is going to tear him apart.

For a while, I seriously considered moving. So seriously, in fact, that I did some job hunting, using the computer in the waiting area at the PT clinic while Keith was in with Gunnar. I needed a job that would pay better than waitressing, and it had to be in a location near good medical facilities for Keith. There were several opportunities in Charlotte—training positions in banks and that sort of thing. I applied for one of them at Western Carolina Bank under my maiden
name, deciding that if we moved, I’d make it a truly fresh start. I got so excited about the possibility that I looked at apartments online as well. I stumbled across a gorgeous apartment complex with two-and three-bedroom units, plus both indoor and outdoor pools I was sure Keith would love. I filled out the application online, but I knew I was dreaming. The bank salary might cover the rent, but little else.

I thought about the necklace Jamie gave me so long ago, the one I intended to wear on our wedding day. I pay thirty dollars a year for the safe-deposit box it’s in, and I haven’t once looked at it since I put it in there. I fantasized about selling it so that we could live in one of those apartments. The way Jamie talked about the necklace, I think it might be worth five or even ten thousand dollars, although I’ve heard you can never sell jewelry at its true value. I found this high-end auction house online where you can sell jewelry at a good price and keep seventy percent of what they get for it. Seventy percent of, say, ten thousand dollars, along with the salary from the bank, would have made one of the two-bedrooms manageable, at least for a while. But even though I never wear the necklace, I like knowing it’s there. Jamie gave it to
me,
not to Laurel. I doubt I’ll ever be able to part with it.

As I waited to hear from the bank and the apartment complex, I lay awake every night imagining our new life in Charlotte. The more I thought about it, though, the less appealing the fantasy. I didn’t want to do it. This is
my
island, too, not just Maggie’s or the Lockwoods’. I may not own property all over it, but it’s mine in my heart, and it felt so unfair that I should have to give it up. So by the time the bank called to say they had a trainee position for me, I’d changed my mind about leaving.

That means that in late August, as long as Keith continues to do
well physically, he’ll return to school. He’ll be a year behind his friends—his
former
friends, since most of his old friends seem to have disappeared. Kids can be so damn fickle. I’m worried they’ll also be cruel. I guess what I’m really worried about is that I made a mistake turning down that job. Was I being selfish?

A calendar hangs on the wall above my dresser, and I keep lifting the pages to see how quickly September is creeping up on us. I picture Maggie checking her own calendar, looking at the same date with happy anticipation that is the flip side of my dread.

Oh, God.

Was
I being selfish?