Tessa McDermid - Family Stories (23 page)

Marian tucked a blanket around her. "Close your eyes and rest, sweetheart. In a little while, I'll bring you a sandwich."

Margaret made a muffled sound. Her mother thought food would help the ache in her stomach, but it wouldn't.

She couldn't eat. Not with Andrew gone. And she certainly couldn't eat a sandwich. Just thinking of al the lunches they'd shared, al the lunches they'd never share again, brought her tears to the surface.

She stayed in bed for two days. Her mother ran interference with the rest of the family, keeping them away from Margaret's room. She could hear whispered conversations on the other side of the door but she didn't invite anyone in. She crawled out from the covers to visit the bathroom only when she was sure her sisters were gone. Her mother tempted her with favorite meals and Margaret tried to eat, but every bite tasted like sawdust.

She reread Andrew's letters, remembering his voice and his laugh. She saw again his dark hair and understood now that his pal or hadn't been that of a young man staying inside to read books. He'd been sick.

She cried, imagining his courage as he struggled against death, refusing to give in, charming her with his wit and encouraging her with his wisdom.

At night she used to dream of him, dream about life with Andrew as her husband. He'd been a col ege student, a few years older than her, and she'd felt certain he would wait until she was the right age for marriage. In her dreams she'd created a perfect life, where they'd live in a smal house, sharing their love of books.

Now that dream was over.

But he'd had a dream for her, and that didn't have to end. She looked at the snapshot his mother had sent

—"So you'll remember my darling boy," she'd written. She felt a bond with this unknown woman, who had lost a son in the prime of his life.

She tucked the picture in her mirror, where she'd see it every day. "Don't worry, Andrew," she said softly, hoping he could hear her words. "Your dream wil come true. One day a book of mine wil be on that library shelf."

She wrote to his mother, saying how sorry she was about his death and how much Andrew's love of books had meant to her.

She returned to school, to her classes, and spent her free time scribbling down stories. But their content changed from the stories she'd told Andrew during those golden days at the lake. Now she recorded the sadness she saw, writing tales of hopelessness and despair. Alice cried when she read a short story describing a smal girl's death from neglect and malnutrition.

"Why are your stories so sad, Mags?" Alice pushed the pages away. "I'll have nightmares."

"Life is grim, Alice. Happy endings are only for babies and for people who bury their heads in the sand."

"Wel , give me happy endings! I'm not going to end up like one of your characters. They're always so miserable. Like you," she'd muttered under her breath.

Her teachers met with Marian more than once. Her mother cal ed her into the kitchen after one of these meetings.

"Your teachers are worried about you." Marian sat at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly in front of her.

"They feel you're isolated from your classmates, that you're unhappy. They said your grades are stil good but your writing isn't. Too much gloom and not enough substance. Even your grammar has deteriorated."

"What if Daddy had died right after you met him?" Margaret asked, her voice solemn, her hands as neatly folded as her mother's.

Marian's whole body stiffened. "I would've died inside," she admitted.

Margaret nodded, a lump in her throat. Her mother's voice throbbed with anguish. For the first time, she felt a kinship that j had nothing to do with their shared blood.

"Sometimes I can hardly breathe," she confessed. "And it hurts to swallow." As if eating was wrong, when Andrew would never eat again.

Marian leaned across the table and wrapped her arms around

Margaret's shoulders. "He would want you to go on," she said. "He believed in you and your talent."

Margaret opened her mouth, then shut it. "One day at a time," her mother said. "Try one day at a time."

Her wardrobe gave way to baggy shirts and pants. Her hair hung over her face and she shuffled when she walked. She might have to stay bound to this earth but she didn't have to be happy about it.

Timothy Matthews, a boy in her geometry class, asked her to the movies one fal evening her junior year. She was astonished by his attention. Hopeful that her daughter would cheer up and change her attitude and her clothes, Marian agreed to the date.

Margaret never remembered the movie they saw or where they ate hamburgers afterward. But she always remembered the walk home, writing about it in her first short story that sold.

Her love for Andrew had never reached the physical stage, only a worship from afar. Timothy's nearness and the scent of his cologne caused incredible tremors to go through her. And when he stopped in the shadows of the trees on her lawn, his arm sliding around her neck, his hand drawing her head toward his, she closed her eyes, the better to catalog the experience. His warm breath against her mouth. His tongue brushing her lips.

His hand on the back of her head. His shoulders bumping hers...

When his hand slipped over her shoulder and touched the tiny nubs of her newly developing breasts, she shuddered and pushed him away.

"No," she whispered.

"No?" His voice was harsh and she backed off. "Why do you think 1 asked you out?" His hands were clenched into fists.

"I...thought you liked me." She hated how whimpery her voice was, but she couldn't get enough air to speak any louder.

His sharp crack of laughter hurt her ears and her heart. "I heard you were a good time, under al those dark clothes. The joke's on me, isn't it?"

"What?"

"It's al over school. You're a free spirit—and everyone knows what that means. Your poetry—"

"I never... I..."She whirled away from him. Her feet pounded over the grass as she raced to the front porch.

She paused long enough to school her features into a semblance of her normal expression. Praying no one was up, she pul ed open the front door.

"How was your date?" Her mother looked up from the book she was reading.

"Fine." Maybe she should consider acting instead of writing, she thought, turning toward the hal way.

"Mags, come here, honey."

At the sound of her childhood nickname, she dissolved into tears. "I miss Andrew so much!" He would never have been so coarse, so cruel to her.

"I know, sweetheart, I know." Marian smoothed a hand over her hair. "I promise it'll get easier. You'll never forget him but in time, you'l be able to remember him without hurting so much."

"But it's been more than a year!"

"Grief has no time limit, Margaret. But maybe you could stop focusing on the sad part of your relationship with him." Marian leaned back, framing Margaret's face with her hands. "Think about how fortunate you are to have known Andrew, even for that one summer. And al those letters you have from him. Not many people get to experience such a wonderful relationship."

Margaret sniffed. "It's just that sometimes I feel so alone."

"You're not alone," her mother said. "You have your sisters. Your father and me. We al love you very much.

We believe in you, honey. Just as much as Andrew did."

Margaret nodded. "I know it. But—" She gave another sigh. "It's not going to be easy."

Marian linked her arm with Margaret's, leading them both down the hal way. "No one ever said life would be easy. But you're strong enough to make a go of it, Margaret Robertson. You come from good stock."

A corner of Margaret's mouth turned up. "Good stock?"

Her mother nodded and pushed her toward her bedroom door. "The best. How else would your father and I have survived al these years with each other and with you girls?"

She kissed Margaret's cheek. "You'll make it. And one of these days, we're going to see a book on the shelf with your name on it. Just like Andrew said." She grinned. "Make sure you don't tel al our family secrets, though."

Chapter 15

Mrs. Marian Robertson,

Lincoln, Iowa

October 1954

Dear Margaret,

Thank you for the lovely anniversary present. A silver tea set from England for our 25th! I will think of you whenever I serve tea from now on. We had a wonderful trip to Chicago. Except for a few visits with Richard's family, we went sightseeing like a couple of country bumpkins. Not that I'd ever say so to your father, but we must get out more! I know my mouth was agape most of the time we were traveling around the city. I've already started a fund for our trip to England—perhaps for our thirtieth anniversary. It will take me that long to save up enough money and to convince your father to leave the shop in someone else's hands.

You're an inspiration to me, Margaret. Saving your money and working those extra jobs for this chance to study abroad. Now that you're gone, I can admit I worried about you going so far away but Anne reminded me that you're very responsible.

I can't wait to see your photographs of London! Your letter brought me right into the scenes, with your clever descriptions of Buckingham Palace, Picadil y Circus, Westminster Abbey. You write so wel ! When I think of how easily your father can make a sale, I don't wonder at the ease with which you use words. I may see if Tim is interested in your letters for the local paper. (Of course, we would leave out the personal details.) If you do see the queen, well, it's okay if you curtsey. You're there to absorb and explore the culture. Your professors would say the same thing, no doubt. We may have won our freedom from England years ago but there's something about al that royal fuss that makes you believe in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters. Life may not be like that behind the palace doors but we can dream!

Enjoy your visit, my dear. We're al so proud of our world traveler!

Mom and Dad

Mrs. Marian Robertson

Lincoln, Iowa

November 1954

Dear Margaret,

By now you've probably heard that Timothy Matthews is married. He sent us an invitation but we didn't go!

Oh, Margaret, I forgot about that disastrous date with Timothy Matthews! He's married now, to a quiet girl several years younger than himself. He would like to publish your adventures. He said it could be a regular column. I'll edit out the personal parts of the letters you've sent to me or you can write some specifical y for the paper.

Paris in springtime! What a lovely possibility. I'm trying not to be green with envy. I must add to our travel fund.

With the third shop opening in Cedar Rapids, we should be able to cover a vacation for your father and me.

Your father isn't keen on the long boat trip, however. He feels we should wait until there's regular air travel. I don't think I can wait that long!

Anne mentioned that you've been enjoying your evenings. I assume you write different adventures to your sister! I do hope you're being careful. I want you to be happy, Mags, as happy as I've been with your father.

Find the right man and we'll support you one hundred percent. Make sure he's worthy of you. Don't settle for anything but the best.

Enough of the motherly advice. I've discovered why women of the past wrote letters so often. It's a very liberating way of communicating. Is this how you feel when you write? I do have to be careful I don't write pages and pages or else I couldn't afford to send them by air mail. Al our love, Mom and Dad Mrs. Marian Robertson Lincoln, Iowa December 1954 Dear Margaret,

How strange not to have al my girls home for Christmas! This is part of every family's life as the children grow up but it was so different this year. Anne and Richard came for a few days and then left to visit his family. We were glad to hear you attended church. Made us al seem closer that day. Dad attached your first newspaper article to the back of the cash register in the shop. We both love this statement: "Life goes on ahead of us and life stretches behind us. What we do today will affect generations to come. We can't even fathom how much."

I'm excited to read more about our family history in "the old country" and to see photographs of your discoveries in Wales. Mother would tel us stories she'd heard from her grandfather about his childhood. Now you're stepping in those same locations.

I'll add a little family history that's more current. Did you know your father attended seminary for a year? Just before Anne was born. I sometimes wonder if we should've continued, but I like to think we've made a difference in Lincoln. The leaven in the bread, Brother Grimes would have said. He was your father's mentor and a very wise man. 1 didn't realize how wise at the time.

Your father is definitely an asset to this community, helping young people start their own businesses and being such an active part of the city council. Thank goodness he's so busy! That way he doesn't mind that I have my committees, too. My parents taught me that we should give back to our community and I've been fortunate in that I married a man who feels the same way.

Much love and Happy New Year!

Mom and Dad

Mrs. Marian Robertson

Lincoln, Iowa

January 1955

Dear Margaret,

I'm glad to hear you're back in London.

Lots of news this letter. I'm not sure what your sisters have written but I'll fil you in on their news, too. Anne and Richard are expecting! I'm so excited! I never thought about being a grandmother, even after Anne announced her engagement. But of course this is the next phase for your father and me. That baby wil be terribly spoiled. Your father's always been such an easy touch for the children that come into the shop. I have to refil that toy box at least weekly. "One toy per child," I tel him. But he never listens. (And I love him al the more for it, I must confess.)

Alice has moved out. She and Tom Carter eloped, They're living in his parents' basement apartment. We had no idea she was that serious about him, which could be another family trait. My parents didn't realize how I felt about your father, either. But I don't understand why your sister couldn't wait until after they both graduated. I don't mean to complain about her to you, but perhaps you could shed some light on what happened. She isn't pregnant, so I'm not sure of the reason for this sudden marriage.