The Meaning of Maggie (5 page)

Mom grabbed a keychain with a billion keys on it from her desk drawer. “No famous people today. There's a teacher convention in town so we'll be dealing with them mostly.”

“Teachers!” Tiffany looked disgusted. “The one day I get to skip school and I have to spend it with teachers! Gross!”

Even grosser? We weren't spending the day with teachers, we were spending the day cleaning their messes. I imagined it was going to be a lot of broken chalk and rotting apples.

We walked back into the laundry dungeon, where Mom dropped us off with a guy named Jesus. He wasn't the real Jesus and his name was pronounced “Hey Zeus,” which I thought was funny because Zeus was a completely different god altogether. I didn't think he could turn water into wine but he did use water to get a wine stain out of a tablecloth and maybe it wasn't a miracle but it was impressive. He pushed a towel bin our way and pointed to a huge washing machine. “These go in there.”

On towel five I was already exhausted.

“Excuse me, sir? How many of these do we have to put in there?”

Jesus laughed. “Oh, just about five hundred more.”

“You've got to be kidding me?”

Jesus wasn't kidding.

I proposed a plan. “I vote we give up.”

“No way. Mom will just give us more to do.”

“You're right.”

Tiffany looked surprised.

“I know. It sounded weird when I said it.”

We pulled up our bootstraps and did our best even though I felt like my arms were going to fall off. When Mom finally returned and said it was time to go upstairs, we reeked of Tide and sweat. Phew. I was glad that was over.

Mom took us up a secret elevator and through a secret door to a room called the presidential suite, but there was nothing presidential about it. No Oval Office. No tour with tourists. No Secret Service. Mom said really rich people stayed there and from what I could see these people were slobs with a capital SLOBS.

Tiffany and I rolled up our cardigan sleeves and gathered all of the giant sheets from the giant bed, while Mom piled dishes on top of one another.

“You do this every day?” Tiffany asked.

“Every single day,” Mom said.

Tiffany washed windows and I collected all of the towels from the bathroom floor. One had a stain that looked like two bats and I threw it back on the floor praying I hadn't caught flesh-eating bacteria.

“Can we please stop?” Tiffany begged. “I have broken like thirty nails.”

I rolled my eyes. “You only have twenty nails.”

Mom checked her watch. “Well, it
is
lunchtime.”

Yes! I loved lunchtime.

We breezed into the hotel restaurant, where prime rib sizzled and banana pudding was piled in heaps. Even the vegetables looked good. I reached for a plate from a giant stack and plotted my plan of attack. But suddenly my mission was diverted when Mom put the plate back on the stack.

“This food is for guests, Maggie. We're going to the cafeteria.”

Cafeteria! What kind of sick joke was this?

We passed through another secret door into a big scary room that smelled like mashed potatoes and Windex. Mom told us to get whatever we wanted, which for the very first time did not sound appetizing. I found a box of cereal and carton of milk that looked safe and Tiffany grabbed a bruised banana and the only granola bar not covered in chocolate because she thinks chocolate gives you zits even though I knew that was just a myth.
¹⁸

We sat next to a gaggle of ladies lost in a blur of Spanish. Mom chatted with them in Spanglish that I didn't even know she knew. I concentrated on my cereal, not wanting them to know they lost me at “
hola
,” which wasn't my fault. I blamed the public school system. Anyway, one lady named Maria pointed at Tiffany and cooed, “
Muy bonita
,” which made Tiffany smile her
toothy beauty queen smile. Another lady mumbled something to me but before I could muster a “
Qué
?” my mom interrupted, “Well, she looks just like her father.” Man, where was Jesus when you needed him? Probably still downstairs folding towels.

After lunch, we went back to the lobby to check on the giant plants in the giant baskets. As Mom snapped a yellow leaf off a vine, a tall guy in a fancy suit and shiny shoes tapped her on the shoulder. Finally! A famous person! Who was this guy? Maybe a president or an Olympian or one of those TV priests?

Mom straightened her jacket and greeted him. “Oh, hi Mr. Grant. Girls, this is Mr. Grant. My boss.” Okay, not famous. But he was still kind of a big deal, so I curtsied.
¹⁹

Mr. Grant took my hand and shook my whole body. “You know, your mother is a real go-getter, girls. She's one of our best. She'll make her way to supervisor in no time. She really keeps this place running like a well-oiled machine. ”

She did? What did she know about machines? This was the same lady who when the hot water stopped working in the bathroom said to just use cold water. And when we protested she told us cold water was way better for our complexions, which Layla and Tiffany believed but I didn't because I'm not an idiot. How did she do so much? And then, I figured it out.

Mom was a mom to all of these people. And being a mom is what Mom did best.

She made all their beds and cleaned all their dishes and made sure all of their days and nights were tidy and perfect.

No wonder she was tired all the time and kept sea-shells at her desk. She probably just wanted to be reminded that somewhere there was sand she could sink her toes into. Somewhere out there she wouldn't have to clean scuffs off a marble floor, couldn't catch flesh-eating bacteria from a towel.

On the car ride home, I fought sleep with thoughts of everything Mom did without exploding. I mean, spontaneous combustion is a real thing because it's in the dictionary. How did she do so much? And then I had a thought: Maybe she was powered by all of her freckles.

Mom was covered in freckles from head to toe. Maybe each one gave her energy to do every single thing she had to do. Maybe each one was a dish done, a towel folded, a dinner made. Maybe the ones clustered by her heart were for Layla, Dad, and me, and maybe even Tiffany. Maybe every cluster was like a constellation that powered her through one big deal to the next.

As we walked inside, I grabbed Mom's hand. I was going to tell her thank you. I was going to tell her I loved her. But I didn't. Because when we walked in the door, Dad was lying on the floor.

My heart leapt into my throat and Layla leapt from beside Dad and ran into Mom's arms.

“Thank God you're home! I tried to pick him up but I couldn't and I didn't know what to do. I got him to sit up but I couldn't carry him. I wanted to call 911 but Dad wouldn't let me and I just—”

Layla was talking so fast and she sounded so scared. Mom squeezed her close to her side and turned to Dad.

“Danny, are you okay?”

Her voice sounded weird and shaky but Dad's voice sounded just like Dad.

“Better than ever,” he smiled. “Go ahead, I got this.”

Mom stepped around Dad and walked down the hall with Layla pulled so close they almost looked like one person. “Girls, help your dad okay? I'll be right back.”

Where was she going?! We had a major situation and she was worried about Layla?! Layla wasn't lying on the floor! Layla's legs were wide awake!

I ran to the phone and hit 9 immediately. I'd always wanted to call 911. It had always seemed so thrilling when Smokey Bear talked about it. So high-stakes. So heroic. But right then it just felt necessary.

Tiffany yanked the phone out of my hands before I got to the 1-1.

“What are you doing?!”

“I'm calling for help! What do you think I'm doing?!”

She put the phone back on the receiver. “He's on the floor. Not on fire. Now, grab an arm and a leg. We're going to pick him up.”

“We can't pick him up! He probably weighs four hundred pounds!”

Dad didn't like that. “Excuse me! I am a very solid one-sixty. Have been since I was seventeen. Now who wants to get Twister from the closet? I've been warming up for hours.”

Tiffany giggled. “No way. You couldn't beat me.”

“I beat Layla. Why do you think she's so upset?” Dad winked.

“Because you're on the floor!” I yelled.

“Am I?” he joked. “I hadn't noticed.”

Tiffany put her arms around Dad's chest. “Maggie, grab an arm and a leg.”

I did what she said which felt weird because I never did what she said.

“We're going to pick him up on the count of three, okay?”

I was nervous. Dad's ice-cold arms and legs pressed against mine.

“Ready? One . . . two . . .”

“No! Stop!” I yelled. “We should wait for Mom. I'll drop him.”

This was one of those times Mom would have wanted me to pull up my bootstraps. But I just couldn't and Dad agreed with me.

“Yeah, let's just wait. I don't want to get dropped. I fell off the stage at a Stones concert once and I don't want to relive that again.”

“You can do it, Maggie,” Tiffany insisted. “Just use your knees and not your back. Ready?”

For some reason I believed her. I pulled my metaphorical bootstraps as close to my knees as they would get. And when I heard three, we stood together and carried Dad back into his chair.

Tiffany gave me a little shove. “Good job, Maggie.”

I held my aching back like an old lady. “Thanks.”

Dad tugged his sleepy arm with his less sleepy arm back onto his armrests. “Thank you, girls. I promise to not do that again.”

I stood back and surveyed the damage. Dad's table was toppled over on the floor. His pills were scattered
everywhere and the TV remote was in pieces next to his ashtray. Cigarette butts were flung all over the carpet and ash covered everything, including the
National Geographic
about Pompeii, which was funny, but not at the time.

I kneeled down and picked up a handful of pills.

“What happened, Dad?”

“Oh, it was just an accident. I dropped a cigarette on the floor and when I went to pick it up, I lost my balance and fell out of the chair. It's no big deal.”

It certainly seemed like a big deal. It seemed like a big deal deep down in my guts and it seemed like a big deal because Layla was crying and it seemed like a big deal because Mom was with her and it seemed like a big deal because I had never picked Dad up before. That was Mom's job.

Tiffany kneeled next to me and put the remote back together. “Go get Dad a blanket,” she whispered.

“Why?” I whispered back even though I didn't know why we were whispering.

“He looks cold.”

I remembered his ice-cold arms and legs and I stood up and headed down the hall. I opened the closet just as Mom was closing Layla's door.

“Hey, sweetheart. What do you need?”

Mom's eyes were fuzzy and the freckles on her face were flushed with red.

“Um, I'm getting a blanket for Dad. Is everything okay?
Is Layla okay?” I reached for her door. “Maybe I can help?”

“Don't worry. Everybody's fine. Layla's just tired. Let's leave her alone to rest, okay? How's Dad?”

“I picked him up. Well, Tiffany and I picked him up, but I did most of the lifting. I'm a lot stronger than I look.”

Mom smiled. “Yes, you are.”

I got a blanket for Dad and we went back to the living room, where Tiffany was brushing his hair.

“Look at me, I'm as good as new!”

Mom kissed Dad's cheek. “Decided to take up yoga, I assume?”

Tiffany laughed. “No, Twister.”

Everyone was joking and laughing and gallivanting but I had to get down to business. “Dad! YOU HAVE TO STOP SMOKING! You could have burned the house down!”

Tiffany agreed. “Seriously Dad, it's really uncool.”

“Come on,” he said. “It makes me look kind of cool.”

Dad was sort of obsessed with being cool. In fact, before his legs fell asleep he did all kinds of supercool stuff like cartwheels and somersaults. I don't remember any of it, but Layla does. One time, she even saw Dad do a backflip. This was when his balance was just getting fuzzy. And Layla held his cane and Mom held his hand and when he let go, he did a full rotation in the air before
landing on his feet. He toppled over a second later, but he nailed the landing. He. Nailed. The. Landing. Layla said he didn't stop smiling for a week and sometimes even now he'll say, “Remember the backflip, Layla Hayla?”
²⁰
And Layla will roll her eyes and say, “Yeah Dad, I remember. You nailed the landing.”

But he had to give up whatever cool he thought smoking gave him and Tiffany wouldn't let it go until he was convinced. “I'm your coolest daughter, Dad, and I swear there is nothing cool about smoking.”

“Okay, okay,” Dad said. “I hear you.”

Layla came into the living room. “What's going on?”

“We're forcing Dad to give up smoking for the greater good of our lungs and humanity,” I explained.

Layla nodded. “It really is disgusting, Dad.”

“Okay, okay. I'll quit. I promise.” Dad looked up at Layla with a smile. “Just for you.”

While Dad was a-okay, something was still bothering me. I had never thought about Dad being alone with his legs fast asleep and what that meant. It had never seemed dangerous—until tonight when we found him on the floor. His hands and feet were getting more and more sleepy. And I wished I knew why.

Maybe I could figure out how to wake them up? Every time I tried to look up his disease though, my resources were lacking. For some reason, we never had an M encyclopedia and the one thing I knew about his disease was that the first word started with an
m
. So not only did I know nothing about it, I also didn't know anything about mammoths, the Milky Way, or Montana.