Maine (22 page)

Maggie wished she didn’t feel envious of the fact that Alice clearly wanted to see Gabe more than she wanted to see her. Maybe she should have said,
We broke up
, or
Grandma, he’s an asshole
.

Instead, all she said was “Sounds good.”

“Well, this must be costing you a fortune,” Alice said. “A long-distance call on a cellular phone? We’d better wrap it up.”

“There’s no such thing as a long-distance call from a cell phone,” Maggie said.

“What?”

“Nothing. Love you.”

It felt sort of unnatural, saying
I love you
to Alice. But it was just as strange not to say it, so Maggie did.

As soon as they hung up, Maggie looked at her phone, in case she had somehow missed a call from Gabe.

Her fear began to swell but she pushed it down. She knew she was pregnant, but at certain moments it was still easy enough to believe that nothing was happening. Perhaps this was how those women who delivered full-term babies into McDonald’s toilets started out.

She watched TV. An hour later, in the middle of a
Golden Girls
episode, her heart began to thump out of nowhere. She tried to take deep breaths. When she looked down at her calves, they were covered in red splotches.

Maggie put her head between her legs—wasn’t that something people did?

It didn’t seem to help. A moment later, she sat up straight and called her mother. She couldn’t keep the secret any longer. This child was literally making her sick. (Could you possibly be allergic to your own fetus? No, that was ridiculous.) Kathleen would know what to do.

Maggie spoke to her mother at least once a day, but now that there was actually something important to say, she feared it.

It would never have dawned on her to call her father, even though he was in the same time zone. She talked to him every couple of weeks, but only about the most banal topics: how the Red Sox were faring, what he thought of the latest season of
Law & Order
, whether her super had properly installed the carbon monoxide detector. He had married his longtime girlfriend, Irene, the previous year and asked Chris to be his best man. Maggie had felt so sad for her younger brother that this well-meaning but emotionally tone-deaf man was his one and only father, though of course he was her only father too. He and Irene were heavy drinkers, just as he and Kathleen had once been—they were fun and boisterous much of the time, but the flip side was that they had loud, drunken arguments in front of other people, and did God only knows what when no one was looking. Maggie prayed her father had had the good sense to get a vasectomy.

After Maggie dialed her number, Kathleen answered the phone sounding muffled.

“We’re out in the barn up to our elbows in shit,” she said happily. “You okay?”

“I’m freaking out,” Maggie said. “I really need to talk.”

“Okay,” Kathleen said. “Let me go into the yard. Hold on.”

There were a few banging sounds and her mother said, “Oh Jesus, can we get rid of some of this?”

Then Kathleen came back clearer. “What’s wrong?”

“I have these red splotches all over my legs, and I can’t breathe too well.”

“Like big clusters of splotches or more like bug bites?”

“Clusters.”

“Are they red or brown?”

“Red.”

“Sounds like hives,” Kathleen said calmly. “You never get those.”

“I know. I’m freaking out. I can’t breathe.”

“Calm down. I think you might be having a panic attack. You need to take some Saint-John’s-wort. And nettle is a great herbal antihistamine. Same as I gave you for your pollen allergy. And take some deep breaths, sweetheart. That’s the most important part.”

“I don’t have that stuff,” Maggie said.

“Yes, you do. I left a bunch of things under your sink last time I was in town.”

Maggie had thrown it all out after a bottle of sandalwood oil leaked onto everything else, leaving a sickly sweet odor behind in her bathroom for weeks.

“Would a Benadryl work?” she asked now, looking in the medicine cabinet to see what she had.

“Sure,” Kathleen said. “But get that other stuff I mentioned too. So, what happened? What has you so freaked out?”

“I have to tell you something pretty huge,” Maggie said. “But first, Gabe and I had a big fight. He told me he doesn’t want to live together. I think we may have broken up for real.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Listen, it’s for the best.” Kathleen spoke quickly, barely pausing between words, as if she were speed-reading from some script on helping the brokenhearted. “I know it doesn’t seem that way now, but trust me. The universe works in mysterious ways.”

Maggie felt sick at this casual comment. She still wanted him to be right for her, wanted Kathleen to say something else, though she knew her mother had never liked Gabe.

Despite her mother’s complaints about Alice, they were shockingly similar in certain ways. They both prided themselves on telling the absolute truth as they saw it, even if it hurt.

“What did you want to tell me?” Kathleen asked.

Maggie leaned against the counter. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Kathleen was rushing to get her off the phone. Why had she assumed that it would be smart to tell her mother? Kathleen would likely go ballistic when she heard the news, telling Maggie that she had ruined her life. She wasn’t going to start sterilizing bottles and knitting booties anytime soon.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m going to Maine anyway, without him.”

“Interesting,” Kathleen said. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I thought it might be good for me, and I’ve taken the time off work.”

“Run straight into the nurturing bosom of your grandmother,” Kathleen said.

“Yeah, right,” Maggie said. “Well, I would go see my mother but she’s up to her elbows in shit.”

“You know there’s always room for you here,” Kathleen said, but she didn’t press the matter.

“I miss you,” Maggie said.

“I miss you too. You’re about the only thing I miss from back there. How are the hives?”

Maggie looked down. “On one side they’re gone, and on the other side they’re fading. That was fast.”

“Hives are weird like that.”

“How are you able to diagnose over the phone?” Maggie asked. “Who taught you?”

“No one taught me, I’m just a mother,” Kathleen said. “You’ll be the same way someday.”

That was Maggie’s chance to tell her, but her mouth felt dry; she couldn’t form the words.

“Go lie down for a bit, and then maybe take a long walk on the Promenade,” Kathleen said. “Be very kind to yourself, okay? Call me anytime today if you need to. And let me know once you get to Maine tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“And give my best to Malice.”

“Mom—”

“Sorry. Alice.”

   That afternoon, Maggie was lying on the couch when she heard a commotion in the hallway. She pictured Gabe climbing the steps, suitcase in hand. She got up quickly and looked through the peephole.

Her neighbor Rhiannon was lugging a bookcase up the stairs. She looked amazing in her grubby T-shirt and shorts. She probably hadn’t even showered. Her toned upper arms were straight out of a magazine photograph. Maggie made a mental note about bicep exercises.

Despite her desire to get back into bed, she poked her head out.

“Need some help?”

“Can you get the door?” Rhiannon asked. “It’s unlocked.”

Maggie left her own door ajar and pushed Rhiannon’s forward. The apartment was laid out exactly like her own, but instead of hand-me-down china from her aunt Clare and the stained sofa and love seat on long-term loan from her mother, here there were beautiful grown-up pieces of furniture and a row of elegant handblown glass vases on the windowsill. Lined up on the bathroom sink and tub were various containers in different shapes and sizes: a purple pot of lemon-scented cream, a slim vial of coconut oil, honey-almond sugar scrub packed in a mason jar, and eye pads infused with coffee-bean extract. There were lotions made specifically for knees, hands, cuticles, feet, throat, eyelids. Maggie wondered how many of them Rhiannon actually used, and whether they could possibly play any role in her beauty, which seemed predetermined, unchangeable.

At the moment, Maggie’s shower contained half a bar of soap with a hair stuck to it, whichever shampoo had been on sale at Duane Reade, and the matching conditioner, with the lid popped off so she could shove her fingers inside and scoop out the last remaining drop, instead of walking four blocks to the drugstore to buy more.

“I found this on the street. Isn’t it gorgeous?” Rhiannon said, shoving the weathered wooden bookcase against the wall of her little foyer, where it suddenly looked as if it had always resided. “It was about to get ruined by the rain.”

“It’s great,” Maggie said.

“How about a cup of tea?” Rhiannon asked.

Maggie smiled. “No thanks.”

“A whiskey?”

“Ha, no. Okay, I’ll take an herbal tea.”

Rhiannon went to the kitchen and said over her shoulder, “Any developments on the Gabe front?”

Maggie had told her the story months ago—that they were in love, but they could never seem to stop arguing; that Gabe had a tendency to lie. Rhiannon was less judgmental than most of Maggie’s friends, perhaps because of what she herself had been through.

“No word from him,” Maggie said.

“What happened?”

“He said he doesn’t want to move in together after all.”

Rhiannon popped her head out of the kitchen. “He
what
?”

Maggie nodded. Suddenly, she began to ramble, her words growing faster as she went, gaining momentum: “Yes. And we were supposed to be going to Maine today, but now I have to go by myself tomorrow and I’m scared of what that’s going to be like, because my sort of crazy grandmother will be there, and he hasn’t called me and I am obsessively checking my cell, because I need this to work out.”

She felt herself unable to stop talking. She realized she was finally going to say it, and to someone she hardly knew: “I need him to come around. Because I love him. I really do. And there’s another thing.”
Oh God, here she went
. “I’m pregnant.”

Rhiannon guided her to the couch and they both sat. Hives crept down Maggie’s arms—red, itchy, puffed-up welts that hadn’t been there three seconds earlier but looked as though they would stay forever. Was this physical assault on her extremities really necessary, on top of everything else?

“Why do you say that?” Rhiannon asked. “Is your period late?”

“It’s more than that. I already took a home test.”

“Those can be wrong,” Rhiannon said hopefully.

“And I went to the doctor for a blood test.”

“Oh. Well, what does Gabe say?” She paused, taking in Maggie’s expression. Then she said, “He doesn’t know.”

“I was waiting for the right time to tell him. I thought once we went up to the beach in Maine it would be easier, and—it’s a long story …” she trailed off, putting her head in her hands.

Then she began to laugh. “I can’t believe I told you that. I haven’t told anyone.”

Rhiannon squeezed her hand, and said, “I’m glad you told me. We’ll figure this out, don’t worry.”

Maggie wished it were Kathleen sitting there. But maybe your family could never give you the perfect response, the kindest reply. Maybe their vision of you was too tied up in their hopes and fears for them to ever really see you as just
you
. Perhaps that’s why her mother had gone so far away in the end—to be seen clearly, to see others that way.

“I keep breaking out in hives,” Maggie said.

“Those are the worst. I had them all through my divorce. Actually, I had them on my wedding day, too, which might have been a sign. You need Claritin. Hold on, I have some.”

Rhiannon went into her bathroom, and then emerged with a little box in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other.

“I also have Valium,” she said, shaking the bottle. “Want one?”

“I’m pretty sure Valium’s a bad idea when you’re knocked up,” Maggie said.

“Shit, right. Good point. Sorry, I’m flummoxed. I want to help.”

Maggie smiled. “You’re sweet.”

“Forget sweet. I owe you one.”

“What for?”

“You really saved me the day of my divorce, Maggie. Do you even know that? If we hadn’t gone to dinner that night, I don’t know what would have happened to me. I don’t have many friends here.”

Rhiannon hadn’t seemed desperate that evening. They had eaten a nice meal, had a glass of wine, laughed about their lives and their ridiculous dating histories. It was hard to imagine that Maggie had done anything extraordinary for her.

“So you’re keeping it then?” Rhiannon asked.

Maggie felt a knot tighten up in her chest. All the times she had imagined being pregnant, she’d never envisioned having to answer that question. But the answer came fast: “Yes. Definitely.”

Rhiannon nodded. “Good for you. Hey, do you want to borrow my Subaru to drive to Maine?”

“You have one?” Maggie asked.

“I never drive it,” Rhiannon said. “I just keep it around in case I need a getaway car.”

“That’s okay,” Maggie said. “I don’t even have a driver’s license. But it’s no big deal. I’ll take the bus. I can sleep, get some reading done.”

Rhiannon looked thoughtful. “How long is the drive?”

“Five hours.”

“That’s nothing. I’ll drive you there tomorrow and then turn back. I’ve got class on Wednesday afternoon.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Not really. I’ve never seen New England. I love long car rides. And I haven’t been anywhere in weeks. I’m starting to get stir-crazy.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow.

“Also, I’m thinking you could use the company,” Rhiannon said. “And, what could be more fun on a day off than a drive to the beach?”

“Really?” Maggie said. “That might be great if you’re sure you don’t mind. This is one of those moments when it hits me how moronic I am for not knowing how to drive.”

“Don’t worry about that. This way it will be cheaper than if you had to rent a car anyway,” Rhiannon said.

Maggie wondered if Rhiannon was picturing her as an impoverished young mother, saving pennies for the baby’s formula. And was that perception so far from the truth? She was suddenly paralyzed by the thought of money: she made a mental note to inquire about freelance work, as much as she could manage in the next seven months, and to find more people who needed help with their online dating profiles. Maybe she could place an ad on Craigslist, even though the thought of being a single, pregnant matchmaker—the brains behind other people’s awkward first dates—made her want to throw up.