Ok. Here's a revision of a story I posted before. A bit longer. It's gotten mixed reviews from readers and definitely needs work but here it is:
The Way She Planned It
It did not go the way she planned it. But, then again, things never did. My mother has always been a woman for whom life was a perpetual problem. Never enough money, never enough time. Today was no different even for a special day.
“We’ll just have to make do,” she said.
She, in fact, was making much ado.
Maggie was coming home.
There were flowers and there was wine. There was lobster and shrimp cocktail. There was a cake and margarita key lime pie—Maggie’s favorite.
“She’s late,” my mother complained, lighting her cigarette and pacing, “I knew she’d be late.” My mother paced the floor, put out her cigarette. She walked to the kitchen and tore lettuce for the salad. There was a knock at the door. “Finally,” she said, drying her hands.
But it was not Maggie. It was a delivery man with a package that required signing. My mother signed. She thanked the man and shut the door. “It’s for Maggie,” she said, handing it to me, “Take it up to her room would you, Jake.”
We had prepared a room for Maggie. Placed its former contents in the garage. All my mother’s paintings and paints and brushes and empty or half finished canvases. She never finished them. She started and then saw no use in continuing. They never turned out the way she planned. “Kind of like life,” she always said.
Maggie was to stay with us until she found work. “Finally come to her senses,” my mother said.
When Maggie was sixteen she did the unthinkable: she had a child. Grandpa Watson, being a good Catholic, did what all good Catholic fathers did in those days in that predicament.
He sent her away.
The baby died and Maggie lived and came home. The nuns buried her child and his name—David—was never spoken.
Life went on. And on. And on. And Maggie, all her life, continued to do the unthinkable, something my mother—being Grandpa Watson’s first child—never dreamed of doing. Grandpa Watson raised his daughters on his own after Grandma Anna died. He never remarried; to do so, he thought, would be a sin against the memory of his wife. He raised his girls alone and made do.
But that would never do for Maggie. Maggie went to school in Chicago, spent a summer in New York, a winter in London. Published a book of poems—“Self-published,” my mother said, but still. She married three times. The last one died in a car accident. They were spending the spring in Paris, “And you know how they drive here,” Maggie wrote.
No, my mother didn’t know about traffic in Paris or the autobahn in Germany. And she never would know.
When Grandpa Watson died three years ago, Maggie sent flowers but stayed at home. My mother and I and Grandpa’s few living friends were the only ones to attend his burial. He was buried next to Grandma Anna, the stone bearing his name and marking the years of his life—1928-2006—read, “This world is not my home.”
But Maggie was coming home tonight.
The phone rang. I placed the package on the bed which was covered in a quilt that Grandma Anna had made and my mother had saved all these years. I glanced out the window at the sky turning violet and blue, listened to the voices on the sidewalk below-Susan Maxx calling her children in, the streetlights had just come on-heard a car driving by, someone coming home. I shut the door to Maggie’s room—the room that has always been Maggie’s room, for we lived now in my grandfather’s house—and went downstairs.
My mother says this house is haunted. That she hears footsteps on the stairs at night. That she hears the piano playing when there’s no one else here but her.
“Heart and soul, I fell in love with you/lost control, just like a fool would do/madly…”
I don’t believe in ghosts. What’s gone is gone for good.
Like my father. Long gone and “Good riddance,” my mother says. She never remarried. “You’ve had one, you’ve had them all,” she says.
I went downstairs. This house is so old it just might be haunted for all I know. What do I know? My great-grandfather built this house and he lived and died here just like his son and probably his son’s daughter will too. My mother never dreamed of being anywhere else as far as I know. My father was meant to take her away. That’s the way she planned it. Instead, he ran away.
“Bad things happen to good people,” Grandpa used to say, “Like Job in the bible.”
You know the story. God and the devil are hanging out one day. And they’re bored.
The devil says, “I know—let’s beat up Job for a few years.”
God says, “I dunno. Job’s a righteous man. Maybe we should leave him alone.”
The devil says, “Come on. Let’s have some fun.”
So God plays along and they make Job’s life hell until the day he dies. When Job meets his maker he asks, “Why God? Why did you do that to me?”
God says, “Because I’m God. And I can do whatever I want. And your life is just one small part of my Grand Scheme of Things.”
This, for some reason, makes Job feel better.
We’re not crazy. The gods are. And life goes on. And on. And on.
It was getting dark and Maggie still had not arrived. Maybe she wasn’t coming home after all. Maybe she just ran away.
Again.
Maggie ran away when she was seventeen right after she was told that the baby died. She was gone for nearly a year. Not a word from her. Grandpa Watson gave her up for dead. Life went on. Then one day, Maggie called and wanted to come home. She never told them where she’d been and they never asked. Maggie finished school, went to Chicago, spent a summer in New York, a winter in London. Married three times.
Life went on.
I heard music playing and my mother singing. She always plays music in the evenings. Songs she'll sing and dance to. Songs of lost love, songs of old women selling flowers in run down bars, songs soaked in cheap liquor and hard promises.
"I never got over those blue eyes/I see them everywhere/and I miss those arms that held me/baby, when all the love was there.”
And there I stood feeling like Moses whose mother sent him down the Nile to a better life.
It’s hard to imagine my father. There’s a photograph, stained and faded, that I found once—my mother and father sitting on my grandparent’s sofa, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. It is hard to imagine them then—just a boy, seventeen and a girl, sixteen with their whole lives still ahead of them. Now nothing remains of the life they shared. That is if you don’t count me and the wedding ring my mother still wears.
It’s hard to imagine my father. Even when I look in the mirror and see that I have his hair, his eyes, his nose. Even when I look in the mirror and I look just like that seventeen year old boy in that picture. That boy who’s long gone and good riddance.
“Well, I wonder if he’s sorry for ending what we had begun/There’s someone for me somewhere/but I still miss someone.”
My mother’s voice echoed through the rooms as I walked to the kitchen. She stood there, the table set, the candles burning, music playing. Nothing to do now but wait. And wait. And wait. We ate dinner and later my mother sent me to bed.
“God, I thought I’d never make it,” I heard Maggie say.
“I fixed up your old room,” my mother told her, “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s good to see you too, Beth.”
I heard footsteps on the stairs. “I’m tired, Maggie,” my mother replied, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I heard my mother’s bedroom door shut. Then the door to Maggie’s room creaked as she went in and shut the door behind her. I heard singing, light as a promise, coming from behind the door. And then silence and sleep came.
“I knew,” I heard Maggie say the next morning, “I knew.”
“How could you have known?” my mother asked.
“I knew,” Maggie whispered, as I walked into the kitchen. Maggie was staring down into her coffee cup like her fortune was there and my mother sat across from her, arms folded.
“Jake!” Maggie squealed, looking up and seeing me, “I haven’t you since you were a baby.” She pulled me too her and the scent of patchouli nearly made me faint. “I have something for you,” she said, handing me the box that had arrived for her yesterday. I held the box in my hand. Opened it. It was a book. A small book with a rough purple cover, blank pages inside. Except for the first page. On the first was written:
You can change the story. You are the story.
Love,
Maggie
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“It means there’s a way out.”
My mother scowled in her chair. “You sure this is a good idea?” she asked.
“I think it’s high time,” Maggie turned to her and said.
“I don’t see why you can’t leave well enough alone.”
Maggie looked down at me. Smiled. You can change the story. You are the story. “I need to get ready,” Maggie said, picking up her coffee cup, “Wish me luck.”
My mother said nothing. Looked down at the table. Saw nothing. Drew in her breath and held it, letting it out slowly like she didn’t want it to leave her.
Maggie turned to leave. My mother rose to her feet and emptied her coffee down the sink. She scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate and laid the plate on the table. “Eat your breakfast and get ready for school, Jake.” She said then turned to leave.
I ate, showered, dressed and combed my hair. When I look in the mirror I see that I have my father’s hair. And his eyes. And his nose.
I look just like that seventeen year old boy in that picture. That boy who’s long gone and good riddance.
My mother never forgave him for leaving. He promised he would never leave—she had the ring to prove it.
But he was gone. And gone is gone for good.
I walked out the door and down the sidewalk. Susan Maxx was calling her children out to the car. A car drove by—someone going to work. I looked up at the sky, pale winter blue. Every day is a new day and yet every day is the same.
At least that’s what my mother says.
“I told you to leave well enough alone,” my mother was saying as I walked in the door, “Daddy did what he thought was best.”
“How can you say that?” Maggie said, “How can you possibly believe that?”
I stood still, quiet. Maybe I should leave. Go up to my room. Shut the door.
“What’s done is done, Maggie,” my mother said, “What good could come of it now?”
What happened? I wondered.
“He’s my child!” Maggie screamed, “I had to see him!”
“Well, now you have,” my mother yelled back, “So I guess you’ll be leaving!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Maggie said, calmer now it seemed, “Now that I know.”
“Well, at least he doesn’t know,” my mother said, “At least you came to your senses.”
I just stood there. Listening. What happened?
“I just stood there,” Maggie said, “Just like a fool. Watched him in the window and then I just walked away. Like a fool.”
“Prob’ly for the best.”
“He’s beautiful, Beth,” Maggie told my mother, “He looks just like his father. Just the way I remember him.”
“Leave it alone, Maggie,” my mother advised, “You’re always borrowing trouble.”
“I guess you could say I’ve a call,” Maggie laughed. My mother laughed too.
What happened?
Maggie got a phone call. Someone had been looking for her. His name was David. Had Maggie had a child? Yes, but the child died.
No…he lived.
And Maggie came home.
But it didn’t go the way she planned it. “I just stood there,” Maggie said, “Just like a fool. Watched him in the window and then I just walked away.”
Best to leave well enough alone.
Just make do.
“Maybe someday,” Maggie said.
“Every day is a new day,” my mother said.
Every day is a new day, my mother always said.
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