Manhattan December 2019
In the glow of the gallery’s Christmas tree lights, the memory of that
kiss remained vivid in Maggie’s mind. Her throat was dry, and she wondered how long she’d been speaking. As usual, Mark had stayed quiet as she’d recounted the events of that period of her life. He was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped together.
“Wow,” he finally said. “The perfect kiss?”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I know how it sounds. But…that’s what it was. To this day, it’s the kiss that all others have been compared to.”
He smiled. “I’m happy you had the chance to experience that, but I admit it leaves me feeling a little intimidated.”
“Why?”
“Because when Abigail hears about it, she may ask herself whether she’s missing out—she might go off in search of her own perfect kiss.”
Laughing, Maggie tried to recall how long it had been since she’d sat with a friend for hours and simply…talked. Without self-consciousness or worries, where she felt like she could really be herself? Too long…
“I’m sure Abigail melts whenever you kiss her,” she teased.
Mark blushed to his hairline. Then, suddenly serious, he said, “You meant it. When you said you loved him.”
“I’m not sure I ever stopped loving him.” “And?”
“And you’ll have to wait to hear the rest. I don’t have the energy to keep going tonight.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “It can hold. But I hope you don’t make me wait too long.”
She stared at the tree, inspecting its shape, the glittering and artfully draped ribbons. “It’s hard for me to believe this will be my last Christmas,” she mused. “Thank you for helping me make it even more special.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m honored you’ve chosen to spend part of it with me.”
“You know what I’ve never done? Even though I’ve lived in New York City all these years?”
“Seen The Nutcracker?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never gone ice skating at Rockefeller Center under the giant tree. In fact, I haven’t even seen the tree except on TV since my early years here.”
“Then we should go! The gallery is closed tomorrow, so why not?”
“I don’t know how to ice skate,” she said with a wistful expression. And I’m not sure I’d have the energy, even if I did.
“I do,” he said. “I played hockey, remember? I can help you.”
She eyed him uncertainly. “Don’t you have something better to do on your day off? You shouldn’t feel like it’s your responsibility to indulge your boss’s crazy whims.”
“Believe me, it sounds a lot more fun than what I usually do on Sundays.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Laundry. Grocery shopping. A little video gaming. Are we on?”
“I’m going to need to sleep late. I wouldn’t be ready until midafternoon.”
“Why don’t we meet at the gallery at two or so? We can catch an Uber uptown together.”
Despite her reservations, she agreed. “Okay.”
“And afterwards, depending on how you feel, maybe you can fill me in on what happened next between you and Bryce.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Let’s see how I feel.”
* * *
Back in her apartment, Maggie felt a profound exhaustion overtake her, pulling her down like an undertow. She removed her jacket and lay down in bed, wanting to rest her eyes for a minute before changing into her pajamas.
She woke at half-past noon the following day, still dressed in the clothes she’d worn the day before.
It was Sunday, December 22, three days before Christmas.
* * *
Even if she trusted Mark, Maggie was nervous about the thought of falling on ice. Though she’d slept heavily overnight—she doubted she’d even rolled over—she felt weaker than normal, even for her. The pain was back, too, simmering just below a boil, making even the thought of eating impossible.
Her mom had called earlier that morning and left a short message, just checking in on her, hoping she was doing well—the usual—but even in the message, Maggie could hear the strains of worry. Worrying, Maggie had long ago decided, was the way her mom showed Maggie how much she loved her.
But it was also wearying. Worrying, after all, had its roots in disapproval—as though Maggie’s life would have been better if only she’d listened to her mom all along—and over time it had become her mom’s default position.
While Maggie had wanted to wait until Christmas, she knew she had to call back. If she didn’t, she’d likely receive another, even more frantic message. She sat on the edge of the bed and, after glancing at the clock, realized there was a chance her parents would be at church, which would be ideal. She could leave a message, say that she had a busy day ahead, and avoid the potential for any unnecessary stress. But no such luck. Her mom picked up on the second ring.
They spoke for twenty minutes. Maggie asked about her father and Morgan and her nieces, and her mom dutifully filled her in. She asked Maggie how she was feeling, and Maggie replied that she was doing as well as could be expected. Thankfully, it stopped there and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she’d be able to hide the truth until after the holiday. Toward the end of the conversation, Maggie’s father got on the line, and he was his normal laconic self. They spoke about the weather in Seattle and New York, he updated her on the season the Seahawks were having—he loved football—and mentioned that he’d purchased a set of binoculars for Christmas. When Maggie asked why, she was told that her mom had joined a bird-watching club. Maggie wondered how long the interest in the club would last and assumed it would go the same way as other clubs her mom had joined over the years. Initially there would be a lot of enthusiasm and Maggie would listen to raves about how fascinating the members were; after a few months, her mom would note that there were a few people in the
club she didn’t get along with; and later, she’d announce to Maggie that she’d quit because most of the people were just awful. In her mom’s world, someone else was always the problem.
Her dad said nothing else, and after hanging up the phone, Maggie wished again that she had a different relationship with her parents, especially with her mom. A relationship characterized more by laughter than by sighs. Most of her friends had good relationships with their moms. Even Trinity got along with his mom, and he was temperamental when compared to other artists. Why was it so hard for Maggie?
Because, Maggie silently acknowledged, her mom made it hard, and she’d done so for as long as Maggie could remember. To her, Maggie was more of a shadow than a real person, someone whose hopes and dreams felt incomprehensibly alien. Even if they shared the same opinion on a particular subject, her mom wasn’t likely to find comfort in such a thing. Instead she’d focus her attention on a related area of disagreement, with worry and disapproval as her primary weapons.
Maggie knew her mom couldn’t help it; she’d probably been the same way as a child. And it was childlike in a way, now that Maggie thought about it. Do what I want, or else. For Maggie’s mom, tantrums were sublimated into other, more insidious means of control.
The years after returning from Ocracoke, before she’d moved to New York, had been particularly trying. Her mom had believed that pursuing a career in photography was both silly and risky, that Maggie should have followed Morgan to Gonzaga, that she should try to meet the right kind of man and settle down. When Maggie had finally moved away, she’d dreaded speaking to her mom at all.
The sad thing was that her mom wasn’t a terrible person. She wasn’t necessarily even a bad mom. Thinking back, she’d made the right decision to send Maggie to Ocracoke, and she wasn’t the only parent who cared about grades, or worried that her daughter was dating the wrong kind of guys, or believed that marriage and having children were more important than a career. And, of course, some of her other values had stuck with Maggie. Like her parents, Maggie drank infrequently, avoided recreational drugs, paid her bills, valued honesty, and was law-abiding. She didn’t, however, attend church any longer; that had ended in her early twenties when she’d had a crisis of faith. Well, a crisis of pretty much everything, in
fact, which led to her spontaneous move to New York and a series of awful relationships, assuming they could be called relationships at all.
As for her dad…
Maggie sometimes wondered whether she had ever really known him. If pressed, she would say that he was a product of another era, a time when men worked and provided for their family and went to church and understood that complaining seldom offered solutions. His general quietude, however, had given way to something else since he’d retired, a near reticence to speak at all. He spent hours alone in the garage even when Maggie visited, and was content to let his wife speak for him during dinners.
But the call was completed, at least until Christmas, and it made her realize how much she was dreading the next one. No doubt, her mom would demand that Maggie return to Seattle, and she’d use every guilt-based weapon at her disposal to try to get her way. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
Pushing that thought away, she tried to focus on the present. She noted that the pain was getting worse and wondered whether she should text Mark and cancel. With a grimace, she made her way to the bathroom and retrieved the bottle of pain pills, remembering Dr. Brodigan telling her that they were addictive if used inappropriately. What a silly thing to say. What did it really matter if Maggie became addicted at this point? And how much was inappropriate? Her insides felt like a pincushion and even touching the back of her hand triggered little flashes of white in the corners of Maggie’s eyes.
She swallowed two pills, debated, and then took a third, just in case. She decided to see how she felt in half an hour before making a final decision about today and went to sit on the couch while they took effect. Though she’d wondered whether the pills would work as usual, like magic, the pain began to fade. When it was finally time to go, she was floating on a wave of well-being and optimism. She could always watch Mark skate, if it came down to it, and it was probably a good idea to get some fresh air, wasn’t it?
She caught a cab to the gallery and spotted Mark standing outside the doors. He was holding a to-go cup, no doubt her favorite smoothie, and when he saw her, he hailed her with a wide grin. Despite her condition, she was certain she’d made the right call.
* * *
“Do you think we’ll be able to skate?” Maggie asked when they arrived at Rockefeller Center and saw the crowds overflowing the rink. “I didn’t even consider the idea we might need reservations.”
“I called this morning,” Mark assured her. “It’s all set up.”
Mark found a place for her to sit while he went to wait in line and Maggie sipped her smoothie, thinking the third pill had done the trick. She felt a bit loopy but not as ebullient as earlier; in any case, the pain had diminished to an almost tolerable level. Moreover, she actually felt warm for the first time in what seemed like forever. Though she could see her breath, she wasn’t shivering and her fingers didn’t ache, for a change.
The smoothie was going down easily as well, which was a relief. She knew she needed every calorie, and wasn’t that ironic? After a lifetime of watching what she ate and groaning every time the scale ticked a pound upward, now that she actually needed calories, they were almost impossible to ingest. Lately, she was afraid to get on the scale because she was terrified to see how much weight she’d lost. Beneath her clothes, she was turning into a skeleton.
But enough of the doom and gloom. Mesmerized by the mass of moving bodies on the ice, she only vaguely heard her phone ding. Reaching into her pocket, she saw that Mark had texted, saying that he was on his way back so he could escort her to the rink and help her with her skates.
In the past, his offer of assistance would have humiliated her. But the fact was, she doubted she’d be able to put on the skates without his help. When he reached her, he offered his arm and the two of them walked slowly down the steps to the changing area, where they’d don their skates.
Even though he was supporting her, she felt like the wind would topple her over.
* * *
“Do you want me to keep holding you?” Mark asked. “Or do you think you have the hang of it?”
“Don’t even think of letting go,” she replied through gritted teeth.
Adrenaline, amplified by fear, had a way of clearing the mind, and she decided that ice skating was much better as a concept than in practice. Trying to stay upright on two thin blades over a slippery sheet of ice while in her condition hadn’t been the brightest of ideas. In fact, a pretty strong case could be made that it was idiotic.
And yet…
Mark made it as easy and safe as possible. He was skating backward in front of her, both hands firmly on her hips. They were near the outer edge of the rink and moving slowly; inside, pretty much everyone from little old ladies to toddlers was zipping past, looking carefree and joyous. But with Mark’s help, at least, Maggie was gliding. There were a few people who, like Maggie, clearly had never donned ice skates before, and they gripped the outer wall with every slow shuffle, their legs occasionally shooting out in unpredictable directions.
Ahead of them, Maggie witnessed just such an incident. “I really don’t want to fall.”
“You’re not going to fall,” Mark said, his eyes fixed on her skates. “I’ve got you.”
“You can’t see where you’re going,” she protested.
“I’m using my peripheral vision,” he explained. “Just let me know if someone takes a tumble right in front of us.”
“How long do we have?” “Thirty minutes,” he said.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to last that long.” “We’ll stop whenever you want.”
“I forgot to give you my credit card. Did you pay for this?” “It was my treat. Now stop talking and try to enjoy yourself.” “Almost falling every second isn’t enjoyable.”
“You’re not going to fall,” he said again. “I’ve got you.”
* * *
“That was fun!” Maggie exclaimed. In the changing area, Mark had just helped her remove her skates. Though she hadn’t asked, he’d also helped her put her shoes back on. In all, they’d circled the rink four times, which had taken thirteen minutes.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Now I can say I actually did the big New York tourist thing.” “Yes, you can.”
“Did you have a chance to see the tree? Or were you too busy keeping me from breaking my neck?”
“I saw it,” he said. “But barely.”
“You should go skate. You still have a few minutes.”
To her surprise, he actually seemed to consider it. “Would you mind?” “Not at all.”
After helping her up—and offering his arm—he walked her to the side of the rink and made sure she could support herself before letting go. “You okay?”
“Go ahead. Let’s see how you do without a sick old woman slowing you down.”
“You’re not old.” He winked, and duckwalking over to the ice, he took three or four quick steps, speeding into the turn. He jumped, rotating in the air, and started skating backward while accelerating even faster, flying beneath the tree on the far side of the rink. He spun again, speeding forward into the next curve, one hand nearly at the ice, then flew past her. Almost automatically, she retrieved her iPhone from her pocket. She waited until he was beneath the tree and snapped off a couple of photos; on the next lap, she shot video.
A few minutes later, after the session ended and Mark was in the changing area, she took a peek at the photos and found herself thinking about the shot she’d taken of Bryce on the ladder. Just as she’d done back then, she’d seemed to capture the essence of the young man she’d come to know. Like Bryce, Mark had also become strangely important to her in a relatively short period. And yet, as she’d had to with Bryce, she knew she’d eventually have to say goodbye to Mark as well, which suddenly made her ache in a way that eclipsed the physical pain lurking in her bones.
* * *
Once they were back on solid ground, she texted the pictures and video to Mark and they had a stranger snap an additional shot of the two of them with the tree in the background. Mark immediately began fiddling with the phone, no doubt forwarding the images.
“Abigail?” Maggie asked. “And my parents.”
“I’m sure they’re missing you this Christmas.” “I think they’re having the time of their lives.”
She pointed to the restaurant adjacent to the rink. “Is it okay with you if we swing by the Sea Grill? I think I’d like a hot tea at the bar.”
“Whatever you’d like.”
She hooked her arm through Mark’s and walked slowly to the glass- enclosed restaurant. She told the bartender what she wanted and Mark ordered the same thing. When the teapot was placed before her, she poured some of the tea into her cup.
“You’re an excellent skater.”
“Thanks. Abigail and I go sometimes.” “Did she like the photo you texted?”
“She replied with three heart emojis, which I take as a yes. But I’ve been wondering…”
When he paused, she finished for him. “About the story?” “Do you still have the necklace that Bryce gave you?”
Instead of answering, Maggie reached behind her neck and unhooked the clasp before sliding the necklace off. She handed it to him, watching as he carefully took it. He stared at the front before flipping it over and examining the engraving on the back.
“It’s so delicate.”
“I can’t think of a day I haven’t worn it.” “And the chain never broke?”
“I’m pretty careful with it. I don’t sleep with it on or shower with it. But other than that, it’s part of my everyday ensemble.”
“And whenever you put it on, you remember that night?”
“I remember that night all the time. Bryce wasn’t just my first love.
He’s the only man I’ve ever loved.”
“The kite was pretty cool,” Mark conceded. “I’ve done the campfire- and-s’mores thing with Abigail—at the lake, not at the ocean—but I’ve never heard of a kite strung with Christmas lights. I wonder if I could build one.”
“These days, you can probably Google it, or maybe even order one.”
Mark appeared contemplative as he stared into his own cup of tea. “I’m glad you had a night like that with Bryce,” he said. “I think everyone deserves at least one perfect evening.”
“I think so, too.”
“But you do understand you were falling for him all along, right? It didn’t start when the storm rolled in. It started on the ferry, when you first saw him in that olive-green jacket.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you didn’t walk away and you clearly could have. And when your aunt asked if Bryce could be your tutor, you agreed pretty quickly.”
“I needed help in school!”
“If you say so,” he said with a grin.
“Now it’s your turn,” she said, changing the subject. “You took me skating, but is there anything you really want to do now that we’re here in Midtown?”
He swished the tea around in his cup. “You’ll probably think it’s silly.
Since you’ve been living here so long, I mean.” “What is it?”
“I want to see some of the department stores’ window displays on Fifth Avenue—the ones that are all decorated for Christmas? Abigail told me it was something I have to do. And in an hour and a half, there will be a choir performing outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”
The choir she could understand, but window displays? And why did it not seem out of character that he’d want to do something like that?
“Let’s do it,” she agreed, forcing herself not to roll her eyes. “I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to walk, though. I feel a little wobbly.”
“Great,” he said, beaming. “And we’ll travel by cab or Uber whenever we have to, okay?”
“One question,” she said. “How do you know a choir will be performing today?”
“I did some research this morning.”
“Why do I get the sense you’re trying to make this Christmas special for me?”
When his eyes flickered with sadness, she knew he didn’t have to explain.
* * *
After finishing their teas, they stepped outside into the chilly air and Maggie felt a sharp pain deep in her chest, one that continued to flare with every heartbeat. It was blinding white—knives, not needles—worse than ever. She froze, closing her eyes and pressing hard with a fist, right below her breast. With her free hand, she gripped Mark’s arm and his eyes went wide.
“Are you okay?”
She tried to breathe steadily, the pain continuing to flash and burn. She felt Mark’s arm wrap around her. “It hurts,” she rasped out.
“Do you need to go back inside and sit? Or should I take you home?”
With clenched teeth, she shook her head. The thought of moving at all seemed impossible and she concentrated on her breathing. She didn’t know if that would do any good, but it was what Gwen had told her to do when
she was suffering through the agony of labor. After the longest minute of her life, the pain finally began to fade, a flare slowly dying out as it sank to the horizon.
“I’m okay,” she finally croaked, even though her vision seemed to be swimming.
“You don’t seem okay,” he countered. “You’re shaking.”
“Pac-Man,” she muttered. She took a few more breaths before finally lowering her hand. Moving slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled out her prescription bottle. She tapped another pill free and dry-swallowed it. She squeezed her eyes shut until she was able to breathe normally again, the pain finally receding to a bearable level.
“Does this happen a lot?”
“More than it used to. It’s becoming more frequent.” “I thought you were going to pass out.”
“Impossible,” she said. “That would be too easy, since then I wouldn’t feel the pain.”
“You shouldn’t make jokes,” he chided. “I was just about to call for an ambulance.”
Hearing his tone, she forced a smile. “Really. I’m okay now.”
A lie, she thought, but who’s counting?
“Maybe I should take you home.”
“I want to see the windows and listen to the carols.”
Which, oddly, was the truth, even if it was kind of silly. If she didn’t go now, she knew she never would. Mark seemed to be trying to read her.
“Okay,” he finally said. “But if it happens again, I’m bringing you home.”
She nodded, knowing he might need to.
* * *
They rode first to Bloomingdale’s, then over to Barneys, then to Fifth Avenue, where every store seemed to be trying to outdo the next with its window decorations. She saw Santa and his elves, polar bears and penguins with holiday-themed collars, artificial snow in rainbow colors, elaborate installations highlighting selected apparel or items that probably cost a fortune.
By Fifth Avenue, she’d begun to feel better, even a little floaty. No wonder people got addicted to the pills; they actually worked. She clung to Mark’s arm as people swarmed past them in both directions, carrying bags
bearing the labels of every brand on the planet. Many of the stores had long lines of people waiting to enter, last-minute shoppers hoping for the perfect gift, none of whom appeared happy in the slightest to be standing in the cold.
Tourists, she thought, shaking her head. People who wanted to go home and say things like You wouldn’t believe how crowded it was or I had to wait an hour just to go inside the store, like it was a badge of honor or act of courage. No doubt they would tell that same story for years to come.
And yet she found the stroll curiously pleasant, maybe because of the floatiness, but mostly because Mark was so clearly gobsmacked. Though he kept a firm grip on her hand, he was constantly straining to see over the shoulders of the crowds, eyes widening at the sight of Santa crafting a Piaget watch, or smiling in delight at oversize reindeer decked out in Chanel harnesses, all of them wearing Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. She was used to grimacing at the crass commercialization of the holiday, but observing Mark’s sense of wonder made her regard the stores’ creativity with new appreciation.
They finally reached St. Patrick’s Cathedral, arriving with pretty much everyone else in the vicinity who’d come for the same reason. The crowd was so large that they were stranded halfway down the block, and though Maggie couldn’t see the singers, she could hear them thanks to the large speakers they had set up. Mark, though, was disappointed, and she realized she should have warned him this would happen. She’d learned upon moving to New York that attending an event in the city and really seeing the event were often two entirely different things. In her first year here she’d ventured out to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She’d found herself wedged against a building, surrounded by hundreds, and stuck in place for hours, her primary view the backs of people’s heads. She’d had to crane her neck to see the famous balloons and had awakened the following morning so sore that she’d had to visit a chiropractor.
Ah, the joys of city living, right?
The choir, even if unseen, sounded rapturous to her ears, and as she listened, Maggie found herself reflecting back on the last few days with a light sense of wonder. She’d seen The Nutcracker, decorated a tree, shipped gifts to her family, skated at Rockefeller Center, seen the window displays on Fifth Avenue, and now this. She was checking off once-in-a-lifetime
experiences with someone she’d come to care about, and sharing the story of her past had lifted her spirits.
But as the floatiness started to fade, she felt fatigue setting in, and she knew it was time to go. She squeezed Mark’s arm, signaling that she was ready. They’d listened to four carols by then, and turning, he began leading her back through the crowd that had formed behind them. When they finally had breathing space, he stopped.
“How about some dinner?” he asked. “I’d love to hear the rest of the story.”
“I think I need to lie down for a while.”
He knew enough not to argue with her. “I can ride with you.” “I’ll be okay,” she said.
“Do you think you’ll make it to the gallery tomorrow?” “I’ll probably stay home. Just in case.”
“Will I see you Christmas Eve? I want to give you your gift.” “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Of course I did. It’s Christmas.”
She thought about it, finally deciding Why not? “Okay,” she offered. “Do you want to meet at work? Or have dinner? Whatever is easiest for
you.”
“I tell you what—why don’t I have dinner delivered to the gallery? We can eat under the tree.”
“Can I hear the rest of your story?”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to. It’s not really a holiday story. It gets very sad.”
He turned, raising his hand to hail her an oncoming cab. As the taxi pulled over, he glanced at her without pity. “I know,” he said simply.
* * *
For the second night in a row, Maggie slept in the clothes she’d been wearing.
The last time she’d peeked at the clock, it was a few minutes before six. Dinner hour in much of America; still-at-the-office hour in much of NYC. She woke more than eighteen hours later feeling weak and dehydrated, but thankfully pain-free.
Not willing to risk a relapse, she took a single pain pill before wobbling her way to the kitchen, where she forced down a banana, along with a piece of toast, which made her feel slightly better.
After taking a bath, she stood in front of the mirror, barely recognizing herself. Her arms were stick thin, her collarbones bulged beneath her skin like tent supports, and her torso sported numerous bruises, some of them deep purple. In her skeletal face, her eyes resembled an alien’s, bright and bewildered.
What she’d read about melanoma—and it felt like she’d read just about everything on the subject—suggested that there was no way to predict her final months. Some people had significant pain, requiring morphine via an IV drip; for others, it wasn’t debilitating. Some patients had worsening neurological symptoms while others were clear-headed up until the end. The location of the pain was as varied as the patients, which she supposed made sense. Once cancer metastasizes, it can go anywhere in the body, but Maggie had been hoping for the more pleasant version of dying. She could handle the loss of appetite and excessive sleep, but the prospect of excruciating pain frightened her. Once she moved to IV morphine, she knew she might never get out of bed again.
But the actually-being-dead part didn’t frighten her. Right now, she was too busy being inconvenienced for death to be anything but hypothetical. And who knew what it was actually like? Would she see the bright light at the end of a tunnel, or hear harps as she entered the pearly gates, or would she simply fade away? When she thought of it at all, she imagined it as akin to going to sleep without dreaming, except she’d never wake up. And, obviously, she wouldn’t care about not waking up because…well, because death made caring—or not caring—impossible.
But yesterday’s last-ditch holiday celebrations drove home the fact that she was one seriously sick woman. She didn’t want more pain, and she didn’t want to sleep eighteen hours a day. There wasn’t enough time for those things. More than anything, she wanted to live normally up until the very end, but she had a growing suspicion that it wasn’t going to be possible.
In the bathroom, she slipped her necklace back on. She pulled a sweater over a set of thermal underwear, and thought about putting on jeans, but what was the point? Pajama bottoms were more comfortable, so she stuck with those. Finally, she donned warm fuzzy slippers and a knit hat. The thermostat was set in the midseventies, but still a little chilly, she plugged in a space heater. There was no reason to care about the electricity bill; it wasn’t as though she had to save for retirement.
She heated a cup of water in the microwave, then wandered to the living room. She sipped at it, thinking about where she’d left off in her story with Mark. Reaching for her phone, she texted him, knowing he would already be at work.
Let’s meet at the gallery at six tomorrow, ok? I’ll tell you the rest of my story and then we can have dinner.
Almost immediately, she saw the dots indicating that he was responding to the text, and his reply popped up in bubble form.
Can’t wait! Take care of yourself. Looking forward to it. All good at work. Busy today.
She waited, seeing if he would add anything else, but he didn’t. Finishing the hot water, she reflected on how her body was choosing to defy her. Sometimes it was easy to imagine that the melanoma was speaking to her in a haunted, creepy voice. I shall take you in the end, but first? I shall make your insides burn and force you to waste away. I’ll take your beauty and steal your hair and deprive you of conscious hours, until there’s nothing left but a skeletal shell…
Maggie gave a morbid chuckle at the thought of that imagined voice. Well, it would be silenced soon enough. Which raised the question…what was she going to do about her funeral?
She’d been thinking about it on and off since her last meeting with Dr. Brodigan. Not frequently, just every now and then when the thought suddenly surfaced, often in the most unexpected moments. Like right now. She’d done her best to ignore it—death still being hypothetical and all—but yesterday’s pain made that impossible.
What was she going to do? She supposed she really didn’t have to do anything. Her parents or Morgan would no doubt take care of it, but she didn’t want them to have to assume that burden. And since it was her funeral, she certainly deserved some say in the matter. But what was it that she wanted?
Not the typical funeral, she knew that much. She had no desire for an open casket, or sappy songs like “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and definitely no long eulogy from a priest who didn’t even know her. That wasn’t her style. But even if it had been—where would the funeral take place? Her parents would want her to be buried in Seattle, not New York, but New York was her home now. She couldn’t imagine forcing her mom and dad to find a local funeral home and cemetery, or to arrange for a Catholic service
in a strange city. Nor was she sure her parents could even handle such a thing, and while Morgan was more capable, she was already overwhelmed with young children at home. All of which left only one option.
Maggie had to arrange everything in advance.
Rising from the couch, Maggie found a pad of paper in the kitchen drawer. She made some notes about the kind of service she wanted. It was less depressing than she’d imagined, likely because she rejected outright all the somber stuff. She reviewed what she’d written, and while it wouldn’t make sense to her parents, she was glad she’d thought to express her dying wishes. She made a note to herself to contact her attorney in the new year so it could all be finalized.
Which left only one more thing to do.
* * *
She needed to get Mark something for Christmas.
Though she’d given him a bonus earlier in December, just as she’d done for Luanne, she felt like something more was warranted, especially after these past few days. But what to get him? Like most young people, especially those who intended to go to graduate school, he’d probably appreciate an additional gift of money more than anything else. Lord knows, when she was in her twenties, that’s what she would have wanted. It would also be easy—all she had to do was write a check—but it didn’t feel right to her. She sensed that his gift for her was something personal, which made her think she should reciprocate in a similar vein.
She asked herself what Mark enjoyed, but even that didn’t lead to many answers. He loved Abigail and his parents, he intended to lead a religious life, he was interested in contemporary art, and he grew up in Indiana and played hockey. What else did she know about him?
She flashed back to their first interview, remembering how prepared he’d been, and the answer finally presented itself. Mark admired the photographs she’d taken; more than that, he thought of them as her legacy. So why not give Mark a gift that reflected Maggie’s passion?
In the drawers of her desk, she found several flash drives; she’d always kept plenty on hand. For the next few hours, she began to transfer photographs onto the drives, choosing her favorites. Some of them hung on the walls of the gallery, and though the photographs wouldn’t be part of the limited-edition runs—and thus without monetary value—she knew that Mark wouldn’t care about that. He wouldn’t want the photographs for
financial reasons; he’d want them because she’d taken them, and because they’d meant something to her.
* * *
When she was finished, she dutifully consumed some food. Salty cardboard, as disgusting as ever. Throwing caution to the wind, she also poured herself a glass of wine. She found a station playing Christmas music on the radio, and she sipped her wine until she became drowsy. She traded her sweater for a sweatshirt, put on socks in place of the slippers, and crawled into bed.
She woke at noon on Christmas Eve, feeling rested and, miracle of miracles, completely pain-free.
But just in case, she took her pills, washing them down with half a cup of tea.
* * *
Knowing that it would most likely be a late night, she lounged most of the day. She called her favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant, where until recently she had been a regular, and learned that a delivery for two shouldn’t be a problem despite the large crowd expected for dinner that evening. The manager, whom she knew well and who she guessed knew of her illness due to her appearance, was particularly solicitous. He anticipated what she might enjoy, remembering the dishes she frequently ordered and suggesting a few specials as well as their famous tiramisu. She thanked him warmly after reading him her credit card number and scheduling the delivery for eight p.m. And who said New Yorkers were callous? she thought with a smile as she hung up.
She ordered a smoothie, drank it while taking her bath, and then reviewed the flash drives she’d created for Mark. As always, when revisiting her past work, her mind re-created the particulars of every shot.
Losing herself in the memories of so many exhilarating trips and experiences made the hours pass quickly. At four, she took a nap, even though she was still feeling pretty good; after she woke, she slowly got ready. As she had in Ocracoke so long ago, she chose a red sweater, albeit with more layers underneath. Black wool slacks over tights, and a black beret. No jewelry except for the necklace, but enough makeup so she wouldn’t frighten the cabdriver. She added a cashmere scarf to hide her gangly neck, and then put her pills in her bag, just in case. She hadn’t had time to wrap Mark’s gift, so she emptied a tin of Altoids and used the
container for the drives. She wished she had a bow but figured Mark wouldn’t care. Finally, with a sense of dread, she retrieved one of the letters her aunt Linda had written, which she kept in her jewelry box.
Outside, the weather was bone-chilling and damp, the sky promising snow. In the short cab ride to the gallery, she passed a Santa Claus ringing a bell, soliciting donations for the Salvation Army. She saw a menorah in an apartment window. On the radio, the cabdriver was listening to music that sounded Indian or Pakistani. Christmas in Manhattan.
The door to the gallery was locked, and after entering, she locked it again behind her. Mark was nowhere to be seen, but the tree was glowing, and she smiled when she saw that he had set up a small fold-out table flanked by two fold-out chairs in front of the tree and covered it with a red paper tablecloth. On the table was a gift-wrapped box and a vase with a red carnation, along with two glasses of eggnog.
He must have heard her enter because he emerged from the back as she was admiring the table. When she turned, she noticed that he, too, wore a red sweater and black slacks.
“I’d say you look fantastic, but I think that might come across as self- serving,” she observed as she removed her jacket.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you came by earlier to see what I’d be wearing,” he countered.
She motioned toward the table. “You’ve been busy.” “I figured we’d need a place to eat.”
“You do understand that if I have the eggnog, I won’t be able to eat at all.”
“Then just think of it as table decoration. Can I take your jacket?”
She handed it over and he disappeared into the back again while Maggie continued to survey the scene. In no small way, it reminded her of the Christmas she’d spent in Ocracoke, which had no doubt been his intention.
She took a seat at the table, feeling content, as Mark emerged from the back with a coffee cup in hand. He set it before her.
“It’s just hot water,” he explained, “but I brought a tea bag if you’d like a little flavor.”
“Thank you.” Because tea sounded good, and the caffeine even better, she added the bag to her water, letting it steep. “Where did you get all this?” She swept her arm over the scene.
“The chairs and table are from my apartment—it’s actually my temporary dining set. The cheap tablecloth came from Duane Reade. More importantly, how are you doing? I’ve been worried about you since I saw you last.”
“I’ve slept a lot. I feel better.” “You look good.”
“I’m a walking cadaver. But thank you anyway.” “Can I ask you a question?”
“Haven’t we moved beyond that yet? Where you have to ask permission to ask me something?”
He stared into his cup of eggnog, his brow creased by a slight frown. “After we finished skating, you know, when…you started feeling bad. You said something like…Pac-Man? Or Packmin? Or…”
“Pac-Man,” she said. “What does that mean?”
“Have you never heard of Pac-Man? The video game?” “No.”
Dear God, he really is young. Or I’m getting old. She pulled out her phone, went to YouTube, selected a quick video, and handed the phone to him. He started the video and began watching.
“So Pac-Man moves through a maze eating dots along the way?” “Exactly.”
“What did that have to do with the way you were feeling?”
“Because that’s sometimes how I think about cancer. That it’s like Pac- Man, moving through the maze of my body, eating all my healthy cells.”
As she answered, his eyes went wide. “Oh…wow. I’m so sorry I brought this up. I shouldn’t have asked…”
She waved a hand at him. “It’s not a big deal. Let’s just forget about it, okay? Are you hungry? I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and ordered from my favorite Italian restaurant. The food should arrive by eight.” Even if she couldn’t eat more than a few bites, she was hoping to enjoy the smell.
“Sounds great. Thanks for that. And before I forget, Abigail told me to wish you a merry Christmas. She said she wishes she could be here with us and that she can’t wait to meet you when she comes to New York in a few days.”
“Likewise,” Maggie said. She gestured at the gift. “Should I open it now, since the food won’t be here for a while?”
“Why don’t we wait until after dinner?”
“And until then, let me guess…You want to hear the rest of my story.” “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you left off.”
“It’s still better if we end with the perfect kiss.” “I’d rather hear it all, if you don’t mind.”
She took a swallow of tea, letting it warm the back of her throat while the years rolled in reverse. She closed her eyes, wishing she could forget, but knowing she never would.
“Later that night, after Bryce brought me home, I barely slept at all…”
