Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [88]
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