Halfway to You(102)

Ann frowns. “Nothing about you.”

Tracey snorts, a single rush of defiant air. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Still can’t stand me?”

Tracey flinches.

“What’s going on?” Maggie cuts in. The tension between them is like a steel cable about to snap.

Both women hush, watching each other with narrowed eyes. The silence builds, the steel cable practically groaning.

Maggie is the first to break. “Someone say something!”

Tracey startles, leaning back. Ann’s eyes dance.

“It’s not my place to tell her,” Ann says.

Inside Maggie’s chest, shock, disbelief, and fear converge.

Tracey stands and starts pacing. “You know I never liked you,” Tracey says to Ann. “Keith was always going on about you. Working his ass off only to have you shirk your responsibilities. You always acted so untouchable.”

“Now hold on, that’s not fair,” Maggie interjects, but Tracey is a mountain with magma burning at her core. It’s a fire Maggie never knew existed, now rising to the surface, an eruption mounting.

Tracey fixes Ann with a searing glare. “You just had to wedge your way into everything with no regard for . . . for . . .” Her eyes glisten with rage, and she stutters over her thought.

Ann rolls her eyes. “You’re a hypocrite.”

“You’re a liar.”

“There is only one lie I’ve uttered,” Ann says coolly. “One. Unlike you, who has been lying to Maggie her entire life.”

Tracey is visibly shaking, but with anger or fear, Maggie can’t tell.

Ann continues. “You paint me as the liar, but your family has always been full of sh—”

“Stop,” Maggie bites out. “Both of you.”

Tracey sinks to the couch again, grasps Maggie’s hand, and squeezes it tight. “Dear, I didn’t want to hurt you. I hate to do this now . . . and here.” Tracey sighs, as if she’s fortifying herself. Tears wobble along her lower lashes, and Maggie’s heart hitches. “Maggie, dear,” Tracey whispers. “Sweetheart, I’m your mother. Your biological mother.”

Disbelief pools in Maggie’s lungs, making it hard to breathe. She glances at Ann—expecting rage at Tracey’s implication, that Todd and she were together—but all Maggie sees is relief on Ann’s face. Relief, because this must be the final lie—and the final truth. Even though it doesn’t make sense.

“How?” Maggie sputters.

This answer doesn’t feel like a life ring—this feels like drowning. Betrayal drags her down. She tries to make sense of the confession, but there’s no sense to be found. “How?” she repeats, because, for the life of her, the truth is unfathomable. The truth is salt water, filling her lungs, burning her eyes, making her choke.





TRACEY


Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA

August 1999

The best and worst thing I ever did was sleep with Todd.

It was the best because I got you, Maggie, and you are the light of my life.

It was the worst because I hurt Bob and my family, and defiled Penny’s memory.

I want you to know that we all love you dearly. We only kept this from you because, well, at first you were too young to understand the nuance of what happened. And then we were afraid you’d be so hurt that you’d never forgive us. And I guess if that’s how you feel at the end of this, I have no right to ask different of you. I only ask that you don’t punish Bob for my mistake—he’s been punished enough.

The circumstances that led me to the bar that night were long and tangled. I’d had a nasty fight with Bob, but it was years in the making. We’d been trying to conceive practically since we got married, and it wasn’t working. I was ready for the next step—doctors, sperm donors, adoption, anything—but he wouldn’t even see a specialist. Our sweet Bob—he’s a man of few words, but he’ll do anything for his family. Yet this was something he couldn’t do on his own. I don’t think he could handle what he considered to be his biggest failure.

But at the time, I didn’t understand Bob’s resistance to getting help. I wanted answers, and he wanted the problem to disappear. I thought he was being insensitive, evasive, cold; he was struggling under the weight of duty, shame, and my imposed expectations. The issue was personal and emotional, and therefore our fights were also personal and emotional.

Do you ever feel as though your problems are in your house, hanging in the air like smoke? That’s how I felt that night. The rage, disappointment, and blame that Bob and I had kindled—it was smoke in the air. I was gasping and couldn’t breathe. So I stormed out and went to the closest bar I could find—for a drink, but more importantly, for distance. Fresh air.

Here’s a vile truth I never thought I would have to admit: a part of me wanted to get back at Bob. For the past year, I had been noticing other men. At first it was harmless. A glance at a handsome man in the grocery store or a preoccupation with the tattoos of a guy at the gym. But as the marital fights grew more contentious, my glances lingered, and my mental curiosities grew vivid. I fixated and fantasized.

I am so ashamed to admit this to you, Maggie, but you have to know: I never planned to act on those feelings. I thought it was merely the thrill of temptation—desperate thoughts I indulged when I was alone or couldn’t sleep. I worried that Bob would never face our problems head on. I was angry and powerless. Sometimes I wondered if an affair would wake him up. Force a change. It wasn’t right for me to think this way, to imagine acting out to get his attention, but when an animal is stuck in a trap, there reaches a point when they’ll chew off their own leg to see freedom again. That’s how desperate I felt; my desperation made me self-destructive.