Halfway to You(111)

“But you were glad to see him?”

Ann doesn’t smile, but her eyes light up as if from the inside. “We made the most of our final years together.”

Maggie sips her third cup of tea, waiting for Ann to continue.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was elated to see him,” Ann says. “Overjoyed. Humbled. Grateful. We spent our first week in bed, talking and apologizing and making love. We had a lot of catching up to do. I suppose the best way to explain it is that this chapter of ‘Todd and Ann’ was easy. We cherished each other, because suddenly we realized we weren’t the immortal youngsters we once were. I feel lucky for the time we spent together, and also like I earned it, if that makes sense. But I still wish we’d forgiven each other sooner.”

Maggie has no follow-up response to that statement. She’s still in awe that she’s here in the first place, talking to Ann, hearing this story. She also has no idea how the podcast will come together. It feels too big a story to properly tell.

“What is it?” Ann asks, studying Maggie’s face.

“I have no idea how I’m going to piece this thing together.”

“I do,” Ann says.

“You do?”

Just then, the light bursts through the windows, and the whole room brightens.

“This is as much my episode as yours, Maggie.”

“What do you mean?”

“To tell my story, and Todd’s story, you have to tell your story too. You have to be a presence in the episode.”

Maggie recoils at the thought. It sounds impossible, unwieldy, and far too vulnerable. “I don’t know if Grant will go for that.”

“He will.”

“And how are you so sure?”

“Because I called him.”

“You . . .” Maggie trails off, irritated at first but growing amused. “Of course you did.”

Ann flashes a mischievous Cheshire cat smile.

“I don’t know, my family . . .”

“It’s just a suggestion,” she says, raising her palms. “But I think you’ll come to the same conclusion.”

“I’ll consider it.” Maggie wavers. “So . . . is this it? Are we actually done?”

“Not quite,” Ann says. “I have one more surprise, but it’s just for you.”

She turns off the recorder, leaving it on the table as she leads Maggie through the house, down an unlit hallway, into her office. There are bookshelves, boxes, and a love seat shoved into a corner. Front and center—and most notable—is the worn wooden desk. On it rests a Brother typewriter—likely the one on which Ann first typed Chasing Shadows—plus a MacBook Air, a tabletop lamp, notebooks, papers, a corkscrew, and a small turquoise horse.

Ann doesn’t linger. She ushers Maggie to the boxes in the corner: the letters from Keith and Todd that Ann showed her weeks before. Maggie’s attention darts from label to label, the relics of Ann’s life, distracted until Ann pushes a shoebox into her arms.

“What’s this?” Maggie asks.

“A gift. Open it.”

Maggie lifts the cardboard lid and peers inside. It’s filled with papers, some folded, some not. She recognizes Todd’s handwriting, but when she lifts the top sheet out of the box, her breath hitches.

Dear Maggie, it reads.

“What is this?” she repeats, staring at the paper, throat constricting.

“A letter,” Ann says. “Well, many letters.”

“I . . .” Maggie trails off, reading.

Dear Maggie,

I only just learned about your existence, yet I am filled with guilt. How could I not know you were here on earth? How could I not know what you look like, the sound of your voice, the lilt of your laugh? I don’t know what foods you enjoy, or the subjects that interest you, or . . . anything.

How can you be mine when I know nothing about you?

Maggie stifles a choked little whimper, an involuntary release of vocal pressure.

“After everything that happened, I tried to give them to Tracey, so she could one day give them to you,” Ann explains. “But she would have nothing to do with them, and since you didn’t know who you were to Todd, I . . .”

“Kept them,” Maggie says. “All this time.”

A nod.

Maggie thumbs through the letters, landing on another.

Dear Maggie,

Today I met you for the first time, and I believe it was my last. I thought we’d have some deep connection when we met. I expected to be bowled over with feeling but . . . I wasn’t. You might be “of” me, but you are not mine. I might be your father, but I am not your dad. You are Tracey’s and Bob’s. You are your own.

And that’s okay.

Nonetheless, I’ve decided to write you these letters, in case you ever wonder about the man named Todd Langley who loved you from afar.

“I don’t . . .” Maggie shakes her head, her vision flooded.

Ann pulls her into a half embrace, her arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “I never read them. He told me I could, but it didn’t feel right. They’re for you. Do with them what you wish.”

Maggie slides the lid back on the shoebox and clutches it to her chest. “I want to keep them to myself, I think.”

Ann squeezes Maggie’s arm. “That’s a fine plan.”