Halfway to You(113)
The newest message reads: Almost there, hit some traffic, with the initials AF listed next to the text bubble. The message was sent fifteen minutes ago.
Pulse jumping, Maggie is sliding her phone back into her pocket when she hears the rumble of an engine and the crunch of gravel beyond the fence. Everyone else hears it, too, a hush falling over the group, save for the thump of the wireless speakers still playing music from Barrett’s phone. Maggie stands, and she’s halfway to the gate when it squeaks open, and then there’s Ann walking through with a bottle of wine in hand.
Maggie approaches her, offering her a quick hug in greeting. Ann’s slight form feels wooden in Maggie’s arms, and when they pull away from each other, she can see the worry creasing Ann’s eyes. But before Maggie can offer words of encouragement, Ann’s gaze flicks past her.
“Welcome, Ann,” Barbara says, brushing past Maggie for her own turn embracing Ann. Even with everyone watching, Maggie can tell the hug is sincere; Ann’s eyes close briefly in an expression akin to relief, and Barbara’s cheeks are flushed pink with emotion when they pull apart.
“Thank you”—Ann coughs, clearing her throat—“so much, for having me here today.”
Natalie is next in line, grasping Ann’s shoulders and eyeing her with a scrutinizing glare. “You haven’t aged a bit,” Natalie complains, scowling. “No fair.”
Ann laughs, some of the awkwardness dissipating.
But then Tracey is walking forward, and to Maggie’s—and apparently Ann’s—surprise, she hugs Ann too. It’s brief, airy, and stiff—but it’s a hug, nonetheless.
In therapy, Tracey has been working through old grudges and resentments. Two days ago, during a family session, the therapist suggested Tracey practice exercising empathy for Ann. Much of their grief is shared, after all.
“We’re glad you could make it,” Tracey says, a bit tensely, but Maggie knows she’s trying.
Ann presses her lips together, meeting all four of their gazes in turn: Barbara, Natalie, Maggie, and back to Tracey. “Me too. Truly.”
“I bet Keith is beaming right now,” Barbara says.
Natalie loops her arm through Ann’s, leading her toward the kitchen—presumably to open the wine. “You must tell me what kind of eye cream you use.”
Barbara and Tracey follow, and to Maggie’s surprise, Tracey quips, “It’s probably the Mediterranean diet she ate for so long.”
Ann chuckles. “You mean all the carbonara, pastries, and cigarettes were good for me?”
And just like that, the four of them disappear into the house.
Maggie remains outside, her sneakers planted on the walkway.
“Now, that’s a sight I’d never thought I’d see,” Bob says, wrapping an arm over Maggie’s shoulders. “I think you fostered a miracle today.”
“I didn’t know Mom had such willpower,” Maggie says.
“That’s not willpower, dear, that’s forgiveness.”
Maggie chokes on any potential response, instead opting to lean into her father a little more.
“Food’s ready!” Iris calls, carrying a big plate of grilled sausages and patties toward the picnic tables.
The four women emerge from the kitchen, wine bottle on ice, glasses in hand. Everyone finds a seat at the worn picnic tables, the gingham tablecloths fluttering gently in the not-yet-summer breeze. Maggie ends up sandwiched between her mother and Ann, with Bob across from her. She looks around the table, feeling Keith’s absence a little extra, now that they’re all seated.
A pause builds, like the intake of breath before song, and Maggie—timid, mild Maggie, with her heart pattering—does something she never would’ve done six months ago.
She stands, raising a glass, and clears her throat. “I just wanted to thank you”—she meets Bob’s eyes, her mother’s, Ann’s—“thank you all for coming. For being here for Keith, even though Keith himself couldn’t be here.”
“He’s here in our hearts,” Barbara says, eyes shining.
Maggie smiles down at her, swallowing a lump of emotion. “He would be so happy”—her voice goes high—“to see us all here together, in spite of the circumstances that almost tore us apart.” Maggie touches Tracey’s shoulder, a peace offering. “There is nowhere I’d rather be.” She raises her glass. “To Keith.”
“To Keith,” they all say in unison, and drink.
Maggie sinks down to the bench and takes a second sip of her wine, fanning her face. Tracey rubs her back, and Bob nudges her foot under the table. The family devolves into chatter, taking up their forks—but then, beside Maggie, Ann is rising from her seat, clutching her own wineglass.
“I’d like to make a toast of my own, if I may,” Ann says, and her tone is breathy and small. After hearing the many intonations of Ann Fawkes throughout their interviews, Maggie recognizes the emotion immediately: reluctance.
The group hushes again, all eyes trained on the woman who disrupted their lives so thoroughly.
“We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?” Ann begins. “Through awkward Christmases and shared pains. Keith had a way of bringing people together, a glue and a balm in one, uniting us and soothing us despite our differences of opinion.” Ann shifts on her feet, and Maggie spots a slight tremble in her wrists. “I know many of you have wished away my presence, perhaps even wished I didn’t exist. But I can’t help but think that today—this—is exactly what Keith would’ve wanted. Regardless of how any of us feel about it.”