Halfway to You(54)

—Excerpt from Chasing Shadows, by Ann Fawkes

San Juan Island, Washington State, USA

Tuesday, January 9, 2024

Maggie leans against the hood of her car, watching the sun set and the sea become more turbulent. She left Ann’s house twenty minutes ago and drove to Westside Preserve, a rocky outcrop along the island’s main circumferential road. The location is private, cleansing.

They covered a lot of ground in Ann’s story this afternoon—ground that should’ve been recorded, but Ann’s story was the perfect distraction from their deal: Maggie talks to Tracey, and Ann talks to Grant.

Between reading letters and listening, during the tea breaks and pee breaks, Maggie has racked her mind all day as to what to say to her parents. What is there to say? It’s a conversation she’s been avoiding for practically her whole life—because it’s painful, frightening, uprooting. The anguish of not knowing her family’s truth has always seemed like the better choice. But now, Maggie has no choice. Either have an honest conversation with Tracey about the past or forfeit the podcast.

It’s 3:30 p.m. in Colorado. Maggie circles the car and climbs into the driver’s seat. Enclosed within the cab, she inhales the lingering scent of kelp salt, and the windless air is suddenly unbearably still. She counts herself down—three, two, one—and selects the top favorite in her phone: her parents’ landline. The line crackles. She hits speakerphone and sets her cell on the dash.

“Hello, sweetheart.” The innocence of her father’s voice jars her.

“Hi, Dad.”

“What’s wrong?”

Maggie has to laugh. “What do you mean, ‘What’s wrong?’”

“I raised you,” he says, and it breaks Maggie a little, because this call is an affront to that fact.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she hedges, “just a long day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Is Mom there? I need to talk to her.”

“Sure, let me go find her.” Maggie hears footsteps as Bob continues. “It was a nice thing you did, reviving the Whitaker thread. Your mother has been texting all day. Her whole mood is lighter. She even made lunch plans with Natalie and Barbara this Friday.”

“That’s nice, Dad, I’m glad.”

Maggie saw the ongoing chatter in the group text this morning; she’d had to silence her notifications before going into Ann’s. At the time, it’d heartened her to have to mute her phone—to know that it was a false silence and not a lack of connection—but now . . . now she’s afraid the fragile camaraderie will be broken. What if the family doesn’t survive the secret she’s about to ask her parents to unearth?

“Here she is,” he says, but there’s a note of reluctance in his words, as if he knows what Maggie is about to do.

“Actually . . . can you both stay on the line?” Tracey might be the one who holds a grudge against Ann, and Ann might’ve specified that Maggie talk to Tracey, but Bob deserves to stay. Though Ann initiated this call, Maggie’s reason for this conversation involves both her parents.

“You’re on speakerphone,” her dad says.

“Hi, dear,” Tracey says, sounding just as reluctant. Maggie can imagine the glances her parents are exchanging.

Maggie swallows, trying to build up the emotional fortitude to stumble through the next sentence. “Ann asked me to call you.”

“What did she tell you?” Tracey bites out.

“She said we couldn’t continue the interview until I talked to you.”

“About?” Bob asks.

“She wasn’t specific, but I think you know.”

Bob pipes up, “I—” but Tracey cuts him off: “We don’t.”

Maggie grips the steering wheel to steady herself. “Mom, my job is on the line over this.”

“That witch,” Tracey says. “How dare she threaten—”

“No,” Maggie interrupts. “No, she’s not threatening me. I think she’s holding back. And I think you know why.”

“Maggie, I have no idea what lies Ann has—”

“I overheard you two talking one night.” Maggie squeezes the wheel and closes her eyes, as if the car is crashing into the tumultuous sea. “Mom said ‘Maggie’s father,’ as if Dad wasn’t . . . isn’t . . .” Maggie wrenches one hand free of the wheel to cradle her own face. “For so long, I thought it was better to pretend I didn’t hear it. But I deserve the truth. I’m not asking you this because of Ann”—and she’s not, Maggie realizes; Ann was the catalyst, but this conversation is a long time coming—“I’m doing this for the little girl who lay awake countless nights, crying and wondering and . . . and . . .”

“Oh, sweetheart,” her father says.

“We ought to have this conversation in person,” her mother adds.

Maggie drops her hands to her lap, balling her fists. “You’ve had my whole life to have this conversation.” Her voice is steel. “No more waiting.”

Tracey sighs, a slight quiver trailing out the end of her breath. Resolving herself. “You heard correctly that night.”

The truth is a punch underwater, flowing over Maggie with a radiating force.