Halfway to You(84)
Todd
The next came four weeks later:
Ann,
I thought you would like to know that I adopted a shop cat. I remember you saying once that the stoop cats gave you purpose, and I thought, hey, why not find one of my own? She’s an orange-and-white rescue named Creamsicle (my staff calls her Creamy).
What I didn’t know when I adopted her: she has “stomach issues” and eats this terribly expensive prescription food. She takes about a million medications and hides in the stacks when it’s time for me to administer them. I had no idea what I was getting into. I can practically hear you laughing as I write this—that smug little cackle you do when you’re amused by my stupidity.
Still: I wouldn’t trade her for the world.
Todd
I laughed, but it wasn’t a cackle. It was delight. We had used to send each other letters like this—letters about nothing in particular. Todd had been such a comfort last night, and his letters were a comfort too. I’d forgotten what a gift his friendship could be.
Ann,
So I adopted a friend for Creamy. His name is Edwin, which I find to be an extremely formal and hilarious name for a cat. Thankfully, he’s fat and low maintenance. The staff have a bet on how many cats I end up adopting. Since there’s no male alternative to cat-lady (because of sexism, I guess?), they’re calling me cat-man, which sounds more like a superhero than an insult.
In any case, I want to rescind all jokes I made about you and your stoop cats; I now realize that they are a joy. I hope that wherever you are, you have a few felines keeping you company.
Todd
Letter after letter about the cats, the bookshop, his life. I couldn’t believe he’d written so many one-sided conversations. I wondered why he’d felt the urge, when he had a woman to share his bed.
He had missed me. Maybe not the way I wanted him to miss me, but nonetheless, he had missed me.
MAGGIE
San Juan Island, Washington State, USA
Thursday, January 11, 2024
“Who was she?” Maggie asks.
Seemingly perplexed by the sudden question, Ann says, “Her name was Alison. That’s all I know.”
Maggie pauses the voice recorder. The clock reads 9:37 p.m., the Greek takeout boxes have been scraped clean, and Ann’s mascara is smudged under her eyes. Maggie probably looks even more bedraggled. It has been a long day, yet it seems far from over.
“That’s truly all you know?”
“Why the sudden interest?”
Maggie shifts in her seat, strung out, stretched, drawn taut and about to snap. Her conscience tells her to keep her mouth shut about her father, to continue with the podcast. What pep talk would Grant offer, if he were here?
It doesn’t matter, because he’s not.
And who’s to say he’d be able to convince Maggie to remain quiet, anyhow?
Her silence feels heavy, like a giant boulder resting on her ribs, hindering her breath, threatening to crack bone and crush her. She no longer remembers the logic of her silence. Journalistic integrity, maybe? Nothing about her experience with Ann rings of integrity. This whole week has been filled with bad morals, secrets, and unsaid things left to fester. There is no way Maggie can remove herself from this story. It’s not possible. Todd’s blood is her blood, and there’s no separating herself from that.
“Maggie, what are you getting at?”
Suddenly, nothing seems as important as finding out where she came from. And Maggie deserves to know, no matter what her parents or Grant have to say. The words inside her become inevitable. They build like a hurricane, wind and rain and pressure all swirling around a calm eye of resolve. The full force of the storm surges through her. She braces for the impact of gale-force revelation.
“Todd is my father,” she says aloud.
The wind screams. The rain is a hundred thousand pinpricks on her skin. She can barely hear over the storm—or is that just the blood rushing in her ears?
In front of her, Ann doesn’t move.
“Is that woman, Alison—is she my mother?”
Ann’s forehead creases, and then she frowns with her whole face, her mouth, eyelids, and brows crumpling. “I—” She shakes her head. For a moment she looks as though she’ll say more, but then she presses her lips together and runs a hand over her face. She stares out the window—or perhaps at the window, the glossy reflection of the two of them sitting on the couch. Abruptly, she stands and closes the curtains; the sharp ringing of the grommets scraping against the curtain bar pierces Maggie’s ears.
With the curtains closed, Ann remains where she is, facing the seam of fabric.
A deep and devastating ache pulses through Maggie. She’s never experienced such an acute sense of wanting in her entire life. “Did you already know?” Maggie quietly asks. “Is that why you wanted me to talk to Tracey?”
“I wanted to give her a chance to say her piece.”
Ann passes a hand over her lips, then turns around. Her expression is once again neutral, and she meets Maggie’s gaze with her orange, catlike eyes. Maggie searches for truth in those eyes. A hint. Anything. If Ann is my mother, Maggie reasons, would she act this way? Cold and silent and withholding? And if Ann isn’t her mother, then perhaps Maggie came from this other woman in the story—but every time Maggie tries to piece it all together, the precarious structure of her thoughts tumbles.