Halfway to You(85)

“I know this is unprofessional.” If Ann isn’t going to speak, Maggie will fill the silence herself. “I know I’m putting you on the spot. But my parents told me about Todd only two days ago, and—and—and I thought I could do this assignment without bringing my own shit into the mix, but you were such a huge part of my family once. I want to learn who my mother is. Tracey said it wasn’t you, but someone has to know. Todd is dead, and you’re the only person who has been straight with me.”

Ann returns to the couch, placing a comforting hand on Maggie’s knee. “I’m so sorry your family has put you through this.” She scoots closer, drawing Maggie into her arms.

With that single act of compassion, Maggie fractures, deep cracks spreading through her heart like a slow shatter. She crumples freely into Ann’s embrace. The weave of Ann’s sweater is itchy against her cheek, but Ann is warm and surprisingly soft for how thin she appears. Maggie squeezes her eyes shut tight, until she sees bursts of tingling color.

For a moment, she is calmed, but no matter how comforting Ann’s embrace is, Maggie’s mind revs like a car in neutral. It hums and burns, but it can’t go anywhere because, aside from Todd, Maggie knows nothing—and she’s sick of being kept in the dark about her own existence. She won’t accept it any longer.

She pulls back. “Tell me what you know.”

Ann’s arms fall to her sides. “I’m sorry, dear, I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Maggie can see the restraint on Ann’s face. The slight pucker of her bottom lip, the tension in her jaw.

“Why don’t you lie down?” Ann asks. “You can rest in my guest room.”

“No. If this conversation is over, then I should go.” Maggie stands, looking around for her purse. She passes the back of her hand over her face to wipe the frustration off.

“The roads are probably icy. You shouldn’t drive while you’re this upset,” Ann says. “I have a perfectly good guest roo—”

Maggie lifts her hand, halting Ann’s words. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. And you shouldn’t be alone—”

“Oh, what do you know?” Maggie bites out.

“I know a lot about crying alone, actually,” Ann says pointedly. “Please. Just stay here. Rest a bit. The sheets are clean.”

“You have to understand how hard it is for me to be here right now.”

“I can conceptualize,” Ann says gently. “But I still think you should stay. When you wake up, we can keep working.”

“I don’t know if I can continue . . .”

“Sleep on it, dear.” Ann’s voice is full of compassion, yet her expression is stern, unmoving.

Maggie sighs.

“Come now. It’s down the hall.”

Maggie doesn’t sleep, though Ann’s guest room is cozy enough. Once she’s tucked into the Tide-scented sheets, an intense loss quivers through her bones, a homesickness for a life she’s never known. Maggie had a privileged childhood, a loving family and supportive guardians. It’s not that she doesn’t cherish Tracey and Bob—it’s the secrecy that plagues her.

It’s knowing that people aren’t telling the truth.

It’s knowing that her story has been kept from her—intentionally.

And if it has been kept from her, then she must come from some kind of shame. Something the Whitakers, Ann—whoever knows—doesn’t want to talk about. Is Maggie’s existence that terrible?

The unfairness of it is loud. The hurt is even louder. The noise keeps her awake.

As the night fades and trees outside the window begin to stand out against a deep-blue sky, Maggie detects Ann rousing. She hears the creak of her door and footsteps on carpet, then slippers on kitchen tile, a soft rubber smacking. She hears the rattle of coffee beans in a grinder, the hiss of a kettle. Tired and unstrung, Maggie could stay in this room forever, but the longer she waits, the harder it will be to emerge, so she rolls out of bed, slides back into her jeans, and treads down the hall.

Ann is curled on the couch with a throw draped over her lap, a candle flickering on the glass coffee table. She’s wearing an old T-shirt, and her hair is braided down one shoulder. Meeting Maggie’s eyes, Ann points to the prepared coffee press. Maggie pours herself a cup and joins Ann on the couch.

Minutes pass. A quarter of an hour. The two of them sit in silence, sipping, breathing.

Ann clears her throat but doesn’t look at Maggie when she says, “Did you sleep?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Maggie fixes Ann with a hard stare. “Are you going to keep me in the dark, like everyone else?”

“There’s nothing for me to say on the matter.”

Ann’s words sound less like I don’t know anything and more like It’s not my place. Either way, it’s clear that Ann has decided to remain silent.

“Then we should keep recording.” Maggie has no idea how she’ll string together this shit show of a podcast, but she can at least get the damn thing recorded.

“All right.” The voice recorder remains where they left it, resting beside the candle in the middle of the sparse table. Ann leans forward and turns it back on. “I believe I left off when I returned to Italy.”