Inheriting edith, p.22
Inheriting Edith, page 22
“I’m not sure,” said Maggie. “There was no note, so who knows. Regardless, I’m not angry about it anymore anyway. It was just an idea. Not my story to tell. She told it better, in the end.”
“You’re not still cleaning houses, are you?” he asked.
“No, not anymore.”
“No more scrubbing the bathroom grout with an old toothbrush at three in the morning, either?”
“I didn’t say that.” She had done exactly that the night before, unable to sleep because of her nerves.
“So what’s with the mom? Why the nurse?”
“She has Alzheimer’s. Early stages.”
Lyle whistled softly. “Heavy. My grandmother had Alzheimer’s. It gets pretty gnarly, although I’m sure you know that.” Maggie thought that a forty-something-year-old man should not be using the word gnarly under any circumstances, but she didn’t say as much.
“I know. Hence the nurse,” she said instead.
“Hey, are you writing again?” he asked.
“I am, actually. Nothing big or anything, just here and there.”
“That’s great, Maggie. You were good at it. And it made you happy.”
“You think?” she asked.
“Definitely. You never did give yourself enough credit, Maggie.”
“Maggie, do you guys want to eat or what?” Esther yelled down.
“You hungry?” she asked Lyle, unwinding her scarf.
“Yes, actually.” He removed his hat.
The two of them removed their Lucy-approved accessories in silence, except for the occasional noise of wood and brass clanking together. It was so familiar and yet, not at all. Maggie had been another person entirely when she was with Lyle, she realized. Clinging to something less than she deserved.
“About Lucy,” said Lyle, dropping his last strand of beads on top of the pile.
“Yes, what about Lucy?” Maggie braced herself.
“I—I don’t know how I feel right now, if I’m being honest. She’s a wonderful kid, and I do feel a particular kind of affection towards her obviously, but I just don’t know.” He removed the elastic from his hair and regathered it nervously. “I’m not sure if it’s fair to promise to be a part of her life at this point. I—I’m not sure I can keep up my end of the bargain.”
“The bargain?” Maggie asked. She was angry, but she couldn’t say why exactly. This was what she wanted, right? Him to just go away?
“That’s not what I mean, sorry. I just need some time, to think about it. About how I can most efficiently fit into her life, in a way that’s fair to everyone. Does that make sense? I’m not even sure what I’m saying, man. It’s a lot.”
“I know it’s a lot, Lyle, I’m in it every day, twenty-four hours a day.”
She took a deep breath. She was forgetting the facts. What had she expected?
“But you’re right. You need to be sure before Lucy even has a remote notion. I get that.”
“I appreciate it, Maggie. I really do.”
“Good,” she replied.
Let him take his time. There was no rush.
CHAPTER 23
I found her this morning, in the guesthouse,” Maggie told Esther. “I went in there to write, and there she was, curled in a ball amongst Liza’s books, fast asleep.”
Up ahead, Edith and Lucy combed the shore for seashells; the muted blue water melting seamlessly into the gray horizon.
“What did she say when you woke her up?”
“She was looking for Liza’s note, she said,” replied Maggie.
“Poor thing,” said Esther, shaking her head.
“What if there is one?” asked Maggie.
“One what?”
“A note, hidden somewhere. A secret to uncover when the time is right,” answered Maggie.
“I doubt that,” replied Esther. “What do you think Liza left, a novella explaining everything away?”
“Maybe. Maybe she owned up to some stuff.”
“Maggie, you don’t off yourself if you’re in the mood to own up to stuff. What would be the point?”
“I don’t know—closure for your loved ones?” asked Maggie.
“If Liza had cared about closure, she would have stuck around.”
“Esther, you’re being glib,” said Maggie.
“Am I? I don’t mean to be.” Esther started walking again. “Why do you want a note? What kind of answers do you need?” she asked.
“I don’t know. About the Arthur thing, maybe.”
“You provided the answer to that, the other day in the limo. Shakespeare himself couldn’t have written a better script.”
“Sure, but I was winging it. I’d like to believe in the happy ending, but what do I know? She could have been keeping it to herself for all of the wrong reasons, just like Edith suggested.”
“Maybe,” said Esther. “But your version is better for Edith. Better for all of us, really. And you have the right to wing it, to side with the good. Liza left us no other choice but to improvise. Which I’m grateful for, actually. And you should be, too.”
“Why?” asked Maggie.
“She may have taken a story from you, but you got to finish hers. Put a silver lining on the dark cloud of her passing. Liza knew what she was doing when she picked you, Maggie. You’ve done good here, with Edith.”
Maggie walked in further towards the water, gulping back tears and shivering slightly as it tickled her toes. Esther’s praise reminded her of her father when it had been good between them, his and now her recognition like ice water in the desert. She wiped her eyes and turned back.
“Thank you, Esther,” she said, taking her arm to guide her through the sand. “I needed to hear that. I still wish that there was some sort of closure from Liza herself, though. Is that so wrong?”
“Of course it’s not wrong, honey. A little naïve maybe, but not wrong. In this case, though, the only closure you’re going to get is the closure you create yourself. Suicide doesn’t care about closure.”
“I have been able to do that, actually,” said Maggie. “I’ve forgiven Liza, for the book thing. And other things are starting to make sense somehow, out here. With all of you.”
“See?” said Esther. “Who needs a note?”
“Mommy, Mommy!” Lucy yelled, running towards her at breakneck speed, her arm outstretched. “Edith found me a hermit crab! Can we keep him?” Maggie eyed the tiny speckled creature in her daughter’s hand suspiciously.
“Please?”
“You’ll take care of him?”
“Yes,” Lucy answered earnestly.
“Sure, okay.”
“Okay here, you hold him.” She deposited him into Maggie’s hand. “Edif, she said yes!” she shrieked, running back to her.
“Great,” said Maggie.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be dead in a week. You can teach her a life lesson,” said Esther.
“Do you think Edith has closure?” asked Maggie.
“I think so,” answered Esther. “The Arthur thing, it relieved some of that burden she’s been carrying around, don’t you think?” Maggie nodded.
“You know, she has Liza’s ashes,” said Esther.
“Edith does?”
“Yes, in an urn on her bureau. You never noticed?”
“I so rarely go in there,” answered Maggie. “No.”
“The two of you, you should spread them somewhere that Liza would have liked. Together. Make it official.”
“You think Edith would be open to that?” asked Maggie.
“Only way to find out is to ask. But yes, I do.”
“But I didn’t know her life out here. I don’t have the first clue about where to spread her.” Maggie shivered. “Spread her. Jesus.”
“So ask Edith. Or hell, take her back into the city.”
“No, not the city,” said Maggie. “She belongs here. With us.”
“Okay,” agreed Esther.
“Will you come? Wherever we end up?” asked Maggie, as Edith and Lucy circled back towards them.
“I don’t think so, honey. This is between you and Edith. But I’ll watch Miss Lucy. Save you the trouble of a sitter.”
“Okay,” said Maggie. It wasn’t like Esther to choose to miss out on anything, but she was right.
CHAPTER 24
Edith had had mixed feelings about the ashes when Maggie had approached her, but a little time had persuaded her to say yes. That and Maggie’s eagerness. Maggie seemed to be uplifted by the idea; kept making passionate speeches about the importance of it for the two of them. Edith didn’t agree, but Esther had warned her not to be selfish.
“You won’t remember it the next day anyway, Edith,” she had joked. “But Maggie will. And she needs it. So let her have it.”
And so, Edith had. They had decided to do it underneath the sprawling oak tree next to the guesthouse; a tree that Edith remembered Liza lounging underneath in the warmer months. She couldn’t be completely sure, what with her memory, but it sounded good, and seemed to satisfy Maggie.
Edith walked out to the porch, staring down into its now sparse canopy of leaves to the ground below. They’d considered the beach of course, but the truth was that Liza never strayed far from home. She had loved this house. She belonged here.
“Everything okay?” asked Gloria, joining her. Edith had gotten used to Gloria, quite liked her actually. She made Edith feel safe, which was something she needed to feel now. She didn’t know whether she was coming or going anymore. Today was a good day, though. So far at least.
“Sure,” she murmured back.
“Edith?” asked Maggie, joining them. “You ready?”
They passed through the living room, where Lucy played cars with Esther on the floor, down the stairs and into Edith’s room.
“Can’t forget the guest of honor,” said Edith. She grabbed the gray urn, holding it close to her chest.
“You got it?” asked Maggie. “I can carry it if it’s too heavy.”
“I’ve got it,” said Edith.
They walked through Maggie’s room and out the doors, en route to the tree. Before she realized what was happening, Edith lost her footing. She wobbled precariously, and the urn slipped out of her unreliable grasp, smashing to the floor and shattering into dozens of pieces. All around them, Liza rose up, a cloud of dust.
Maggie and Edith stood, looking down at the mess, at Liza all over their shoes, not knowing what to do or say.
“Whoops,” said Edith finally, breaking their stunned silence.
“Oh no, Edith,” said Maggie. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” answered Edith. “I can’t believe that happened.”
“Me, either.” Maggie laughed. “But it did, so? What can we do? I’m sure Liza loved this porch, too.”
“Yeah, you know, I was thinking that I probably made that business up about the tree anyway,” said Edith. “Maybe I saw her there once.”
“And she complained about the bugs for a half hour before getting up and going inside,” said Maggie. “That sounds like the real Liza.”
“Yes,” agreed Edith.
“So, it’s fitting that this happened.”
“Perfect, really.”
“Should we just do it here?” asked Maggie.
“Do what?” asked Edith.
“I don’t know, eulogize her?”
The sky was so blue, Edith thought. The kind of blue that only autumn could claim. And the air—it was as crisp as an apple.
“If that’s what you want,” said Edith. “Although I think it’s unnecessary, this whole thing, if I’m being honest.”
“Why?”
“We’ve both let her go, haven’t we? And out of that, we made this. The end.”
“This?”
“Us. This new life.”
“That’s it?” asked Maggie. She shifted her feet, the dust sliding off her shoes and through the cracks of the porch.
“I think so,” said Edith.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Maggie. “I don’t know, I just thought something more formal would be nice.”
“Say what you want to say, Maggie. Don’t let me stop you.”
“Here?”
“Sure, where else?”
“Well, okay.” Maggie cleared her throat. “God, I forgot everything suddenly.”
“Welcome to the club,” said Edith.
“You know what? I don’t think I need to do this, after all.”
“You’re sure?” asked Edith.
“I am. The accidental release of Liza was perfect. A metaphor, really. She would have appreciated it, I think,” Maggie replied.
“Maggie, I want to thank you,” said Edith. “You’ve been wonderful to me. I know I haven’t been easy.”
“You? You’re a breeze.” Maggie smiled at Edith.
“I mean it. Liza made the right choice, by choosing you.” First Esther had said it, and now Edith. Maggie believed them, too. She had had so much healing to do herself, healing she hadn’t even realized she needed. Edith’s journey to forgiveness had become her own. Who knew if Liza had known that would happen, but Maggie chose to believe that she had, just an inkling at least. It was another happy ending that Maggie had the right to choose, as the chosen keeper of the narrative.
“I’m glad she chose me,” Maggie said. “My life, it’s better out here. And Lucy’s, too. Helping you with your memories has helped me with coming to terms with my own. You’ve been so brave.”
“I’m not brave,” said Edith. “What’s brave about me?”
“Are you kidding? You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
“You’re brave, too, you know,” said Edith.
“I am?” asked Maggie.
“Single motherhood? Starting over? Bravest things there are.”
“Thanks, Edith.” They were quiet suddenly, listening to a lone bird chirp. “This has turned into something else entirely, huh?” asked Maggie.
Edith shrugged.
“But I guess that’s the point,” continued Maggie. “Life goes on, after death.”
“After heartbreak,” said Edith.
“And disappointment,” added Maggie. “If only Liza had known that.”
Edith surveyed the porch; the dust and fragments amongst the brittle red, yellow and orange leaves.
“Should we pick up the pieces?” she asked.
“Sure,” answered Maggie.
They began to fish them out, one by one, together.
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the author
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Meet Zoe Fishman
About the book
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“Discovering Maggie,” an essay by the author
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About the author
Meet Zoe Fishman
ZOE FISHMAN is the author of Driving Lessons, Saving Ruth and Balancing Acts. Her books have been translated into German, Italian, Dutch and Polish. She’s the recipient of many awards, including selection as one of Target’s Breakout and Emerging Author Picks and a New York Post Pick. Zoe has also been featured on NBC’s Atlanta & Co., as well as in Publishers Weekly and the Huffington Post. She is currently at work on her next novel, as well as teaching writing at the Callanwolde Fine Arts Center. Zoe lives in Atlanta with her husband and two sons.
About the book
Discovering Maggie
IT TOOK ME FOREVER to write Inheriting Edith, or at least forever in terms of my prior writing track record. From the idea’s inception to the fourth rewrite, it was two years, give or take. I became pregnant, had my second son, balanced the work and motherhood seesaw sometimes well and sometimes not so well, my novel sputtering along in starts and stops all the while. Edith was always fully realized, I could write her in my sleep for some reason, probably because I felt like I understood her from the start. It was Maggie who eluded me. She wasn’t me and, for better or worse, so many of my previous protagonists have been.
I turned my first draft into my editor just before I gave birth, not really happy with it but relieved to put it in someone else’s capable hands before mine were inconceivably full. The first six weeks passed in a haze of no sleep and breast milk, my sweet three-year-old blessedly delighted to be a big brother and surprising me with his empathic tenderness. He went to camp, my husband went to work and it was just the baby and me, doing what new babies and their mothers do in the heat of an Atlanta summer—getting to know one another in air-conditioned confinement.
When my brain was able, I would fret over Maggie. Who was she? Was it possible to make her three-dimensional without the personal experience to back her up? Maybe she wasn’t so dull, maybe it was me being too hard on myself. And then the letter from my very smart, very wise and very patient editor arrived, confirming my doubt, albeit in a very nice way. Maggie was a dud.
I continued to fret, although now it had blossomed into a full-blown panic. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not make her work. Was it writer’s block or just utter exhaustion? Would I have to scrap Maggie altogether, create another protagonist from scratch? I certainly didn’t want to, but as time crept on, I couldn’t see any other feasible resolution.
Finally we were gifted with a somewhat breezy July morning. It was official: all of us could go to the park. We loaded what felt like our entire home into the car in preparation and took off. I felt like a mole, blinking against the light as it streamed through the trees, my breasts like giant, hot water balloons underneath my shirt. As we pulled up, I glanced at the clock on the dashboard, noting that it was time to feed. You guys go ahead, I said, hoisting myself up and out of my seat to grab the baby. With dutiful nods, they jogged towards the swings.
I adjusted myself and turned the radio to NPR, thinking I would zone out as I performed my motherly duty, a duty that was thankfully easier, practically enjoyable, the second time around. Suddenly, a writer came on—a woman—talking about how she didn’t believe in writer’s block; how sitting your butt down every day, whenever you could manage, and forcing out however many words you could, even if they were terrible, made writer’s block obsolete. I wish I could remember who the writer was or what exactly she said verbatim, but I can’t. All I know is that it was the most perfect thing I could hear—like a key in the ignition of my brain. It was miraculous really, so I owe a huge thank you to NPR—for so many things, but especially for that moment.
