22. Maggie
22
Maggie
I am slowly dragged from a dreamless sleep.
My head feels wooly, like it has been stuffed with cotton. My eyes are heavy and matted shut. There is an ache in my jaw and the taste of metal on my tongue.
My mind fights through the haze as I try to figure out where I am. From the low hum of an engine and the gentle sway of tires over pavement, I determine that I’m in a moving vehicle—a car, I think. My cheek is pressed against the leather, my body draped sideways across the seat with my hands bound loosely behind my back. What the hell?
The smell of leather and smoke mixed with something floral and oddly familiar clouds my nose, making my stomach roll. Then, it all comes rushing back to me: the fight with Archer, the strange man in my apartment. I remember trying to run, falling, and then…nothing .
Forcing my lids open, I blink a few times to clear the sleep from my eyes. Across from me on the bench is a man, one I vaguely recognize but can’t quite place from where.
“Oh—look who’s finally awake. I told ya you’d be seeing me soon,” he says with the faint hint of an Irish brogue.
Fully alert now, I open my eyes wide. It’s the creepy guy from the bookstore. My heart pounds in my chest, a faint ringing sound in my ears.
“Wh-who are you?” My voice comes out hoarse and scratchy from disuse. How long have I been out?
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to someone seated on his left. I was so focused on him, I didn’t even realize there was anyone else in the car.
“Come now—don’t be shy, m’fhiorghra. Say hello.”
I follow the path of his gaze, and sure enough, sitting there to his left is…
“Mom?” I squeak.
My heart leaps, and there is this fleeting moment of hope that all isn’t as it seems, that maybe I have it all wrong and he isn’t here to hurt me after all. Surely, my own mother wouldn’t stand by and let that happen. She may not have wanted me, but that doesn’t mean she wants to see me harmed. Right?
But as the woman remains silent, that hope flees out the window. Her stony face is expressionless, regarding me as if I’m little more than a speck of dirt on the bottom of her red-soled heels.
My stomach sinks as I look up into the cold, emotionless eyes of the woman who gave birth to me. There is no flicker of recognition, nothing at all that would suggest she even knows me. The woman seated across from me is a virtual stranger. The only thing recognizable is the floral scent of her perfume.
The man doesn’t remove his eyes from her, watching her closely, as if analyzing her reaction. What he’s searching for, I don’t know.
He has his hand perched possessively on the nape of her neck, his thumb stroking the skin behind her ear. My heart pinches at the gesture, making me miss Archer.
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” the woman asks coolly.
My nose burns as tears prick the back of my eyes, and I hate myself for my reaction, for allowing her to get to me.
“Don’t be daft. Surely, you recognize our daughter ,” he spits out, and I recoil at the roughness in his voice. His grip on her tightens as his large fingers dig into the sides of her boney neck, and though it has to hurt, she doesn’t even flinch.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We don’t have a?—”
“Don’t you feckin lie to me!” he yells, shaking her. My stomach lurches, but my mother remains stoic, completely unaffected, as if this sort of behavior is an everyday occurrence—I wonder if, for her, it is.
“You really think I’m stupid, don’t ya? You thought I wouldn’t figure it out,” he grits through his teeth, spittle flying in her face before he pushes her off, releasing his hold .
“Of course you did. You think you’re so smart. All those times you snuck off while I was away, you actually believed you got away with it. You really thought you got one over on me .” He lets out a cruel laugh that sends chills down my spine.
“You never even realized you were being followed, and, given your previous track record, I was ready to ring your neck for trying to run from me again. When they told me you wound up in Georgia of all places, I’ll admit, it took me by surprise. When my men informed me you were there to meet a woman, I became curious.
“I had them do some digging, and when she turned out to be one of your fellow orphan friends, I decided I would allow it. I am a benevolent man, after all,” he says, running his hand through his dark hair, slicking it back into perfect order.
“I didn’t see the harm in you reconnecting with an old friend if it made you happy. I never really thought much else of it. That is, until Amelia came to me. Apparently, she intercepted a package, a birthday present fit for a young woman.” I watch as all the color drains from my mother’s expressionless face.
“The card signed love, Mom in my own wife’s handwriting. Now maybe I’m the daft one, because last I recall, we didn’t have any kids.” A look of pure terror flashes in her eyes before he takes hold of her chin.
“I feckin’ believed ya when you told me you lost our baby. That you were so blinded by grief, you ran out of fear of retribution, even though you know I wouldn’t do that. You know I’d never hurt you. I would never discipline you for something that wasn’t your fault.” He caresses her cheek lovingly before taking her mouth in a punishing kiss.
“I even forgave you for your indiscretions. Do you know what that was like for me, to have all my men know my wife was a whore, running off with one of my own men? My parents called for your head, but I vouched for you, convinced them to let you live.”
“What makes you so sure she's yours?” my mother asks defiantly. “Seeing as how I’m such a whore—she could be anyone’s. Maybe she’sJohn’s.”
He raises his hand as if to strike, but my mother doesn’t flinch. She just holds his gaze unblinking, as he balls his raised hand into a fist.
“Don’t you mess with me, Cara!” he roars, slamming his fist against the back of the seat. “You know as well as I do that girl is mine. Look at her. She has my eyes, for Christ sake,” he says, finally looking at me as I shrink back against the seat.
I look up into a pair of green eyes that do indeed match my own, only his are cold, lacking any warmth. Still, there is a flicker of genuine hurt there, and for a second, I hate my mother.
I always assumed she gave me up because she was unfit to raise me, that maybe she didn’t have the resources or the money to care for me. But as she sits across from me in her designer clothes, a large diamond sparkling on her ring finger, I realize that couldn’t be further from the truth. My mother wasn’t poor or on drugs; she was just selfish .
All my life, I was told my father was dead. Yet, here he sits, and it’s clear from his reaction that he wanted children. He wanted me. So why did she and Jane hide the truth? This whole time, they let me believe my dad was dead. They let me mourn the loss of a man I’d never met, only to discover he has been alive this whole time.
I feel all the hurt and anger bubble up from that dark chasm where I keep it buried deep, and this time, I let it.
I’m so sick of all the deceit. It’s like everyone thinks I am weak, that I’m some delicate little flower to be protected.
Well, I think I’ve more than proven that I’m not, and I wish everyone would stop treating me like I am. I don’t need anyone to feed me a bunch of pretty lies in order to hide all the ugly truths of this world. I know full well just how cruel life can be.
The car lurches to a stop, and the door opens, revealing an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a grave face. My father steps out before turning back to help me.
A cool breeze ghosts over my bare legs, causing me to shiver. I’m still wearing Archer’s t-shirt I put on before bed, and though it hits me just above the knee, I feel very exposed.
He must notice, because he removes his jacket, draping it over my shoulders before leading me up the walkway. The loose gravel digs into the soles of my bare feet, causing me to stumble. With my hands still tied, I’m unable to catch myself, but before I go down, my father reaches out to steady me .
“Careful,” he says, looking at me with something that almost resembles affection.
“Where are we?” I ask, taking in the massive house before me.
“This is Rosewood Estate. It has been in my family for almost a century,” he says as he smiles up at the stone front building with pride before turning back to me. “This, my daughter, is your new home.”
He wraps his arm around me as he continues to lead me up the path, and I have to fight off the shudder of revulsion that passes through me from his touch. He may be my father, but there is still something about him that sets me on edge.
I turn back in time to see my mother as she exits the car, a look of quiet resignation on her gaunt face. She looks so tired and worn down that my anger at her dims. When her somber eyes lock with mine, they are filled will regret.
As I cross the threshold, I can’t help but wonder just what horrors lay in wait inside these stone walls.