Chapter 43 Peggy
I am going to start staying home on Wednesdays.
Mrs. Appleby was very understanding when I told her I needed more time to write.
I know I must do everything I can to catch up after my deal was ripped apart, to accelerate our exit.
I am in a hurry. She said I should work whatever hours suited me.
She said I am a valued member of the library volunteer team and not to worry if I needed to cut back for a while.
One small vase of snowdrops.
There is a sprawling glade of white specks over by the abandoned diesel tank, in the shade of the beech trees. I picked these yesterday. A smaller bunch of wood anemones sit in a cracked eggcup.
I hope the boat looks presentable.
She arrives ten minutes late and knocks on the window.
“Peggy?”
I step outside. “Are you from the hospital?”
“I’m Eleanor,” she says, smiling, holding out her hand. Under her other arm is a notebook with a pen attached with string. She shows me her ID. “I’m a social worker. Just here for a chat to see how you’re doing. Is it OK if I come inside for a while?”
“Of course. Come in, Eleanor.”
She has tight, curly hair and thick eyeliner.
“Peggy’s right, is it? Or do you prefer Margaret?”
She has a slight Texan accent.
“Peggy, please. Sorry to drag you all the way out here, Eleanor. Probably seems odd us living on a boat.”
“No problem. Seems pretty wonderful to me. I parked up on the side of the road, had good directions. Scenic walk down here. You’ve got a nice place, Peggy. A tranquil place to spend your days.”
“Cup of coffee?”
“White, no sugar. Watching my waistline. Overindulged at Christmas. Well, you have to, really, don’t you?”
I didn’t.
I make her a cup of coffee.
“So, how are you feeling?”
She smells like coconut oil. I like her.
“Good,” I say. “Much better, thanks.”
“Are you sleeping OK, Peggy?”
“Yes, sleeping fine.”
She sips her coffee. “Just what I needed.”
I smile and sip my own.
“Any down days? Difficult days?”
“Not really. I’m feeling quite relaxed. We’ve had some challenging times, but I’ve managed them fairly well, I think.”
“Good. You look well, Peggy.”
“So do you.”
She smiles at that.
This conversation takes me back to St. Mary’s.
How many people were there desperate to numb their individual, deep-seated pain.
Sad, exhausted, worn-out faces. Normal people like you and me who hit hard times.
Women separated from their own children, their own flesh and blood.
How does a person ever truly move on from that?
“Sometimes my belongings go missing,” I say, and the words take me by surprise. I know I should not talk about things like this. I have to keep these thoughts to myself. They’ll put me back in the hospital if I say too much.
“What’s gone missing, honey?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing much.”
“Is it cash, or…?”
“Hair things. Scrunchies and clips, hair grips. My toothbrush. ChapStick. Just things.”
“Go on.”
“Most of my jewelry. Over the years. This thing and that. I’m down to one pair of pearl earrings now. And I don’t think they’re even real pearls.”
She checks around the boat with her eyes.
“Can you show me around, Peggy? I’ve never been on a boat like this before.”
We walk around and I see her checking the pantry and the bathroom.
“Where’s your fridge, honey?”
“We had to throw it away.” I panic and work hard to recover. “We’re getting a new one this weekend, I think.”
She nods thoughtfully.
I want to tell her he stole my novel. Impersonated me.
Pretended to be Peggy Jenkins and rewrote my own story.
Ruined it. I want to scream at her that he says we agreed when we did no such thing.
I would never have agreed to that. But then she will think I am insane and I will be committed all over again.
Detached from reality. Strong emotional reactions.
A propensity to lie. I want to tell her how he is a rare form of slow-growing cancer.
He moved in and turned malignant. Spread.
And he has eroded me year after year. Social Security documents going missing, him taking control of the checking account, him skewing my memories of my own mother.
I do not tell her. I want to say how he has somehow managed to get Sammy on his side.
How sometimes they look like a double act and I am left on the periphery and how I worry that may make our escape more complicated.
“How’s the medicine? Any new side effects? You feel OK on the tablets?”
“Fine.”
I do not tell her I have cut my dose down by half, and how that has made all the difference.
I feel like me again. Stronger than ever.
Angry and focused. I do not tell her I will cut them out completely soon.
A clear head ready to write a new book and earn enough so I can take care of my son someplace safe.
We talk about my fears and concerns, about my time on the ward, about me and Drew, about Sammy, about my cutting back my hours at the library.
“I’ve applied for a new position,” I say.
“Oh, that’s fabulous. Tell me more about it.”
“It’s a paid job.”
Part of my strategy. Anything to expedite our freedom.
“At the library?”
“Different one. The big library in the next town. Four days a week. Longer commute on the bus if I get it, which I probably won’t, but I thought I’d give it a go.”
First pay envelope. Buy two bus tickets. Go someplace far away.
We say our goodbyes and I wait for Drew to come home early from the yard.
“Well?” he says.
“What?”
“Nurse visited you. What did you say?”
“She was a social worker. We just talked about my recovery.”
He nods. “You talk about me?”
“No.”
“No? What did you talk about, then?”
“Me. Pills and my work.”
“Happy pills?”
I nod.
He cleans his fingernails with the tip of his pocketknife.
Rain starts tip-tapping on the roof of the boat.
He lights the fire from a kindling packet he constructed last night.
“How was the yard?”
“Oh, it speaks.”
“What?”
“It was the yard. Same as it ever was.”
“We talked a lot about money,” I say, grinding my teeth.
“Money?”
“Money, bank accounts, savings, retirement, bills.”
“You talked about my money?”
“I want to be more involved, Drew. If anything ever happens to you at the yard. I don’t know any of our details. I want access.”
“Anything ever happens to me?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“You’re right. You wouldn’t.”
“Can you write down our account numbers at least?”
I can’t help speaking out. Once I start I can’t quit. It’s like a drug.
He clears his throat. Cracks his knuckles. “I might do that, yeah. But, Peggy…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever talk about our private life with any mental hospital do-gooder again, right? Tell her you’re doing all right and leave it at that. I’ll give you account details in due time but don’t ever come asking for anything else, understood?”
He seems rattled. He knows I am taking myself back from him, tiny piece by tiny piece.
“OK.”
“I’m not looking after of this family, working my fingers to the bone at the scrapyard and dairy, then coming back here to focus on the book, only to have you gossiping about our private business with strangers.”
“OK, Drew.”
He is weakening.
“I’m always working at one or the other.
Remember that. Working with my hands or with my head.
No philandering, no going to a dive bar with the guys and getting hammered on payday, none of it.
Your job, love, is to make sure I can get on with my book at night.
No nagging, no interfering. If you can’t do that anymore then what use are you? ”