Chapter 47 Peggy
There wasn’t a single moment of blinding realization. More of a building of momentum: a snowball gaining speed. Perhaps Mary-Elizabeth gave that snowball the first push. I should thank her. Then the fog from the medication lifted and I was left with brutal, unforgiving clarity.
Every time I have the boat to myself, I search.
For my missing shoe, for my rings, my hair clips, my birth certificate.
Documents that might trace where the money has gone over the years.
I look frantically for answers, and for cash.
How much of this is down to me and how much is down to him?
It is partly my fault. I should have protested earlier.
I am partially responsible. But he pretended to be my brother and canceled the interview.
I know he did. How else could that have happened?
And yet we have not spoken of it. For a decade and a half I have lived, existed, in the shadow of a vague and largely unspoken threat.
A dark cloud that hangs heavy over every decision I make.
And now he and Sammy are so close it breaks my heart.
It is all I have ever wanted and now that it has finally happened I feel adrift, and sick with worry.
I remove the boards covering our diesel motor and probe the darkness below.
I look at the weed hatch to see if anything has been hidden close to the propeller shaft.
In the bedroom I lift the mattress and check behind the hot water tank.
Nothing. I take out every can and packet from the larder and all I find is fresh mice droppings.
After scrubbing with Clorox I continue my search.
Manically. If someone from St. Mary’s saw me through the window they would drag me back.
Thorough strip search to note down every single scar on my body.
They would count each one. An accurate catalog to use as a yardstick for the future.
They’d weigh me and then not tell me the number.
I would chat with the mental health team and they would not be at all shocked at my return.
That would be the most heartbreaking thing.
Me arriving back would be perfectly normal. Expected, even.
There would be sadness in Fatima’s eyes that I did not make it.
Instead of resting or eating or drinking, I search.
What has he done to me over these years?
My adult life has been shaped by his actions and needs.
So many specific needs to ensure he can reach his writing potential.
Detailed instructions and limits. There is nothing of mine in the gas locker or in the area where we keep the hooks and tiller.
Nothing of mine in the battery housing. I open up Sammy’s dinette bed and find the life preserver vests, each one scarred with mildew spots.
I take them out. Musty. I shake them frantically, but nothing.
I need to adjust my plan.
I don’t want to ask Mrs. Appleby for a loan but I might have no choice.
In the bathroom I search the cupboard under the sink.
The usual toiletries. Cotton balls and empty Tylenol packs.
Drew’s nail clippers, a well-used shaving brush, shaving soap in a dish, his razors, Old Spice deodorant.
Then I notice the floorboard underneath.
A small circle cut out of one corner. I poke my finger through and lift the plywood.
A water pump for the shower. Perfectly normal.
And, underneath that, a plastic Tupperware box full of screws and bolts, and an Old Holborn tobacco tin.
A crow caws outside on the canal bank. I take the small yellow-rimmed tin in both hands.
It is cold to the touch. I open the metal lid and inside I find every piece of jewelry I have ever owned.
I search through the items, at once delighted and disgusted.
Mom’s necklace is not here. I hold a pair of earrings, also from Mom, and the silver necklace I inherited from her aunt.
Seven rings, all of them sterling silver, three of them from him.
Another necklace with a pendant. Why is all of this under the sink?
I open the pendant. It once had a miniature photograph of Mom and a miniature photograph of her beloved aunt Dorothy. Not anymore. Both photographs are gone.
I stand but I sway, unsteady. I replace the tobacco box and place the boards back, my heart pounding. What do I do now? If I talk to the sheriff he’ll send me back to St. Mary’s, surely. I would sound completely insane. How do I find the exit to this maze?
Just find one and take it.
The boat sways.
Someone is here.
I close the door and dash out into the kitchen. Another boat passes us by. The man at the tiller waves and I look down.
They will be home soon.
The clock ticks on the wall and a rage builds in layers deep inside my chest. How dare he take my things.
How dare he. I stamp over to his desk. Locked bureau with locked drawers.
His trophy. A stack of Hemingway novels read and reread.
I try each drawer in turn. All secure. There might be money in here.
If I smash the bureau and destroy his locks I know it will be the end.
One way or the other, there will be no going back from that action.
Not with Drew’s desk, his papers, his sacred work.
The clock ticks.
Raindrops against loose windowpanes.
I keep watch for them.
The clock sounds louder than before, matching my own heart.
I will ask Mrs. Appleby. I’ll pay her back as quickly as I can, she knows I would.
Three of the padlocks have revolving number codes and the rest use keys.
I try the numbered ones. His birthday, my birthday, Sammy’s.
The date of our marriage. Nothing. They remain intact.
Hemingway’s birthday. It does not work. I reach up and take one of the Hemingway biographies, a book Drew has read at least a dozen times.
I flick to the end. To the timeline. The date of Ernest Hemingway’s death.
Two locks fail. Then, click. The third lock snaps open and I smile but I am also disturbed.
The day Hemingway died. I recall how he died: that image.
I pull the drawer. It is tight. Wood scraping against wood.
Early drafts of a novel. Paper turning yellow.
Beautiful prose, as always. Achingly beautiful.
Clean and direct. Taut. But this is all about him.
His head. There is nothing of me in here.
None of my possessions. I am violating his privacy.
I lock it up again and try the other numbered padlocks.
The clock ticks on the wall and I fail to open the locks.
Does one of these drawers contain my birth certificate?
My missing shoe? I sound insane even to myself.
I try the date we moved into the bungalow.
The date his parents died. Click. A lock loosens in my hand and the door creaks open.
He uses death days for his locks. Notebooks and drafts of query letters submitted to literary agents, some in New York, some dating back more than a decade.
A stack of rejection letters filed in date order.
He’s been close to signing a few times, but he complained they wanted compromises, or had editorial feedback, or wished to discuss tweaks.
Each letter has the word “Incorrect” written on it over and over again in neat red ink.
Incorrect.
I try the next numbered lock. He wouldn’t?
I try my own mother’s death date. The lock opens abruptly and I stand staring at it.
How dare he use that date. The drawer is empty save for a dozen or so Staedtler pencils all sharpened down to nubs, and one Moleskine notebook.
There are sketches inside. Heartbreaking poems. A sheet of paper falls out.
It has a watermark, the expensive paper he uses for his finished work, to send off to esteemed publishers in Los Angeles and New York.
I pick it up and immediately recognize his handwriting.
Eulogy.
I look around me, furtive, on guard.
Eulogy?
It is with an overwhelming sense of sadness that we gather together here today. But out of that sadness, there is a chance we can each find beauty and fresh light. I ask that we embrace forgiveness, understanding, and, perhaps most of all, hope.
My pulse is racing, and my chest rises and falls with each panicked breath. He wrote this for my mother’s funeral? He never read out a eulogy. I read a eulogy. A poem written in the 1950s. A poem I found in the library.
I read on.
We may never understand all the reasons. We may never grasp her true pain. But I believe, in all honesty, she would have wanted us to celebrate her joy rather than dwell on her battles.
I freeze.
Margaret was a wonderful wife and mother.
My arms turn to lead and I cannot take a breath. What is this? Why would he write such a thing?
We will never forget her humor and her kindness. Margaret, Peggy, Mom, will live on through us forevermore.
I am ice cold.
I ask that we all learn to live with the choice that she made. We will never understand it, leaving behind a child, but we must respect it as we respected her.
The choice that she made?
My mouth is wide open.
The choice?
She endured her struggles. Many of these will be familiar to you, but some she kept to herself. I can say now, from the heart, that she is released. She was a fine woman and now, at last, she suffers no pain.