25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Margaret’s heart had skipped when Roger awoke three days ago.
She longed to speak with him, to show him how much she cared.
He seemed to be in his right mind now that the medications were wearing off, but something felt different.
It seemed as though a stone wall had been built between them.
She had put up her own walls when she first started falling for Roger, but they easily broke.
Roger had been through a lot—more than Margaret ever had—and healing would take time.
But was Roger ready to heal? Was he ready to build his life from the ground up without a job or a home?
Margaret’s father hadn’t heard much from Graydon, but Marjorie had telephone calls from him.
So far, little news had come regarding the trial or whether Roger’s charges were dropped. Time would have to tell.
While Roger stayed, he’d have to make the best of it.
So, Margaret decided to ask him to accompany her on a walk.
She had yet to have one, mostly because of her worry, and Roger had been cooped inside for three days.
He needed time to himself, but he also needed encouragement, just as Margaret had after her accident.
Her family had been there for her, and now she must do the same for Roger.
It was ten in the morning, a half hour after Roger’s breakfast, so Margaret knocked on the door, hoping she wasn’t disturbing him.
“Come in.”
Margaret took in a deep breath and opened the door with trembling hands.
She had been longing to spend time with him but was anxious to know where they stood.
Roger sat on his bed, dressed in his good clothes—a gray sweater vest and khaki pants.
The room was extremely dim—the curtains closed and the lights off.
This brought her flashbacks from the asylum.
However, Ivy Hill wasn’t one; it was a place of freedom for Roger to recover.
“How are you feeling today?”
Roger locked eyes for a moment. “Still a little weak.”
Margaret nodded. “Well, with our kitchen staff’s cooking, it shouldn’t be long until your strength is up.”
“Maybe so.”
Roger didn’t seem too enthused to see her. He answered shortly with no emotion, not even bothering to continue the conversation, as if they were mere strangers.
“Is there something you need?” he asked, making chill bumps rise on Margaret’s arm.
“I was hoping . . . you could take a stroll with me.”
Roger removed a piece of lint from his vest. “Why?”
“I just thought you’d like some fresh air.”
“No, thank you.”
Margaret couldn’t stand Roger’s cold tone and the firm distance between them.
They were back to the beginning—where Roger distanced himself from her, questioning every ounce of effort she made to make him feel better.
Margaret scratched the back of her neck as it grew sticky with sweat.
She faced the doorway, ready to take her leave.
When she touched the doorknob, she closed her eyes, breathing slowly.
Margaret couldn’t take this anymore—seeing Roger suffer because of her. She needed to make this right.
Margaret faced Roger, crossing her arms. “So, you’d rather stay in this dark room and pout?”
Roger’s eyes shot at her. “I’m not pouting. Is it so bad that I simply crave some alone time?”
A wave of guilt washed over Margaret as she watched him act this way, as if he wanted her to leave. Determined not to abandon him, she sat beside him. “No, it’s not wrong, but . . . I want to help you.”
“Help me?” Roger sneered. “You can’t help me. The damage is done.” He sighed, rubbing his face. “I cannot see a future beyond these walls . . . or any walls, for that matter.”
“But you haven’t taken your first step. Take some fresh air with me. It will help you feel a little better. I have a place I have been wanting to show you for a while now.”
“Is that what made you feel better?” Roger snapped coldly. “How many walks did it take to finally ride in an automobile?”
Fury raced through Margaret’s veins. “It was you! You helped me, and I want to do the same for you!”
“I doubt that.”
Margaret stood from the bed. “You are so stubborn! I am here, making an effort to help you, and you are too bull-headed to see that!” Margaret huffed. “I thought I saw something good in you, Roger. I really did. I guess I was wrong. What we once had wasn’t real.”
Margaret’s feet echoed across the floor as she stormed away. As she yanked open the door, Roger’s voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Margaret, wait." He retrieved his coat from a chair. “I’m coming.”
She nodded, surprised the man was deciding to leave the room. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her anger. “Just . . . follow me then.”
Roger was quiet as he followed her down the stairs and the hallway.
They exited out the back door and proceeded down a trail that wasn’t far from the stables.
Roger tucked his hands inside his pockets as he paced steadily.
Margaret wasn’t in a hurry; after all, this was Roger’s first outing in what felt like ages.
“What did you want to show me?” Roger finally asked, breaking the silence.
Margaret smiled. “Just somewhere that I love the most. It gives me peace.”
After climbing a lush green hill, they stepped into the meadow, which was in full bloom—richer than it had ever been before their departure. Wildflowers of every hue burst forth from the vibrant green earth, painting the landscape with splashes of color.
“This place is beautiful, Margaret,” Roger commented.
Margaret’s heart fluttered, returning to her favorite spot with the man she loved. She sighed. “There’s no better place.”
“I think this is the landscape Christopher Marlowe pictured in his poetry.”
Margaret chuckled. “I have still yet to read that poem you talk about.”
“You’re missing out on one of the greatest poets.”
Margaret tucked her wild strands of hair back as the wind tousled them. “I have yet to hear poems from my favorite poet, though.”
You have a favorite poet?” A hint of excitement lingered in his voice.
Margaret nodded, her cheeks flushing. “I do, and I believe he is going to be the best in the world.”
“Who is he?”
“He is here with me now.”
Roger stopped in his tracks. “Margaret . . . you should let that go.”
“Why so? You told me yourself you used to write poetry, and you nearly completed a master’s degree in English.”
“Used to,” Roger reminded. “That was many years ago, and I haven’t written a poem in years, let alone anything.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Not even a little one?” Margaret teased.
"No, not even a little one.”
Margaret continued walking, her skirt blowing in the cool, spring breeze. “I don’t believe that.”
Roger shook his head and sighed. “You won’t give up on that, will you? Teasing me won’t start a poem.”
Margaret bent and picked a pink wildflower. “It will if I give you inspiration.”
“And what would that be? Are you trying to make me angry at you? Dear Margaret, if you keep this up, you might end up with an entire anthology dedicated to my hatred for you.”
Margaret giggled. “If that will give you inspiration, be my guest.”
“I’m being serious,” Roger said stiffly. “I have lost all inspiration for anything.”
Margaret smiled, handing him the flower she picked. “What color is this flower?”
Roger looked at her blankly. “Pink.”
“What other ways could you describe it?”
Roger shrugged. “A pink flower?”
“And? What else?”
Roger sighed, rubbing the crease between his eyes. “Margaret, please. This is a silly game.”
“No, it’s not. What other ways could you describe it?” Margaret opened his palm and placed the flower inside. “How does it feel?”
Roger touched the petals between his thumb and index finger. “Soft.”
“How does it smell?”
He brought the flower to his nostrils. “Musky.”
Margaret stifled a giggle behind her hand. “All right, fair enough.”
Roger slouched with a huff. “Where is this going?”
Margaret tapped her chin. “I’m no writer, but if I’m not mistaken, writers use imagery—touch, taste, hearing, sight, and smell.” She placed her hand on Roger’s chest, just as she had during their first kiss. “Writing comes from here. How does it make you feel?”
Roger sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. “I don’t feel anything anymore, Margaret. I’m too damaged. My first days at the asylum, I felt alone and abandoned. As days went on, I felt I was where I belonged. I was out of sight, forgotten. I didn’t have a purpose outside those walls.”
“You were on strong medication,” Margaret reminded. “It made you say and feel things that aren’t true.”
“But I felt that way before then . . . It was you that gave me feelings of peace, but now, I realize I didn’t deserve them . . . just like how you deserve better than me.”
Margaret shook her head. “No, Roger. That isn’t true.” She stepped back, removing her hand from his chest. “As much as it flatters me that you believe peace came from me, it doesn’t. It comes from God, who is the Author of Peace.”
“If there is a God, Ian wouldn’t have died.”
“Roger, Ian died for his country. You couldn’t have prevented what happened.”
“I could have prevented him from enlisting,” Roger snapped. “It was irresponsible, leaving him alone.”
Margaret shook her head. “None of that is your fault. You must learn to forgive yourself.”
“No,” Roger said. “I could never forgive myself for what I’ve done.”
“Is that how Ian would want you to think?”
Roger remained silent, pressing his lips together.
Margaret took hold of his right hand. “You may not think you can be forgiven, but God can forgive. Accepting His son as your personal Savior, and the atonement for your sins, is the first step.”
“I’ve heard that too many times,” Roger said. “I don’t believe it’s true. It just doesn’t make sense that an all-perfect God could forgive someone like me.”
“You’re not the only one who thinks that way,” Margaret said gently. “No one deserves God’s forgiveness, but we can be saved. Is that what you want? Forgiveness?”
Roger wiped his face. “I should go back. My head is hurting again.”
Margaret nodded. “All right.”
She followed him through the thick grass and stems of wildflowers; however, she knew the return was him avoiding the topic.
When confronted with the truth of God’s forgiveness, Margaret had acted the same way, but she believed Roger would come to terms with the Lord in time.
Roger would be in her prayers every day until then . . . and beyond that.