38. Maisy
38
MAISY
“I’ll drive you to Vera’s house since I’m picking her up anyway,” Pam says from my bedroom doorway.
I stuff an extra shirt in my tote bag because I’m staying at Jensen’s again tonight. More and more of my belongings have made their way to his house in recent weeks. I’m a tampon box away from moving in.
“Picking her up?” I ask.
“I’m taking her shopping today. The guys will finish faster if she’s out of the way.”
With my bag slung over my shoulder, I meet her in the hallway. “Thank you, Pam.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “I told you I’m happy to help however I can, and I meant it.”
“I’m still grateful,” I say. She’s shown me more support in the past three months than my parents did in twenty-eight years, a kindness I’ll never take for granted.
“We better get going. Can’t let everyone else have all the fun.” she winks, and I shake my head, chuckling. It’s not often that Pam’s sassy or sarcastic, but when she is, she’s golden.
We get Vera out of the house without any fuss. In fact, she’s feeling good today and seems excited about going shopping with a friend, though she and Pam were never close.
Soon after they leave, a convoy of trucks and trailers rolls down the street, led by a black Jeep with the top off and a yummy man whose dark hair whips in the wind. Jensen partially blocks the driveway with his vehicle to ensure no one tries to park there.
I thought we were planning to install a ramp and a couple of handrails, but the number of people with tools and machinery pouring out of vehicles alludes to a larger project.
“What is all this?” I ask.
Jensen gives me a genuine smile, a sign he’s in good spirits today, but agitation lurks beneath his surface. He looks exhausted, the circles under his eyes darkening from lack of sleep and too many nights in his garage. I’m worried his mind will also start to decay, and he’ll become a living corpse, buried under the pressure to be mayor. If he doesn’t withdraw soon, I can’t imagine how stressed he’ll become.
“I brought the cavalry. You just sit back and let the magic happen.” He winks and buckles a tool belt around his waist. And damn, hammers and tattoos make an attractive couple.
Menchy’s apron sags, loaded down with too many tools. He sets up a command post in the driveway, forming a makeshift table out of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. He has a notepad in one hand, and tucked under the other arm is a…megaphone?
Lydia appears with two trays of drinks. Close behind her, Tom carries a third tray along with a giant paper bag with his bakery’s new muffin logo on it.
“We brought breakfast for everyone,” Lydia says, her bright white teeth on display as usual.
“Thanks,” I say. My head spins from the outpouring of generosity and the flurry of activity around us. “Follow me, and we’ll set everything on the kitchen table.”
I help them lay out a breakfast buffet of several to-go cups of coffee and an assortment of pastries, and Tom joins the workers outside once he’s satisfied with the display. When I reach for a styrofoam coffee cup to be nice, Lydia stops me with a pat on the shoulder.
“I brought you an iced mint chocolate.” She hands me a plastic cup with a brown liquid, which I’d assumed was iced coffee.
“Mint what?” I ask, accepting the drink from her.
“Hot chocolate with mint, but it’s iced.” Her shrug suggests I should know about this magic potion of which she speaks, but I don’t.
Bringing the straw to my lips, I take a tentative sip. My eyes must light up with joy because a smug grin appears on her face. I suck down half of the rich, sweet drink before deciding it’s too delicious not to savor.
With a nervous chuckle, I glance around Vera’s house and say, “I don’t really know what’s going on right now.”
Lydia pulls me into a side hug. “They say it takes a village to raise a child, and everyone in this village agreed we didn’t do enough for one particular daughter of Walford. So here we are. Better late than never.”
My first reaction is to think they’re here out of pity. I don’t want their help if that’s the case. “I’m sure they have other things to do on a Sunday,” I say.
“When Jensen put out the call, every one of us jumped at the opportunity to help you out. We know about Vera’s situation, and you can’t manage it alone. We pull together in hard times, and I’m sorry you’re finding this out only now,” she says. Pressure builds in my eyes and throat as she walks with me to the front porch, her arm still wrapped around my shoulders. “Tom and I have to get back to our shops. You go on and relax, and these folks will handle the rest.”
“Thanks, Lydia.”
After she and Tom leave, I sit on the bench, my jaw permanently unhinged, and take in the activity. People work together as Menchy barks orders to the men and women flowing in and out of the house. The sounds of saws scraping, hammers banging, and drills whirring fill the air.
Everyone’s here of their own free will, and they’re here for me, according to Lydia. I never imagined this. Personally, I haven’t experienced this side of Walford. I’ve seen how folks rally around their injured sports heroes and support the families in mourning, but I’ve done nothing to deserve the generosity of this community.
As I sit on the bench, leaning against a house devoid of affection, love surrounds me. All thanks to one man. A man who continues to become more agitated as the morning goes on.
Jensen’s responses are clipped and snappy to the point people stop approaching him altogether, eyeing him warily instead. The bigger the stress cloud builds around him, the closer people examine him. Menchy pulls him aside and tells him to go home because there’s not much left to do. Self-control leaks from Jensen as he struggles not to disrespect Menchy by speaking out of turn or saying something hurtful to the older man.
I stride toward him to see if I can calm him down. Sliding my palm against his and twining our fingers together, I say, “Hey. I need your help inside for a minute. Follow me.”
I’m surprised his neck bones don’t crack when his head snaps to attention at my request. I lead him to the guest bedroom and urge him to sit on the bed, and I straddle his lap.
“You said you need my help.” His tone carries a tinge of irritation, though it’s not directed at me.
With my arms draped around his neck, I speak my gratitude into his ear. “Thank you for everything. You’re such a good man, and I want you to know how much I appreciate you.”
“Maisy.” Huffing, he grabs my wrists to unhook my arms, but I grip him tighter.
“I mean it. Now just hold me for a few minutes. This has been an emotional morning, and I need you to hold me.”
His arms fall limply to his sides, loose hands resting on my hips. “This is reverse psychology,” he says.
“Is it working?”
A soft sigh passes through his lips. “Yes. I needed you to hold me too.”
With my head on his shoulder, I toy with his wavy hair. After a few seconds of comforting one another, I say, “I have a genius idea.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Let’s buy a tiny island with room for only the two of us and forget the rest of the world. I’ll do the hunting?—”
“Will you be naked when you hunt me?”
“Hush.” My laugh is a gentle puff of air on his neck. “I’ll hunt for meat while you gather berries and shit for soup.”
He chuckles. “Your storytelling sucks.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Whatever. You get the gist.”
“You and me,” he whispers.
“You and me.” I press a closed-mouth kiss to his lips to fortify our connection, but we don’t take things further. Sometimes the simplest gestures convey the most meaning. “Let’s wrap this up and go home.”
My referring to his house as home is a slip of the tongue, but saying it feels right.
“Lead the way, beautiful.”
It’s strange to stand in Vera’s yard, waiting for nostalgia to creep in when I’ve never given it much thought. It doesn’t creep. The only happy memories in this house involved Jensen, and this realization strengthens my resolve to step foot inside one last time.
At the sound of his Jeep approaching, I let out a grateful exhale. It’s time to put an end to my one-sided relationship with my mother, and I’m glad I don’t have to stand on my own.
“Ready?” he asks as he strolls toward me.
The natural highlights in his hair catch the morning sun, brightening the dark shade of brown. His green eyes glow with pride when he stops at my side and offers a steady hand.
I nod, feeling confident and strong. “Ready.”
With my hand in his, we step inside. I survey the changes made to Vera’s house last week to improve her quality of life and can’t help the laugh that climbs up my throat. The good people of Walford went above and beyond for a woman who wrote them off years ago. She snubbed them after Logan died, yet they came out in droves to show their support and offer their help with whatever she needed. Months ago, I would’ve been talking about Vera. But now I’m not. I’m talking about myself.
Everyone showed up for me despite the poor way I’ve treated them for years because I thought no one cared. I allowed my parents and brother to make me feel unworthy of love. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Unfortunately, Vera’s napping in her bedroom—which is how she spends her days now that she’s on a leave of absence from work—so my grand farewell will have to wait until she wakes. To kill time, and because this could be my last chance, I tiptoe toward Logan’s bedroom door with Jensen following close behind. Resting a hand on the knob, I waver in my decision to open it. Naturally, I default to worrying if I’ll upset Vera by entering the sacred space.
Behind me, Jensen nods in encouragement. Tossing out the last of my reservations, I twist the knob and push open the door. Shock steals my breath as I take in the sight. The room has been cared for, judging by the lack of dust. However, everything looks like it did the last day Logan stood in the space and packed his bag for the trip to the lake.
Dirty socks lay on the floor next to the bed. An open soda can sits on the nightstand next to a couple of receipts and some loose change. The bed is unmade, the covers tossed back like he woke in a hurry that morning.
Jensen and I wander around the room, examining everything as if seeing it all for the first time. The closet door is open, revealing clothes draped on hangars and spilling out of the laundry hamper. Logan’s small but beloved sneaker collection is organized by color on a shoe rack. He loved displaying his favorite brands, which is why the famous logo on a shoe box covered by a pair of jeans draws my attention.
Pulling the box from the shelf, I know right away it doesn’t hold shoes. I flip the lid off and let it fall to the floor. A stack of birthday cards secured with a rubber band rests on top, not a shocking discovery. I set the cards on the shelf and riffle through dozens of photos from his football years.
In the photos, he stands in various poses with my parents, his coaches, and teammates. One picture catches my eye, because it appears to be the only one with me in the background. Jensen peers over my shoulder, studying it with me.
The image shows my dad walking next to Logan, who’s sweaty in his middle school uniform. Their wide smiles and arms draped across each other’s shoulders are expected. It’s an image I’d seen in real time, over and over again. The two of them celebrating the win as they walked toward the parking lot while my mom captured the moment with her phone’s camera.
What brings the tears to my eyes is the girl in the background, using her coat as a blanket while she sleeps on a bleacher. There’s no one around her. She’s all alone amid the revelry and excitement. Forgotten.
My familiar friend, rejection, sits heavy on my chest. I couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven when the picture was taken. I’m sure if I searched around the house, I’d find many more like it from the years before or after. And I’d ask myself the question I wanted to ask my parents, but never found the courage. What about me?
Jensen pulls me against his chest and wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You deserved better.”
Sliding the box onto the shelf, I hold the photo higher and have a better look at my dad. I haven’t seen or talked to him in over a decade because I walked away after high school. Football stole my family from me first, followed by the selfish claws of grief. The only reason I’ve held on to my mother this long is because I lived with her when Logan died. I saw her every day and hoped she would step through the fog and see me in return. I never gave my dad the chance.
“I want to go see him.”
“Today?” Jensen asks, unable to hide the wariness in his tone.
I’m not often spontaneous, but I need closure. What better time than the present? I need to find out if Richard Donovan forgot about me like he forgot about the girl on the bleacher. I want to know if he’s ever tried reaching out to me like I reached for him when I was a child who craved a parent’s love.
“Right now,” I say, answering Jensen’s question.
Photo in hand, I push past him and storm out of the room without bothering to shut Logan’s bedroom door. Jensen’s on my heels, cursing as he rushes after me.
“Maisy.”
“I’m going,” I say, not giving him a chance to change my mind.
“Let me drive.”
“I’m going alone.”
He catches up to me and grabs my arm. “Dammit, Maisy, stop. Just take a breath.” When he reaches up to cup my face, I bat his hand away. “Birdie?—”
“Don’t touch me right now.” The longer I stand here, the more upset I become for reasons unclear to me. Perhaps I’m looking for a fight. A fight means there’s something worth fighting for.
Sensing my rising anger, Jensen pulls his keys from his pocket. “I’ll drive you. You don’t have to go alone.”
All I can manage is a stiff nod before he guides me to his Jeep.
Thirty-seven minutes later, I’m knocking on the front door of a simple brick home, one town over. Jensen stands a few feet behind me, his presence both a comfort and a menace. Tension emanates from him, as palpable as my own. When the door swings open, I stumble back a step, but he reaches out a hand to steady me.
“Maisy?” The friendly, baritone voice I remember singing to me when I was in preschool pitches high with surprise.
Richard Donovan looks almost the same as he did when I last saw him in person. His black hair is peppered with more white and thinner at the front. With his thick brows raised at the sight of me on his doorstep, the grooves in his forehead appear. A happy spark of recognition flashes in his hazel eyes when he notices Jensen. That spark upsets me, but his next words fill me with rage.
“Jensen, it’s so good to see you, man. Been a long time.” Smiling, Richard extends a hand.
I never expect Jensen to be rude and don’t fault him for accepting the handshake, though he does so with reluctance. His hesitation causes the happy spark in Richard’s eyes to die an instant death.
“Do you see me?” I ask, my jaw tight and hands fisted at my sides.
Startled by my question and obvious annoyance, Richard’s widened gaze bounces between me and Jensen. “I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever seen me?” I shove the crumpled photo at his chest.
Clearly confused about why I’m not overjoyed to see him, my father frowns as he looks from me to the image. “What is this?”
Jabbing the photo with a finger, I say, “This is a forgotten daughter.”
While he examines the picture in his hand, I study him, unblinking, as I watch for any sign of guilt. I catch the slight wince when his eyes land on the girl sleeping in the background. That wince tells me it wasn’t the first or last time my family came close to leaving me behind at a game.
Richard squeezes the back of his neck and glances around the neighborhood to see if we have an audience. “Maisy, please. Come inside.”
“I’m not going inside. I came here looking for confirmation, and you’ve already given it to me.”
“Confirmation of what?” he asks, his incredulous gaze flicking back and forth between me and Jensen. Why he keeps eyeing Jensen for help, I don’t know. Richard won’t find rescue from the man thrumming with displeasure at my back.
Since my father can’t seem to draw the right conclusion based on what I’ve presented so far, I help him along by saying, “That you and Vera never gave a shit about me. ”
He gasps and has the nerve to gesture at the photo to support his argument. “That’s not true at all. You were there with us. At practices and games?—”
“All you cared about was Logan and football. No one asked me what I wanted. Or what I enjoyed doing. Even after he died, neither of you showed any interest in me.”
Richard flinches at the word “died,” but I’m here to be honest and lay out the facts. I’m not here to sugarcoat history.
“I’m sorry if it seemed like we forgot about you,” he says. “Things were hard for all of us after your brother passed. Your mom and I talked about how you were dealing with everything, but you seemed to be okay. Then we drifted apart, and I guess neither of us checked in with you. We should have.”
After their divorce, my parents remained civil. Some people referred to them as friends, saying they were better suited as an unmarried couple. They received praise for their ability to co-parent without contention. The truth is they weren’t co-parenting. They could merely set aside their differences and focus on the common ground they shared in the glory of their superstar son. Another fact I bestow upon Richard.
“You drifted apart because Logan wasn’t there to tie you together anymore. Because I wasn’t worth fighting for enough that you’d both stick around for me.”
His expression is both pleading and exasperated, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “That’s not true. Maisy, we lost our son?—”
“But you had a daughter who was still alive. One who needed her parents before Logan died and after. Do you know…not once did either of you ask how I was doing when he died? Not once did you realize I was holding the two of you up like an invisible pillar. I didn’t expect a thanks, but I thought you’d at least see me there. The living, breathing daughter holding your hand through the grief. But you didn’t. When the town gathered around you, you let go of my hand and left me outside the circle. You both just left me there. Alone. Like you always did.” My voice cracks, and I struggle to keep the years of heartbreak from swallowing me whole. I won’t let the heartbreak win.
Jensen’s reassuring hand on my lower back flexes, reminding me of his presence and sending me strength. I sweep aside my self-pity and ask my last question, the one screaming the loudest in my mind.
“Did you try to find me after I left Walford?”
The creases in Richard’s face deepen even more. “How? You were all over the world, and I had no way to reach you.”
Hello, anger. Welcome back.
I take a step away from him, preparing to retreat because I’ve learned everything I needed to know, and then some. “There’s always a way if you want something badly enough.”
Sensing I’m about to flee, my father reaches for me. “Maisy?—”
“No!” I put up a hand to halt him when he steps forward. “Just…no.”
Turning on my heel, I rush to Jensen’s car, aware of him and Richard having a quick exchange of words. I tune them out. The only things I have room for in my head right now are unbridled fury and the overwhelming need to run far away from here.