Maggie #2
One of the guys she saw talking to Bridget in the lobby earlier, Phil or Bill, walks by them and nods to Rhonda and locks eyes for a second with Maggie.
They pass a big utility shed where the tractors and golf carts and things like that are kept, and one of the large barns that’s used for activities and events.
There is a charming wooden sign with a handful of arrows pointing different ways down different paths, and Maggie feels the magic she felt one evening a long time ago when her parents bought Chip his Mustang, a feeling she hasn’t felt in forever.
Rhonda holds a small bag in her hand that she picked up when they were still in the main building, and Maggie wonders what’s inside.
The building is simple but well maintained. There are shrubs in front and bunches of yellow marigolds planted by a white wrought iron bench. Rhonda opens the front door with a key before handing it to Maggie. “This will open the front door and your room. Keep it on you at all times.”
They walk up the switchback stairs. The building smells like mothballs and industrial plastic. A few doors are open along the hallway, and through one door Maggie sees a tall, thin girl with long blond hair applying face cream in a mirror. She waves shyly at Rhonda.
They walk by another door where two girls are spread out on bunk beds reading magazines and laughing. Someone is playing an Elvis record in another room, and a guy steps into the hallway but sees Rhonda and quickly goes back the other way.
Rhonda watches him leave and pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is supposed to be a female-only floor, but God only knows what happens after hours.” She takes a breath and opens the door to room 212. “Voilà.”
The room is basic and still. Bunk beds with a maroon bedspread on each mattress and one small table with a lamp.
A dresser and a tiny sink with a medicine cabinet.
There is a closet with a few empty wire hangers and a trash can.
“Not our honeymoon accommodations, unfortunately,” Rhonda says.
“But clean, right? Good temperature, too. The windows open if you like a breeze.”
Maggie looks around. The room buzzes with stillness, and the overhead light glows yellow.
It’s neither warm nor cold, and she hears nothing.
You’d never know those other people’s rooms are so close by, but maybe they’re all being quiet because the boss is in the building.
She tries to imagine sleeping in the bed, but she can’t.
The weight of leaving home presses into her and she starts to cry.
“Oh dear.”
“I’m sorry.” She swipes at her eyes. “I’m sorry, the room’s fine.”
Rhonda places her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “You’ve been through so much, but you’re here, and I hope this can be a new start. Whatever you want it to be, right?”
Maggie nods. She remembers being in kindergarten when a boy called her a crybaby. She’d stared down the hallway to where Chip’s classroom was and wished he’d come out so she could feel better. “I just feel lost.”
Rhonda straightens the curtains. She adjusts the small lampshade. “Understandable. But you made a good first step, right? All we can do is take steps forward.” Her face looks flat then. “I think you’re in the process of discovering what you need next.”
Maggie puts her bag down on the dresser and thinks about taking out her pajamas and sleeping as long as she can.
She always hoped sleep would erase her worry, her terrible feelings, the scenes of Chip in the hospital that keep replaying themselves over and over, but she never sleeps well enough.
“I’m glad I’m here, and I look forward to starting tomorrow. ” She hopes her face looks brave.
“If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate.” Rhonda hands her the bag. “Some of our French dinner rolls and butter in case you’re hungry later. What could be better, right?” She opens one of the sealed plastic cups by the small sink and fills it with water.
Maggie drinks. “Thank you. This is so nice.”
Rhonda walks to the door and glances back. “Do get some sleep, okay? Big day tomorrow.” She winks. “And try not to worry.”
Maggie watches her leave. She walks around the room and wonders if they’ll assign her a roommate at some point or if she’ll be alone in here. She should walk down the hall and say hi to whoever’s out there and see where the bathroom and showers are. A hot shower would feel heavenly right now.
But she doesn’t go anywhere. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her clump of jewelry, her favorite books: A Wrinkle in Time, The Outsiders, and Ariel by Sylvia Plath.
A collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems. She unpacks Reuben, Chip’s old teddy bear, and a few stacks of clothes.
Her sketchbook and charcoal pencils. Her watercolor set. Why did she pack so much?
Outside, the sun is fading. She switches off the overhead light and turns on the small lamp, and it glows.
She imagines someone outside seeing her framed in the window, just the shadow of her face, the dim light.
Could they ever know what a very small voice in her head is saying—that if this doesn’t work, she doesn’t know what she’ll do?
She might just give up. She shakes her head. Of course she would never do that. Of course not.