The Wish Page 10

  * * *

  On Friday, after waking from her coma-like sleep and puttering around the apartment, Maggie swallowed some flavorless instant oatmeal while texting Mark her plans to meet him later at the gallery. She also made a reservation at the Atlantic Grill and arranged for a car pickup after dinner, since finding an Uber or cab in that neighborhood in the evening was often impossible. With all that accomplished, she went back to bed. Since a later-than-usual night was on tap, Maggie needed to be rested enough not to fall face-first into her dinner plate. She didn’t set the alarm and slept another three hours. Only then did she start getting ready.

  The thing is, Maggie thought, when a face is as gaunt as a skeleton’s, with skin as fragile as tissue paper, there’s only so much you can do to appear presentable. One glimpse of her baby-fuzz hair and anyone would know she was knocking at death’s door. But she had to make an attempt, and after her bath, she took her time with her makeup, trying to add color (life) to her cheeks; next, she applied three different shades of lipstick before she found one that seemed remotely natural.

  She had a choice about the hair—scarf or hat—and finally decided on a red wool beret. She thought about wearing a dress but knew she’d freeze, so she opted for pants with a thick, nubbly sweater that added substance to her frame. As always, her necklace was in place, and she donned a lovely bright cashmere scarf to keep her neck warm. When she stepped back to appraise herself in the mirror, she felt she looked almost as good as she had before chemotherapy started.

  Collecting her purse, she took a couple more pills—the pain wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but no reason to risk it—and called an Uber. Pulling up to the gallery a few minutes after closing time, she saw Mark through the window, discussing one of her photographs with a couple in their fifties. Mark offered the slightest of waves when Maggie stepped inside and hurried to her office. On her desk was a small stack of mail; she was quickly sorting through it when Mark suddenly tapped on her open door.

  “Hey, sorry. I thought they’d make a decision before you arrived, but they had a lot of questions.”

  “And?”

  “They bought two of your prints.”

  Amazing, she thought. Early in the life of the gallery, weeks could go by without the sale of even a single print of hers. And while the sales did increase with the growth of her career, the real renown came with her Cancer Videos. Fame did indeed change everything, even if the fame was for a reason she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Mark walked into the office before suddenly pulling up short. “Wow,” he said. “You look fantastic.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve been more tired than usual, so I’ve been sleeping a lot.”

  “Are you sure you’re still up for this?”

  She could see the worry in his expression. “It’s Luanne’s gift, so I have to go. And besides, it’ll help me get into the Christmas spirit.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to it ever since you invited me. Are you ready? Traffic is going to be terrible tonight, especially in this weather.”

  “I’m ready.”

  After turning out the lights and locking the door, they stepped into the frigid night. Mark raised a hand, flagging down a cab, and held Maggie’s elbow as she crawled in.

  On the ride to Midtown, Mark filled her in on the customers and let her know that Jackie Bernstein had returned to purchase the Trinity sculpture she’d been admiring. It was an expensive piece—and worth it, in Maggie’s opinion, if only as an investment. In the past five years, the value of Trinity’s art had skyrocketed. Nine of Maggie’s photos had sold as well—including those last two—and Mark assured her that he had been able to get all the shipments out before she’d arrived.

  “I was ducking into the back whenever I had a spare minute, but I wanted to make sure to get them out today. A lot of them are intended as gifts.”

  “What would I ever do without you?”

  “Probably hire someone else.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You forget that a lot of people applied for—and didn’t get—the position.”

  “Did they?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “How would I?”

  He had a point, she realized. “I also want to thank you for shouldering the whole load without Luanne, especially over the holidays.”

  “You’re welcome. I enjoy talking with people about your work.”

  “And Trinity’s work.”

  “Of course,” he added. “But his are a little intimidating. I’ve learned that with them, it’s usually better to listen more and speak less. People who are interested in his work generally know more than I do.”

  “You have a knack for it, though. Did you ever think about being a curator or running your own gallery? Maybe getting a master’s degree in art history instead of divinity?”

  “No,” he said. His tone was good-natured but determined. “I know the path I’m supposed to take in life.”

  I’m sure you do, she thought. “When does that start? Your path, I mean?”

  “Classes begin next September.”

  “Have you already been accepted?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be attending the University of Chicago.”

  “With Abigail?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good for you,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder what the college experience would have been like.”

  “You went to community college.”

  “I mean a four-year school, with dorm life and parties and listening to music while playing Frisbee in the quad.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “And going to classes and studying and writing papers.”

  “Oh yeah. That too.” She grinned. “Did you tell Abigail we were going to the ballet tonight?”

  “Yeah, and she’s a little jealous about it. She made me promise to bring her one day.”

  “How’s the family reunion going?”

  “The house is chaotic and noisy all the time. But she loves it. One of her brothers is in the air force and he came in from Italy. She hasn’t seen him since last year.”

  “I’ll bet her parents are thrilled to have everyone around.”

  “They are. I guess they’ve been building a gingerbread house. A massive one. They do it every year.”

  “And had your boss not needed you, you could have helped them.”

  “It would definitely be a learning experience. I’m not very handy in the kitchen.”

  “And your parents? I heard you mention to Trinity that they’re abroad now?”

  “They’re in Jerusalem today and tomorrow. They’ll be in Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. They texted some pictures from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.” He pulled out his phone to show her. “This trip is something my parents have wanted to do for years, but they waited until I finished college. So that I’d be able to come home during school breaks.” Mark put his phone back into his pocket. “Where did you go? The first time you left the country, I mean?”

  “Vancouver, Canada,” Maggie answered. “Mainly because it was driving distance. I spent a weekend taking photos in Whistler after a major ice storm had rolled through.”

  “I still haven’t ever been out of the country.”

  “You have to experience it,” she said. “Visiting other places changes your perspective. It helps you understand that no matter where you are, or what country you’re in, people are pretty much the same everywhere.”

  Traffic began to slow as they exited the West Side Highway, then slowed even more as they made their way east on the cross streets. Despite the cold, the sidewalks were jammed; she saw people carrying shopping bags and lining up near corner food vendors; others hurried home from work. Eventually they reached the point where they could see the lighted windows of Lincoln Center, which left them with the option of either sitting in an idling cab for another ten or fifteen minutes or getting out and walking.

  They decided to walk and s
lowly made their way through a throng that extended beyond the front doors. Maggie kept her arms crossed and shifted from one foot to the other in hopes of staying warm, but thankfully the line moved quickly, and they entered the lobby after only a few minutes. Directed by the ushers, they found their seats in the first tier of the balcony of the David H. Koch Theater.

  They continued to chat quietly before the show, taking in their surroundings and watching the seats fill with a mix of adults and children. In time, the lights dimmed, the music came up, and the audience was introduced to Christmas Eve at the Stahlbaum house.

  As the tale unfolded, Maggie was transfixed by the dancers’ grace and beauty, their soaring, delicate movements animating the dreamlike notes of Tchaikovsky’s score. Occasionally Maggie peeked over at Mark, noting his rapt attention. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the stage, reminding her that he was a midwestern boy who’d probably never seen anything like it.

  When the ballet was over, they joined the festive crowds as they poured onto Broadway. She was grateful that the Atlantic Grill was just across the street. Feeling cold and wobbly—maybe because of the pills, or because she’d eaten almost nothing all day—she looped her arm through Mark’s as they approached the crosswalk. He slowed his pace, allowing her to use him for support.

  It wasn’t until they were seated at their table that she began to feel a bit better.

  “Are you sure you’d rather not just call it a night?”

  “I’ll be okay,” she said, not altogether convinced herself. “And I really need to eat.” When he didn’t seem reassured, she went on. “I’m your boss. Think of this as a business dinner.”

  “It’s not a business dinner.”

  “Personal business,” she said. “I thought you wanted to hear more about my time in Ocracoke.”

  “I do,” he said. “But only if you feel up to it.”

  “I really do have to eat. I’m not kidding about that.”

  Reluctantly, he nodded just as the waitress arrived and handed them the menus. Surprising herself, Maggie decided she would like a glass of wine, settling on a French burgundy. Mark ordered an iced tea.

  As the waitress walked away, Mark took in the restaurant. “Have you ever been here before?”

  “On a date, maybe five years ago? I couldn’t believe they had a spot for us tonight, but I guess someone must have canceled.”

  “What was he like? The guy who brought you here?”

  She tilted her head, trying to remember. “Tall, great salt-and-pepper hair, worked for Accenture as a management consultant. Divorced, a couple of kids, and very smart. He wandered into the gallery one day. We had coffee and then ended up going out a few times.”

  “But it didn’t work out?”

  “Sometimes the chemistry just isn’t there. With him, I figured it out when I went to Key Largo for a shoot and realized when I got back that I hadn’t missed him at all. That’s pretty much the story of my entire dating life, no matter who I dated.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

  “In my twenties, when I first moved out here, I frequented the club scene for a few years…going out at midnight, staying out until almost dawn, even on weeknights. None of the guys I met there were the kind I could bring home to my family. Frankly, it probably wasn’t a good idea to bring them back to my place.”

  “No?”

  “Think…a lot of tattoos and dreams of being rappers or DJs. I definitely had a type back then.”

  He made a face, which made her laugh. The waitress returned with her glass of wine and she reached for it with a confidence she didn’t quite feel. She took a small taste, waiting to see if her stomach rebelled, but it seemed okay. By then, they’d both decided on what they wanted—she ordered the Atlantic cod, he opted for the filet—and when the waitress asked if they wanted to start with appetizers or a salad, both of them declined.

  When the waitress walked away, she leaned over the table. “You could have ordered more food,” she chided. “Just because I can’t eat much, you don’t have to follow my lead.”

  “I had a couple of slices of pizza before you got to the gallery.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t want to run up the bill. Places like this are expensive.”

  “Are you serious? That’s silly.”

  “That’s what Abigail and I do.”

  “You’re one of a kind, you know that?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you…How did you start with travel photography?”

  “Sheer persistence. And lunacy.”

  “That’s all?”

  She shrugged. “I also got lucky, since salaried gigs for magazines don’t really exist anymore. The first photographer I worked for in Seattle already had a reputation as a travel photographer because he’d worked a lot for National Geographic back in the day. He had a pretty good list of contacts with magazines, tour companies, and ad agencies, and he’d sometimes bring me along to assist him. After a couple years, I went a bit crazy and ended up moving here. I roomed with some flight attendants, got discount flights and took pics in whatever place I could afford to visit. I also found work with a cutting-edge photographer here. He was an early adopter of digital photography and was always investing whatever fees he earned in more gear and software, which meant I had to as well. I started my own website, with tips and reviews and Photoshop lessons, and one of the photo editors at Condé Nast stumbled across it. He hired me to shoot in Monaco, and that led to a second job and then another. Meanwhile, my old boss in Seattle retired and he pretty much offered me his client list as well as a recommendation, so I took over a lot of the work he’d been doing.”

  “What allowed you to become fully independent?”

  “My reputation grew to the point where I was able to book my own local gigs. My fee, which I purposely kept low for international work, always enticed editors. And the popularity of my website and blog, which led to my first online sales, made bills easier to pay. I was also an early user of Facebook, Instagram, and especially YouTube, which helped with name recognition. And then, of course, there was the gallery, which cemented things for me. For years, it was a scramble to get any paid travel work, and then, like a switch had been thrown, I suddenly had all the work I could handle.”

  “How old were you when you landed that shoot in Monaco?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  She could see the gleam in his eyes. “That’s a great story.”

  “Like I said, I was lucky.”

  “Maybe at first. After that, it was all you.”

  Maggie took in the restaurant; like so many spots in New York, it was decorated for the holidays, featuring both an ornamented Christmas tree and a glowing menorah in the bar area. There were, by her estimation, more than the average number of red dresses and red sweaters, and as she studied the patrons, she wondered what they would be doing on Christmas, or even what she would be doing.

  She took another sip of her wine, already feeling its effects.

  “Speaking of stories, do you want me to pick up where we left off now or wait until the food arrives?”

  “If you’re ready now, I’d love to hear it.”

  “Do you remember where I stopped?”

  “You’d agreed to let Bryce tutor you and you’d just told your aunt Linda that you loved her.”

  She reached toward her glass, staring into its purplish depths.

  “On Monday,” she began, “the day after we bought the Christmas tree…”

  Beginnings

  Ocracoke

  1995

  I woke to sunlight streaming through my window. I knew my aunt was long gone, though in my haze, I imagined I heard someone rummaging in the kitchen. Still groggy and dreading the barf because it’s morning thing, I gently pulled the pillow over my head and kept my eyes closed until I felt like it was safe to move.

  I waited for the nausea to take over while I slowly came back to life; by then, it was as predictable as
the sunrise, but strangely, I continued to feel okay. I slowly sat up, waited another minute, and still nothing. Finally, putting my feet to the floor, I stood, certain that my stomach would start doing cartwheels any second, but still there was nothing.

  Holy cow and hallelujah!

  Because the house was chilly, I threw on a sweatshirt over my pajamas, then slid into some fuzzy slippers. In the kitchen, my aunt had thoughtfully stacked all my textbooks and various manila folders on the table, probably to get me kick-started first thing in the morning. I pointedly ignored the pile because I wasn’t just not sick; I was actually hungry again. I fried an egg and reheated a biscuit for breakfast, yawning the whole time. I was more tired than usual because I’d stayed up late to finish the first draft of my paper on Thurgood Marshall. It was four and a half pages, not quite the five pages required but good enough, and feeling sort of proud of my diligence, I decided to reward myself by blowing off the rest of my homework until I felt more awake. Instead, I grabbed the Sylvia Plath book from my aunt’s shelf, bundled up in a jacket, and took a seat on the porch to read for a while.

  The thing is, though, I’d never really liked reading for pleasure. That was Morgan’s thing. I’d always preferred skimming bits here and there to get the general concept, and after opening the book to a random page, I saw a few lines that my aunt had underlined:

  The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

  I frowned and read it again, trying to figure out what Plath had meant by that. I thought I understood the first part; I suspected she was talking about loneliness, albeit in a vague way. The second part wasn’t so hard, either; to my mind, she was just making it clear that she was talking about loneliness specifically, not the fact that being in a quiet place is depressing. But the third sentence was trickier. I guessed she was referring to her own apathy, perhaps a product of her loneliness.

  So why hadn’t she just written, Being lonely sucks?