The Wish Read online

  “Come on in,” she said. Pulling a Kleenex from the box on her desk, she blew her nose as Mark stepped through the door.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice quiet.

  “Hi.”

  “Bad time?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I thought you might like this,” he said, holding out a to-go cup. “It’s a banana-and-strawberry smoothie with vanilla ice cream. Maybe it’ll help.”

  She recognized the label on the cup—the eatery was two doors down from the gallery—and wondered how he’d known how she was feeling. Perhaps he’d divined something when she’d made a beeline for her office, or maybe he’d simply remembered what Trinity had told him.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking it.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better.” She took a sip, thankful it was sweet enough to override her messed-up taste buds. “How was it today?”

  “Busy, but not as bad as last Friday. We sold eight prints, including a number three of Rush.”

  Each of her photographs was limited to twenty-five numbered prints; the lower the number, the higher the price. The photo Mark mentioned had been taken at rush hour in the Tokyo subway, the platform jammed with thousands of men dressed in what seemed to be identical black suits.

  “Anything by Trinity?”

  “Not today, but I think there’s a good possibility of that in the near future. Jackie Bernstein came in with her consultant earlier.”

  Maggie nodded. Jackie had bought two other Trinity pieces in the past, and Trinity would be pleased to know she was interested in another.

  “How about on the website and phone-ins?”

  “Six confirmed, two people wanted more information. It shouldn’t take long to get the sales ready for shipment. If you want to head on home, I can handle it.”

  As soon as he said it, her mind floated additional questions: Do I truly want to go home? To an otherwise empty apartment? To wallow in solitude?

  “No, I’ll stay,” she demurred, shaking her head. “For a while, anyway.”

  She sensed his curiosity but knew he wouldn’t ask more. Again, she understood the interviews had left a lingering mark.

  “I’m sure you’ve been following my social posts and videos,” she began, “so you probably have a general sense of what’s going on with my illness.”

  “Not really. I haven’t watched any of your videos since I began working here.”

  She hadn’t expected that. Even Luanne watched her videos. “Why not?”

  “I assumed you would prefer that I didn’t. And when I considered your initial concerns about my working here, it seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “But you did know I underwent chemotherapy, right?”

  “Luanne mentioned it, but I don’t know the details. And, of course, in the rare times you were at the gallery, you looked…”

  When he trailed off, she finished for him. “Like death?”

  “I was going to say you looked a bit tired.”

  Sure I did. If gaunt, green, shrinking, and balding could be explained by waking up too early. But she knew he was trying to be kind. “Do you have a few minutes? Before you start getting the shipments ready?”

  “Of course. I don’t have anything planned for tonight.”

  On an impulse, she moved to the rocker, motioning for him to get comfortable on the love seat. “No going out with friends?”

  “It’s kind of expensive,” he said. “And going out usually means drinking, but I don’t drink.”

  “Ever?”

  “No.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a twenty-two-year-old who’s never had a drink.”

  “Actually, I’m twenty-three now.”

  “You had a birthday?”

  “It wasn’t a big deal.”

  Probably not, she thought. “Did Luanne know? She didn’t say anything to me.”

  “I didn’t mention it to her.”

  She leaned forward and raised her cup. “Happy belated birthday, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you do anything fun? For your birthday, I mean?”

  “Abigail flew out for the weekend and we saw Hamilton. Have you seen it?”

  “A while ago.” But I won’t ever see it again, she didn’t bother to add. Which was another reason not to be alone. So that thoughts like those didn’t precipitate yet another breakdown. With Mark here, it was somehow easier to keep herself together.

  “I’d never seen a show on Broadway before,” Mark went on. “The music was amazing and I loved the historical element and the dancing and…everything about it. Abigail was electrified—she swore she’d never experienced anything like it.”

  “How is Abigail?”

  “She’s doing well. Her break just started, so she’s probably on her way to Waterloo right now to see her family.”

  “She didn’t want to come out here to see you?”

  “It’s sort of a mini family reunion. Unlike me, she has a big family. Five older brothers and sisters who live all over the country. Christmas is the only time of year they can all get together.”

  “And you didn’t want to go out there?”

  “I’m working. She understands that. Besides, she’s coming out here on the twenty-eighth. We’ll spend some time together, watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve, things like that.”

  “Will I get to meet her?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “If you need time off, let me know. I’m sure I can manage on my own for a couple of days.”

  She wasn’t sure she could, but it felt like she needed to offer.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Maggie took another sip of her smoothie. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it lately, but you’re doing really well here.”

  “I enjoy it,” he said. He waited, and she knew again that he’d made a choice not to ask personal questions. Which meant she would have to volunteer the information or keep it to herself.

  “I met with my oncologist last week,” she stated in what she hoped was an even voice. “She thinks another round of chemotherapy will do more harm than good.”

  His expression softened. “Can I ask what that means?”

  “It means no more treatment and the clock is ticking.”

  He paled, registering what she hadn’t said. “Oh…Ms. Dawes. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. But please, call me Maggie. I think you’ve worked here long enough for the two of us to use first names.”

  “Is the doctor certain?”

  “The scans weren’t good,” she said. “Lots of spread, everywhere. Stomach. Pancreas. Kidneys. Lungs. And though you won’t ask, I have less than six months. Most likely, it’s somewhere around three to four, maybe even less.”

  Surprising her, his eyes began to well with tears. “Oh…Lord…” he said, his expression suddenly softening. “Would you mind if I pray for you? Not now, but when I get home, I mean.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. Of course he would want to pray for her, future pastor that he was. She suspected he’d never uttered a profanity in his life. He was, she thought, a very sweet kid. Well, technically he was a young man, but…

  “I’d like that.”

  For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Then, with a soft shake of his head, he pressed his lips together. “It isn’t fair,” he said.

  “When is life ever fair?”

  “Can I ask how you’re doing? I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m overstepping…”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I guess I’ve been in a bit of a daze since I found out.”

  “It has to feel unbearable.”

  “At times it does. But then, other times, it doesn’t. The strange thing is that physically, I feel better than I did earlier in the year, during the chemo. Back then, there were times when I was sure
dying would be easier. But now…”

  She let her gaze wander over the shelves, noting the trinkets she’d collected, each one imbued with memories of a trip she’d taken. To Greece and Egypt, Rwanda and Nova Scotia, Patagonia and Easter Island, Vietnam and the Ivory Coast. So many places, so many adventures.

  “It’s a strange thing to know the end is so imminent,” she admitted. “It gives rise to a lot of questions. Makes a person wonder what it’s all about. Sometimes I feel that I’ve led a charmed life, but then, in the next instant, I find myself obsessing over the things I missed out on.”

  “Like what?”

  “Marriage, for starters,” she said. “You know I’ve never been married, right?” When he nodded, she went on. “Growing up, I couldn’t imagine that I’d still be single at my age. It just wasn’t the way I was raised. My parents were very traditional and I assumed I’d end up like them.” She felt her thoughts drifting to the past, memories bubbling to the surface. “Of course, I didn’t make it easy for them. Not like you, anyway.”

  “I wasn’t always a perfect child,” he protested. “I got in trouble.”

  “For what? Anything serious? Was it because you didn’t clean your room or because you were a minute late for your curfew? Oh, wait. You were never late for your curfew, right?”

  He opened his mouth, but when no words came out, she knew she was right. He must have been the kind of teenager who made things harder for the rest of his generation, simply because he was wired to be easy.

  “The point is, I’ve been wondering how things would have turned out had I chosen a different path. Not just marriage, though. What if I’d worked harder in school, or graduated from college, or had a job in an office, or moved to Miami or Los Angeles instead of New York? Things like that.”

  “You obviously didn’t need college. Your career as a photographer has been remarkable, and your videos and posts about your illness have inspired a lot of people.”

  “That’s very kind, but they don’t really know me. And in the end, isn’t that the most important thing in life? To be truly known and loved by someone you’ve chosen?”

  “Maybe,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t negate what you’ve given people through your experience. It’s a powerful act, even life-changing for some.”

  Perhaps it was his sincerity or his old-fashioned mannerisms, but she was struck again by how much he reminded her of someone she’d once known long ago. She hadn’t thought about Bryce in years, not consciously anyway. For most of her adult life, she’d tried to keep her memories of him at a safe distance.

  But there was no reason to do that any longer.

  “Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?” she said, mirroring his curiously formal style of speech.

  “Not at all.”

  “When did you first know that you were in love with Abigail?”

  As soon as she said Abigail’s name, a tenderness came over him. “Last year,” he said, leaning back into the cushions of the love seat. “Not long after I graduated. We’d gone out four or five times, and she wanted me to meet her parents. Anyway, we were driving to Waterloo, just the two of us. We’d stopped for something to eat, and on the way out, she decided she wanted an ice cream cone. It was scorching outside and unfortunately, the air-conditioning in the car wasn’t working that well, so of course it started to melt all over her. A lot of people might have been upset by that, but she just started giggling like it was the funniest thing ever as she tried to eat it faster than it could melt. There was ice cream everywhere—on her nose and fingers, in her lap, even in her hair—and I remember thinking that I wanted to be around someone like that forever. Someone who could laugh at the inconveniences of life and find joy in any occasion. That’s when I knew she was the one.”

  “Did you tell her then?”

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t brave enough. It took me until last fall before I could finally work up the courage to tell her.”

  “Did she say that she loved you, too?”

  “She did. That was a relief.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful person.”

  “She is. I’m very lucky.”

  Though he smiled, she knew he was still troubled.

  “I wish there was something I could do for you,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Working here is enough. Well, that and staying late.”

  “I’m glad to be here. I wonder, though…”

  “Go ahead,” she said, gesturing with the smoothie. “You can ask whatever question you’d like. I’ve got nothing to hide anymore.”

  “Why didn’t you ever get married? If you thought you would, I mean?”

  “There were a lot of reasons. When I was just starting out in my career, I wanted to concentrate on that until I established a foothold. Then I started traveling a lot, and then came the gallery and…I guess I was just too busy.”

  “And you never met someone who made you question all that?”

  In the silence that followed, she unconsciously reached for the necklace, feeling for the small shell-shaped pendant, making sure it was still there. “I thought I did. I know I loved him, but the timing wasn’t right.”

  “Because of work?”

  “No,” she said. “It happened long before then. But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been good for him. Not back then, anyway.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “You don’t know who I used to be.” She put down her cup and folded her hands in her lap. “Do you want to hear the story?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “It’s kind of long.”

  “Those are usually the best kind of stories.”

  Maggie bent her head, feeling the images begin to surface at the edge of her mind. With the images, the words would eventually come, she knew.

  “In 1995, when I was sixteen years old, I began to lead a secret life,” she started.

  Marooned

  Ocracoke

  1995

  Actually, when I’m being honest, my secret life really began when I was fifteen and my mom found me on the bathroom floor, green in the gills, with my arms wrapped around the toilet bowl. I’d been barfing every morning for the past week and a half, and my mom, more knowledgeable about such things than I was, raced to the drugstore and made me pee on a stick as soon as she got home. When the blue plus sign appeared, she stared at the stick for a long time without saying a single word, then retreated to the kitchen, where she cried on and off for the rest of the day.

  That was in early October, and I was a little more than nine weeks along by then. I probably cried as much as my mom that day. I stayed in my room clutching my favorite teddy bear—I’m not sure my mom even noticed that I hadn’t gone to school—and stared out the window with swollen eyes, watching buckets of rain pour onto foggy streets. It was typical Seattle weather, and even now, I doubt there’s a more depressing place to be in the entire world, especially when you’re fifteen and pregnant and certain your life is over before it even had a chance to begin.

  It went without saying that I had no idea what I was going to do. That’s what I remember most of all. I mean, what did I know about being a parent? Or even being a grown-up? Oh, sure, there were times when I felt older than my age, like when Zeke Watkins—the star player of the varsity basketball team—spoke to me in the school parking lot, but part of me still felt like a kid. I loved Disney movies and celebrating with strawberry ice cream cake at the roller rink on my birthday; I always slept with a teddy bear and I couldn’t even drive. Frankly, I wasn’t even all that experienced when it came to the opposite sex. I’d only kissed four boys in my entire life, but one time, the kissing went too far, and a little more than three weeks after that awful barfing-and-tear-filled day, my parents shipped me off to Ocracoke in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, a place I didn’t even know existed. It was supposedly a picturesque beach town adored by tourists. There, I would live with my aunt Linda Dawes, my father’s much older sister, a woman I’d met
only once in my life. They’d also made arrangements with my teachers so I wouldn’t fall behind in my studies. My parents had a long discussion with the headmaster—and after the headmaster spoke to my aunt, he decided to trust her to proctor my exams, making sure I didn’t cheat and that all my assignments were turned in. And just like that, I suddenly became the family secret.

  My parents didn’t come with me to North Carolina, which made leaving that much harder. Instead, we said our goodbyes at the airport on a chilly November morning, a few days after Halloween. I’d just turned sixteen, I was thirteen weeks along and terrified, but I didn’t cry on the plane, thank God. Nor did I cry when my aunt picked me up at a rinky-dink airport in the middle of nowhere, or even when we checked into a dumpy motel near the beach, since we had to wait to catch the ferry to Ocracoke the following morning. By then, I’d almost convinced myself that I wasn’t going to cry at all.

  Boy, was I ever wrong.

  After we disembarked from the ferry, my aunt gave me a quick tour of the village before bringing me to her house, and to my dismay, Ocracoke was nothing like I’d imagined. I guess I’d been picturing pretty pastel cottages nestled in the sand dunes, with tropical views of the ocean stretching to the horizon; a boardwalk complete with burger joints and ice cream shops and crowded with teens, maybe even a Ferris wheel or a carousel. But Ocracoke was nothing like that. Once you got past the fishing boats in the tiny harbor where the ferry dropped us off, it looked…ugly. The houses were old and weather-beaten; there wasn’t a beach, boardwalk, or palm tree in sight; and the village—that’s what my aunt called it, a village—seemed utterly deserted. My aunt mentioned that Ocracoke was essentially a fishing village and that less than eight hundred people lived there year-round, but I could only wonder why anyone would want to live there at all.

  Aunt Linda’s place was right on the water, sandwiched between homes that were equally run-down. It was set on stilts with a view of the Pamlico Sound, with a compact front porch, and another larger porch off the living room that faced the water. It was also small—living room with a fireplace and a window near the front door, dining area and kitchen, two bedrooms, and a single bath. There wasn’t a television in sight, which left me feeling suddenly panicked, though I don’t think she realized it. She showed me around and eventually pointed out where I would be sleeping, across the hall from her room in what usually served as her reading room. My first thought was that it was nothing like my bedroom back home. It wasn’t even like half my bedroom back home. There was a twin bed wedged beneath a window along with a padded rocking chair, a reading lamp, and a shelf crammed with books by Betty Friedan, Sylvia Plath, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Elizabeth Berg, in addition to tomes on Catholicism, Saint Thomas Aquinas, and Mother Teresa. Again, no television, but there was a radio, even if it looked a hundred years old, and an old-fashioned clock. The closet, if you could call it that, was barely a foot deep, and the only way I would be able to store my clothes was to fold and stack them in vertical piles on the floor. There was no nightstand or chest of drawers, all of which made me suddenly feel like I was visiting unexpectedly for a single night, rather than the six months intended.