Page 52 of Magpie
As the tears come, and do not stop, a deep understanding fills me. It is born of all the love and devotion Sean showed me, the courage he tried to force into me.
I will not let his efforts be in vain.
Because I am Maggie, and I’m getting out.
We ride with the windows down, an unnaturally warm autumn having swept through the state. Margaux is singing along to the loud, poppy song on the radio, slapping her hand on the steering wheel in time with the beat. We’ve been driving for several hours, and she doesn’t so much as yawn as the clock ticks toward 2:00am. I’m nervously fidgeting, unable to get comfortable as I continue glancing at the woods surrounding the lone winding road we’re driving down.
We left the city lights behind hours ago, fighting against being swallowed entirely by the night with nothing but the Cadillac’s steadfast headlights. Margaux leans over me, and I stiffen, scooting away to avoid her touching me. I can’t stand to let my darkness infect her airy lightness. She seems not to notice my awkward posture as she pulls open the glovebox and grabs at a small bundle. I’m nervously flicking my eyes between her and the road she should definitely be paying attention to as she fumbles.
“Er, do you need any help?” I ask, trying to not cling to the door too closely as she takes a bend in the road faster than I would have.Fuck the immortal confidence of youth.
“Got it!” she shouts, holding up a joint. My mouth falls open, and I watch as she places the joint between her lips, then takes both hands off the steering wheel to light the thing. She cups one hand around it, blocking the wind as she flicks her lighter a few times before the flame finally catches.
Just when I’m about to demand she pull over and let me drive, she tosses the lighter to the floor and at least puts one hand back on the wheel. Taking a long inhale, she lets out a puff of smoke and holds the joint toward me.
“No, thanks,” I mutter. The last thing I need is an altered mind when I’m about to walk back into the biggest mind-fuck of them all.
We drive in silence for a few more beats, Margaux taking another drag on her joint before she says, “Tell me about yourself.”
The smoke is musky and thick, headier than I expected it to be. I cough once, blinking rapidly against the haze. I intended to shrug, to tell her there’s not much to my life and leave it at that. Instead, I find myself staring at the dark road ahead of us, just outside the reach of the headlights, and whispering, “There’s no life to tell you about.” I hold myself tight as I continue. “I never let myself live one. Not really—not when I had a chance to. I was so consumed by this overwhelming sense that I was wasting my life that I didn’t even try to have one.”
The road twists and winds, a silver snake in the dark night, and I could think we are the only things that exist in this moment. I don’t know why I keep talking. Maybe because I want someone to know I existed. Even if it was a cursed and wretched life, I want it to remain outside of Alister’s flame.
“I could feel myself wasting away, consumed by some…some black, inkythingthat whispered to me that all I wanted was to get out. And I believed it. I clung to that thought—that if I could get out, then maybe all the disappointment, the anguish, the pain would just go away. Fuck, there was so much pain…”
I trail off, rubbing my temples as I remember that girl, Maggie, the one from before the House. I remember the endless nights spent crying myself to sleep, or the private breakdowns I had in the shower, where I knew no one could see me. The weight of all that sadness was crushing me, one smothering stone at a time.
“It hurt so bad I thought all I wanted was to be numb,” I whisper, and this time when Margaux hands me the joint, I accept it and take a long inhale. The smoke is rich and lively, and instead of dulling my senses, it seems to perk me up. I feel…lighter, like in sharing this story it’s somehow no longer a burden to me. Like I don’t have to carry it anymore. I take another inhale before handing the joint back to Margaux. “Then, of course, I got everything I wanted, and realized the cold reality was that I had begged for a nightmare. I got out, I went numb, and all I had to do was lose my soul in the process.”
She pulls us off the main road, onto a path between the dense pine trees that is nearly invisible. The Cadillac rattles down the dirt road, kicking up gravel. Sweat drips down my back. We are getting close—I can feel it, even without the thrumming of the luna moth against my chest.
“Mildred’s husband is dying,” Margaux says, shocking me thoroughly. That’s not how I expected her to respond to my story. I turn, studying her. She’s got her elbow propped on the open window, the joint held aloft between her fingers, but her eyes are staring straight ahead.
“What?” I ask.
“Stomach cancer,” she says, taking an inhale before flicking the remaining nub of the joint out of the window. “Theydiscovered it at the beginning of the year. It’s aggressive, but Paul’s a fighter.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, and she finally shifts her gaze to me. As she takes me in, she suddenly appears much older than her youthful face suggests.
“Because Mildred and Paul didn’t truly start living until he began to die.”
I blink at her, confused, and she gives me a warm smile, focusing again on the dirt road as we bump and sway along it.
“They were like you: alive but not living. They were dying in routine, seeing each other—truly seeing—less and less. They stopped talking, stoppedtrying, and their life became nothing. A ghost of itself, an empty outline. There was no color, no soul to them.”
I want to ask her how she could possibly know this about them, but I’m worried that if I interrupt her story she’ll stop, and I find I desperately need to know how it ends.
“But then they found out Paul was dying, and it was as if they opened their eyes for the first time in decades. They saw each other, and they saw how small, how very finite life is, and they embraced it with open arms. They didn’t go on some grand adventure across the globe—they couldn’t afford it—but they did begin to live their life like it was its own adventure. They found excitement in the mundane, and joy in the bitter sadness that comes with facing the inevitable.”
It isn’t until the first tear drops onto my hand that I realize I’m crying.
The forest surrounding us opens into a wide field, and I see cars already creating a makeshift parking lot. Margaux guides her car into an open spot, killing the engine and turning to me. The shouts of excitement and laughter from the gathering crowd let me know exactly where we are. We’ve made it to theWandering House. Yet I can’t turn away from her, ensnared entirely in her gaze.
“Life is hard, Maggie. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something. There is pain, and heartbreak, and sorrow, more than most people deserve. But…it is also beautiful, and rare, and filled with so much magic that it takes my breath away. And you know what? It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing if you don’t let yourself feel it. All of it—the good and the bad. Mildred and Paul didn’t run from the pain. They embraced it, and found the light even in the dark.”
I think of Sean, his crooked smile and shifting ink filling my mind. Even at my lowest, darkest point, he was the light, the luna moth guiding my path. Clearing my throat, I hastily scrub away the tears trailing down my cheek before I grab my backpack, throw the door open, and step out into the night. I take one long, deep inhale. Slamming the door shut, I lean through the window, catching and holding her gaze.
“Thank you for the ride, Margaux,” I say, and she opens her mouth, beaming brightly at me, about to respond, but I cut her off. “Now get the fuck out of here and never seek this house out again.”
