Just go with it, Mags, play a few rounds of Scrabble and you’ll be fine.
The bar was packed when I got back from the restroom; apparently a flight or two had been postponed. People were pushing and shoving to get their orders in. I took a giant swig, thinking it would drown out the unintelligible chatter. Earphones would have been ideal, but mine were in a case that I used when traveling for business.
I ordered another glass of wine, hoping it would come soon because my flight would be boarding in about twenty minutes. I began packing up my things when I overheard a conversation a few seats away.
“Sami? Sami, you there? Damn this phone and damn AT&T! Oh, honey, there you are. How are things? What’s it like over there? Okay, okay! I’ll let you finish…”
A familiar voice caught my attention, as did the topic of his conversation. I scoured the bar, looking for the source and couldn’t see past the fat guy whose legs splayed so wide that they touched the patron to his left
and
to his right, who happened to be me. Then I heard the call for my flight. I had five minutes.
“Wow! The Cologne Cathedral…”
Where the hell is he sitting?
Another announcement, “United Flight Number 547 is now boarding at Gate 21.”
Fuck! Where is he?
Panicked, I scanned the bar one last time, Calling out, “Daniel? Daniel?”
His voice was no longer audible and, just like that, he was gone. My heart sank as I made my way to Gate 21, unable to hear my name being called out from the bar where I’d left a full glass of red wine.
Epilogue
“A
ren’t you coming with us?”
Katie was still giddy from her picture-perfect wedding ceremony, excited her guests were on board for the ten-minute ferry ride to the classic Sunset Celebration in Mallory Square.
Watching the setting sun from the southernmost point of the United States had captivated tourists and locals for ages. Hemmingway made Key West his home, as did Tennessee Williams. Both great writers; both tortured souls.
Christ, I’m at the home of heavy hearts and depleted souls…fitting, Mags.
The day left me feeling melancholy, longing for my home and missing my dearest companion, Cody. I wasn’t interested in swimming through heaps of sweaty tourists, craning my neck trying to catch a glimpse of an over-enthusiastic juggler or starving artist who made their living off the ones and fives dropped into tattered straw hats.
Hollering from across the great room of Alice’s private and luxurious beach house, Katie asked again, “Mags, are you coming or not?”
Standing in line, waiting to board the Key West Express from the tiny Island of Sunset Key didn’t tickle my fancy; watching the sunset from where I stood suited me just fine.
With feigned cheer, I hollered back, “No, honey, I’m going to hang here with Dad.”
Surprisingly, Katie didn’t insist. Her small but effective entourage escorted the overjoyed bride and groom out the door, eager to share their celebration with other nameless tourists.
“Well, haven’t you become a fuddy-duddy,” Dad chided from an overstuffed chair facing an enormous floor-to-ceiling window that framed lapping waves of aquamarine, azure and bright cerulean.
“Takes one to know one,” the smart ass in me couldn’t help it.
Standing at the center counter of an enormous gourmet kitchen, I blended a couple of fruity margaritas, heavy on the tequila. Alice, we came to know, had not only married well, but she’d also become one of Key West’s top elite real estate brokers. Alice’s Bentley was worth what I could get for my little bungalow in Denver. Nonetheless, I’d never been inclined to chase so many zeros. They’d just turn around and bite me in the ass. Possessions hadn’t brought me happiness—love had…for a while, anyhow.
Had I resigned myself to a lifelong relationship with Agape, a divine messenger of unconditional love who admonishes romance? Could I somehow capture my elusive adversary, Eros, taming him to feed my desires?
“Here you go, Dad,” I said, handing him a strong margarita garnished with a fresh slice of lime.
Spotting a chair next to his, I moved to sit but underestimated how deep it was, and let out an, “ooof,” nearly spilling my drink.
A restrained chucked escaped before he said, “Thank you, Magpie.” He took a gulp and, after savoring the delectable concoction, looked me square in the eyes and asked, “When are you going to start living, Maggie?” He took another quick nip then added, “After I got out of the hospital, I thought about my own mortality and what’s left for a man my age. A somber lesson, for sure. But it brought me ‘round to you, sweetheart. You’ve stalled, and I’m sad about that.”
His sucker punch caused me to choke on my first sip. “Dad, what are you talking about?”
You know exactly what he’s talking about, ‘Magpie
.
’
“You might be able to fool everyone else in your life, Maggie, but not your good ol’ Dad. I know we don’t see each other often, and while I’m at it, we don’t see eye-to-eye on most things. You keep your distance, always have. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
After a good-sized swig, I scoffed, “Then please enlighten me, I’m stumped.” Not stumped at all, I was curious about his perspective. Normally I’d have built an impenetrable emotional firewall, dismantling the threatening conversation in mere seconds. However, engulfed by the pink and orange hues of a magnificent sunset, with gentle sounds and balmy smells of the sea in the background, I was able to give into my dad. I wasn’t threatened by his words, more like consoled.
“
‘Magpie.’ Do you know where your nickname comes from?” Not giving me any time to respond, he went on, “When you were about four, we were driving to the market, just you and me. There was a Magpie in the middle of the road, picking at a hunk of road kill. You shouted at me to slow down so I wouldn’t run ‘em over. I did as you asked and slowed to a crawl. Then I explained that Magpies are scavengers, they eat dead things and follow bigger birds of prey in hopes of finding their leftovers. You asked me how they found dead animals, and I told you they had a unique sense of smell, unusual in birds of their type, or any type really. They were clever birds, I said, and somewhat solitary, making them one of the most proficient of their kind. You know what you said next? ‘So, they are smarter than the other birds and know how to do things other birds don’t?’ Maggie, you saw through common attitudes about the noisy critters and focused on their true and often misunderstood nature. Most people shrug them off as loud pests, but you recognized their ingenuity. That’s who you are, a resourceful, clever women with a keen sense of things. Putting aside the fact that Magpies eat road kill, you are a survivor, Maggie.” Dad ended the commentary with a chuckle.
Memories stirred in my head, mixing with the alcohol. “Did you know my very first research paper was on magpies? I was in fifth grade, I think. You’d been calling me ‘Magpie’ a lot and I wanted to know more about them. Didn’t have the Internet back then so I pulled out the “B” volume of our Britannica set…remember how thrilled you were when you bought the entire set for us? Now that I think about it, they weren’t alphabetized, were they? There was a range, like ‘Buggy’ through ‘Crest,’ right? Anyway, I found out that besides being scavengers, Magpies collect things, shiny things it was thought. Often regarded as ‘thieves,’ but that’s just lore.”
Glued to the story, Dad smiled at me, warm and tender. Smiling back, I continued, “Last summer, I was stretched out on the hammock, Timmy was playing with Cody and Lisbeth was snuggled next to me. She noticed a magpie hopping around the yard and I told her what I knew of the bird. Then I explained ‘Magpie’ was my nickname. With her cute little voice, she told me they studied them in school. ‘Did you know they are one of the smartest animals, Nana? They know who they are when they look in the mirror!’ She’d watched a video on the self-awareness of magpies. Never knew that about them.” Reliving that slice of summer, I paused, hoping to stretch it out some.
“I didn’t either, but I don’t doubt it a bit. About the bird and about you, Maggie.” He rearranged himself in the deep chair and went on, “You are smart, clever, and yes, you collect things like your sister. I think it’s a woman thing, though your mother doesn’t. But that’s another story for another time. You, my dear Magpie, have always been keen to who you are. Not in a conceited or self-absorbed way, but sort of like taking stock of yourself, like you do with your gardens.” Pleased with his analogy, Dad sat back and sipped the remainder of his margarita.
Allowing his words to seep in, I took another sip of mine, swirling the liquid in my mouth. A little disgruntled, I said, “Hmm. I’m not sure about that, otherwise why the hell would I be so damn confused? It all comes down to not wanting to be stuck with the label of ‘widow,’ which means I need to ‘move on’—God how I hate those words. Dad, I’m tired of trying to figure all this out. I know you come from a place of love, and I know you and Mom anxiously wait for the day I miraculously overcome things and move on. But the harder I try to get over losing Jack and Michael, the more they settle back in, fighting for their place in my heart.”
Choking back competing emotions, I guzzled the rest of my margarita, hoping for the buzz to set it. During the past year, I’ve had the same conversation at least a half a dozen times; Tina, Katie, Tony, hell, even my neighbor Silvia all hoped and prayed that I’d “get over it.” I’d counted on dating to be the ticket to getting over it…and moving on. But it hadn’t. Not completely.
With a dose of humility, I said, “Dad, you know I love you. You have been such a rock since they died. I’m the luckiest girl in the world having you for my father. But I’ve tried. I really have. Katie talked me into dating again, which I did, to a point. I had some good, and not so good times. The highlight to it all was Bill. I really fell for him. Did you know I never heard from him after Christmas, when he explained the events surrounding his son’s death? How does someone walk away from what we had?”
Tears welled, and Dad reached out and placed his hand on mine, “Magpie, I don’t know. But I’m not sure it matters. We all have our stories, honey—stories that challenge every ounce of our being. Quit looking for excuses and focus on life’s opportunities. Isn’t that what magpies do?”
Discouraged, I grumbled, “I just don’t know what else to do to prove to you and Mom I’m okay, and that I don’t need a man in my life to be happy.”
Pointing his finger at me, he squinted his eyes, and said, “You don’t fool me, Maggie. First of all, I never said a man is what you need to be happy, that’s your fiction.” Dad was on a roll and I knew better than to interrupt. “In fact, I never told you what you needed in life. Ever. You’ve managed your life pretty damn well without the help of me or anyone else for that matter. All I can tell you is what I see and have witnessed for the past eight years…”
“Dad, please, this isn’t the time or…”
“You bet your ass this is the time and place, Maggie. No one has the guts to confront you, they know better. But I’m your father, and as long as I’m alive, I will work to scrape away that tough veneer so you can see what everyone else sees and hopefully learn to live
and
love again.”
Wiping an unexpected tear from my cheek, I said, “Okay, Dad, what do you see?”
Tightening his lips a bit, he said, “I see my lovely daughter, encased in sadness and fear. I see my Magpie, who loved to explore open spaces and equally enjoyed playing house with her baby sister, living a cocoon she’s designed to isolate her from the world…”
Dryly, I interrupted, “Dad, I’m right here, you don’t have to speak in third person.” It took everything I had not to drop an F-bomb or two.
“Dammit Maggie, stop that crap. Quit pushing me, and those who love you, away. Christ you are as stubborn as your mother. Where was I?”
With a little venom this time, I spat, “You were saying how cute I was when I was younger but somehow I’ve grown into a curmudgeon.”
Pulling himself from the overstuffed chair, he leaned in, sighed deeply, and said, “Indeed I was. Honey, I love you. We all do. Don’t you see that? You don’t need to go looking for happiness; it’s all around you. In your sister, your mom and I, even Cody. I know you don’t see the twins as much as you like, but dammit, Maggie, they are your blood and Michael’s. If that doesn’t bring you happiness, I can’t imagine what will. You have such a wonderful home, inviting family and friends to enjoy your little piece of heaven. That’s happiness, Magpie. People, family, food, music, laugher—it’s what we all seek and there it is, right in front of your goddamned nose. You’re just too stubborn to realize a good thing, even when it flashes in blazing neon colors.”
Dad downed his drink and sunk back into the bottomless chair, oblivious to the fact that he’d struck a chord, a major one, indeed.
It’s in front of my goddamned nose, blazing in neon colors…
Clearing my throat, I said with a good dose of moxie, “Dad, I hear you, thank you for talking with me. I know I’m stubborn, heck I’m fifty percent Mom, right?” Waiting for a harrumph, I didn’t get one, so I went on, “Seriously, everything you said makes sense; I just need to quit trying so hard. I love you, Dad. I’m heading off to bed now, I’m pretty pooped.”
I got up, kissed him on the forehead and turned toward my room, looking back to see if he’d taken the bait.
He hadn’t; slumped and looking more shrunken than ever, he was staring blankly at the floor. I couldn’t bear to see him that way so I ran back, bent down and said, “Dad, I promise, I heard you. I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago. Forget swimming upstream, I’m going with the current from now on. I’ll find that neon sign and give it a good charge, I promise. I love you, Daddy.” The little girl who’d grown up years ago nuzzled him, feeling safe and very loved.
Unaccustomed to hearing me use that moniker, he pulled back a bit, smiled and said, “Go get ’em, Magpie, I love you to the moon and back.”
He’d soon find out how literally I took his words of encouragement…