The Meaning of Maggie (4 page)

Dad turned Neil back up and shouted, “This is where it gets GOOD!” A really pretty sounding harmonica blared from the speakers and we listened and listened some more. On the fourth song, Dad turned the music down just a little.

“I hope you know it's okay if you like a boy. And it's definitely okay to be confused. A lot of great things come out of confusion. Like great music. And great love. And it sounds like this kid is cool. It also wouldn't hurt if he came from a significant amount of family money.”

“Dad, do you think I'm cool? Cool enough for a cool boy to like me back?”

“You'd be a lot cooler if you liked Neil Young. So, do you?”

“I guess so,” I said. “It's no symphony of The Planets. But his voice is nice.”

“Ha. Okay. Well, I think you're really cool, Mags. Always have.”

I hugged my arms around his chair. “Cooler than Tiffany?”

He lowered his voice. “Oh yeah. Way cooler.”

Mom let us listen through dinner but halfway through “Old Man” she lifted the needle off the record. “Okay, time for bed you two.”

“Oh, come on,” Dad begged. “Let us listen a little longer.”

“No way, I know what's next. You're going to make her listen to Deep Purple and then she's going to sleep in our bed for a month like when you made her listen to Black Sabbath.”

“That happened one time!” I objected.

Mom wasn't budging. “It's late. Time to put the records away.”

I picked up the stack of records from Dad's lap and put them
gently
back in the sleeve just like he said. Then I followed Mom as she pushed Dad back to their bedroom. His arms were extra sleepy so she brushed his teeth and I gave him a glass of water to gargle. Then she combed his hair because he needed his hair to look perfect even when he was sleeping.

I pushed him next to the bed, locked his wheels, and held the chair as Mom leaned down to pick him up. She
pulled his sleeping arms around her neck and on the count of one, two, three, she stood up with Dad in her arms. She was just about to lower him into bed when he shouted.

“Wait!”

Mom looked worried. “What's wrong?”

Dad laughed. “Look. We're dancing.”

Mom laughed with him and they swayed together until her back and knees couldn't hold him anymore. She lowered him into bed and I pulled the blankets up to his chin and wished him good night even though most of his body was already asleep.

Dad reached for Mom's hand. “Thanks for the dance, my dear.”

Mom kissed him on the cheek. “Anytime.”

She picked up the remote and searched for the nine o'clock news and Dad looked over at me all googly-eyed. “See, Maggie. Love isn't so bad.”

Mom looked interested. “Wait a second, Maggie. Are you in love?”

“It's not like that.” My face felt hot. “He barely knows I'm alive.”

“You'll have to tell me all about him sometime. How about tomorrow, sweetie? When I'm not so tired.” Mom smiled.

“You're always too tired.”

She kissed me good night. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

She closed the door and I went to bed with her promise and “Heart of Gold” stuck in my head and heart.

The next day at school, I was all nerves when I took my seat in study hall. Clyde ran to his chair just as the warning bell rang and I quickly opened my faded copy of
The Outsiders
as a hint that I was totally down with his people. He opened his notebook and shaded in a wing on one of his airplane sketches. I had to get his attention, so I started humming softly. He turned around with one eyebrow up.

“ ‘Heart of Gold'? I love that song.”

I remembered Dad's advice and played it super cool. “Me too.” I looked away the way cool girls do. “It's my favorite.”

Clyde leaned back. “
Harvest
is an amazing album, but I prefer
After the Gold Rush
.”

Oh no. Was this Neil Young guy an actual miner? He sure did talk about mining for hearts and gold a lot so maybe he was. I was so confused that words just fumbled out of my mouth.

“Yeah, I bet things got crazy after 1849. I mean, with all the westward expansion and dysentery and everything.”

Clyde laughed. “You're funny.” And then he turned back around.

Funny? I didn't want to be funny. I wanted to be cool. But I guessed funny was a start. A good start.

After school, I couldn't wait to tell Dad about my progress. I almost ran all the way home from the bus stop, swung open the door, and yelled, “Dad! Dad!”

But my yell was met with a “Shhhh! Shhh!”

Dad was watching TV on mute while Mom was fast asleep on the couch. She must have gotten off from work early. He waved me over and motioned to me to roll him to the laundry room, where a mountain of laundry was waiting to be washed.

“I just wanted to tell you about
the boy
,” I whispered.

“Tell me about it while we start a load of laundry,” he whispered back.

“But that's Mom's job.”

Dad shook his head. “Not anymore. We're going to help her, okay? Where's the detergent?”

I stopped him and picked up the right container. “I think it's this one that says ‘detergent.' ”

Dad laughed quietly. “Right.”

“Why are we doing this?”

He wheeled up right next to me. “Because love makes you do crazy things, remember?”

Mom had become a puddle of clothes on the floor.

She was a half-eaten salad. A half-read book. A half-awake/half-asleep zombie who got home at six, fixed dinner at seven, put Dad in bed at eight and could barely keep her eyes open at nine.

Mom never yelled at Tiffany and me to clean up our room anymore but I wished she would because Tiffany's unmentionables were everywhere and I had to mention them because they were freaking me out. Actually, Mom never stopped me from doing anything anymore. She never stopped me from having ice cream for dessert. Or dinner. Or breakfast. She never even checked my homework even though there was never anything to check because I got everything right but sometimes it was just nice to hear how smart I was. But ever since she'd gone to work, Mom had become one adjective and one adjective only: tired.

And honestly, I didn't understand why. I mean yeah she got up early and yeah she worked all day. But she also drank coffee, which woke your brain up and which I wished I could drink, but no, that was the one thing she still wouldn't let me do. And she worked at a hotel which couldn't be that hard because there were beds to nap in everywhere and famous people to do famous things with. If I worked there I would have jumped up and down on beds for a few hours then I'd probably hobnob with someone like Nelson Mandela
¹⁴
and we would order room service and solve world peace over pancakes. Then I'd help Bruce Springsteen with his luggage and he'd ask where I was from, and I'd say I was “born in the USA” and we would have a good laugh because I'm hilarious. And then he would tip me five hundred dollars and I'd buy more Coca-Cola stock.

Seriously, her job sounded more like play than work. And then came Take Your Daughter to Work Day at Mom's hotel.

Usually I would have been beside myself about missing a day of school considering I didn't even miss school when I was sick, which was seldom because I took twice the recommended daily dose of Flintstones vitamins. And even when a cold snuck past Fred and Wilma, I
would still NEVER miss school. But this was different and I couldn't help but be excited about going to work with Mom.

I didn't give much thought to my outfit the night before. I knew I was going to spend most of the day in a cushy billion-thread-count robe lounging on billion-thread-count sheets eating billion-chocolate-count M&M's from the minibar. So I set out my overalls and a fancy cardigan (just in case I met someone famous).

Layla said she couldn't go because she had a French test but let's be honest, she just didn't want to miss an after-school make-out session with Bobby.
¹⁵
So it was just Tiffany and me. Even Tiffany seemed like she was looking forward to the day with Mom and the only thing Tiffany looked forward to was prom.

I swear, my eyelids had just shut when our light switch flipped on and Mom called, “Rise and shine!” Really loudly.

Tiffany moaned and pulled her watch close to her eyeballs. “Five
A.M
.!”

I looked up at Mom to give her a piece of my mind, but then I noticed something terrible. Not only was she smiling, she was also dressed and ready to go. “You can't be serious, lady.”

“Oh I am very serious. And don't call me
lady
.”

I brushed my teeth, changed into my clothes, wrapped my scarf around my neck, and combed my hair, or at least I thought that's what I was doing. I couldn't really tell because my eyes were still closed. I stumbled blindly into the kitchen and ran into someone I didn't expect. Layla. She was filling the coffeepot with water.

I opened one eye. “Are you sleepwalking?”

“I'm always up this early,” she yawned.

“You are?”

“Yeah. How do you think Dad gets into his wheelchair every morning? Do you think he just magically appears there?”

Actually I did. In fact, sometimes I thought he was faking the whole thing.
¹⁶

“But the sun isn't even up!”

She let out a big sigh. “I know.”

While I poured a glass of juice Layla lined up all of Dad's pills on the counter and put the remote next to his table. I was just about to ask her how long she'd been getting up this early when Mom came in and kissed her on the cheek.

“Okay honey. Don't forget to put socks on Dad before you go. His feet get cold.”

“Does Maggie need a lunch today?” Layla asked.

I almost choked on my orange juice. Was this why real fruit had replaced my fruit snacks?

“
You've
been making my lunch?” I opened my other eye.

“No lunch for Maggie.” Mom reached for the doorknob. “We're going to get something at the hotel.”

Man, how long had this been going on? And more importantly, when would I get my fruit snacks back?

Mom hurried Tiffany and me into the car. I nudged Tiffany.

“Did you know Layla helps Dad in the morning?”

Tiffany mumbled, “I'm asleep.”

“Did you know she makes my lunch too?”

“Yeah, she's been doing it since Mom started working. Get a clue. Now leave me alone. I need my beauty rest.”

“You're going to need a lot more than half an hour,” I said under my breath.

Mom drove while Tiffany and I yawned and fought the bags pulling down our eyes. As we cruised downtown, skyscrapers scraped the sky and headlights danced in the dark even though it was morning, not night. We inched our way closer and closer to the hotel until finally Mom exited the freeway and we went into a deep dark garage, down and down underneath the city above, and pulled into a parking spot between two Dumpsters. Gross. Tiffany and I clung to Mom's side as she led us to a bank of elevators between other Dumpsters that smelled like a cross between bad stuff and more bad stuff.

When the elevator doors opened, a rush of clean cold hit us and we walked into a lobby that looked like
it belonged in a palace far, far away. Mom said she usually walked in through the loading dock but she wanted us to get the big deal picture of the big deal place where she worked. Tiffany and I couldn't stop looking. Up at the chandeliers dripping with what had to be real diamonds. Up at plants hanging from iron baskets. Down at Mom's back as she made a sudden stop and cleaned a scuff off the floor with her heel. I was just about to ask her why she was doing that when she waved us toward a door that was hidden behind a giant flowerpot. Awesome! SECRET PASSAGES!

We spiraled down a damp and dark staircase into a damp and dark hallway. Did this place have a dungeon? COOL. We passed bin after bin of dirty sheets, stained tablecloths, and towels kissed with lipstick. Tiffany held her nose to escape the smell of mildew and I pulled my scarf in front of my face just in case a goblin attacked me. We followed a loud rumble as the air got hotter and hotter. Oh. My. God. Maybe we were going to see a DRAGON!
¹⁷
We turned the corner and I closed my eyes, too scared to see a mythical lizard. When I opened them, there was no giant creature, just row after row of giant washing machines and dryers. Where were we?

Mom scooted past a giant iron and giant gallons of detergent into a tiny room with no windows. She pulled open a cabinet door, put her purse inside, and locked it.

“Well, what do you think?”

What did I think? How about where in the h-e- double-hockey-sticks were we?!

I turned around and tried to take it all in. There were concrete floors and sea-foam-green walls. There were ancient filing cabinets and a box filled with tiny soaps and bottles. Tiffany pocketed a couple tiny lotions and I sat down in Mom's chair and started to spin. When I came to a stop, I saw a blur of my family in picture frames. There was Tiffany's dance team photo. Layla in a tutu and toe shoes. And me sleeping in a laundry basket complete with thumb in mouth. Embarrassing. I turned that picture around and picked up a seashell from a jar. I held it to my ear and listened for the ocean.

Mom picked up the one next to it. “This one sounds like South Carolina. It's from our trip last year. Remember?”

I nodded yes and reached for another.

“That's from the Outer Banks. And this one's from Savannah.” She had an entire collection of shells and sand from all the beaches we'd visited. An entire coastline of memories in mason jars. I looked over at Tiffany, who was inspecting her nail polish for chips. Was she not wondering what I was wondering? Why did our mom work in this scary place?

“So when do we get to see famous people?” Tiffany asked. It was the smartest thing she'd ever said.