bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Just because she was no longer drinking didn’t necessarily mean her soul was no longer for sale. She had handed in one skewed sense of reality for a different one, one addiction for another.
Maggie could understand the seductive lure for her mother, whose version of current events came from the
She had heard some of those answers, the paranoid delusions that men like Reverend Everett spread. There was power in hate, and control by fear was one of the most successful manipulations. Why had Maggie shrugged off her mother’s comments about chemicals in her drinking water, hidden government cameras in ATM machines and oh, yes, several weeks ago a hysteria about not wanting to talk to Maggie if she was calling on her cellular phone because “they had ways of listening in to those conversations?”
Why hadn’t she seen the danger signs long ago? Or had she seen them but been so relieved to no longer be picking up the shattered pieces her mother left behind that she didn’t care, or that she simply didn’t want to know?
Somewhere Maggie had read that alcohol only emphasized an alcoholic’s personality, bringing out and highlighting characteristics that already existed. It made sense with her mother. The alcohol only seemed to make her more needy, more hungry for attention. Yet, if that was indeed true, Maggie realized the irony in her own drinking habits. She usually drank to forget the empty feeling inside her, and to not feel so alone. If the alcohol only emphasized those very same things, then no wonder she was so fucked up.
Maggie shook her head, trying to prevent the memory.
Those goddamn crumbling walls. She grabbed the Pepsi can in her cup holder and gulped the warm, flat remainder. Why was it that she could not remember the sound of her father’s voice, but she could still feel this stranger’s breath on her face? With little effort, she could smell the sour odor of whiskey and feel the scrape of his beard as he pinned her small body to the wall and tried to kiss her. She remembered his hands fondling her preadolescent breasts, laughing and telling her he bet she was “gonna have some big tits just like her mama.”
And all the while her mother stood back with her glass of Jack Daniel’s, watching and telling him to cut it out but not making him stop. She didn’t make him stop. Why didn’t she make him stop?
Somehow Maggie had escaped on her own. She couldn’t even remember how. That was when her mother started insisting her men friends take her to a hotel. She stayed out all night, sometimes was gone for days at a time, leaving Maggie home alone. Alone. It was good to be alone, a little scary but less painful. She had learned early on how to be a survivor. Being alone was simply the price of survival.
As she approached Richmond, she started paying attention and watching for her exit. She tried to ignore the growing nausea in the pit of her stomach and was annoyed that it was there at all. What the hell was wrong with her? She chased killers for a living, examined their gruesome handiwork and traveled into their worlds of evil. What could be so difficult about one goddamn visit to her mother’s?
CHAPTER 52
Kathleen O’Dell finished packing the last of her grandmother’s porcelain figurines. The man from Al and Frank’s Antiques and Secondhand Treasures would be picking them up in the morning with the other items. Now she couldn’t remember if the man’s name was even Al or Frank, although he had told her, while he appraised her things, that he was one of the co-owners.
It bothered her that she felt sad about giving up the items. She still remembered her grandmother letting her handle the figurines when she was just a child, allowing her to gently turn them around in her small hands in order to admire and touch them.
Several of the figurines had come over with her grandmother from Ireland, stuffed in an old suitcase with few other belongings. They were a part of her family’s heritage, and it seemed wrong to sell them for something as meaningless as money. But then, Reverend Everett constantly reminded them that they needed to divorce themselves from the materialism of the world in order to be truly free. That it was sinful to admire and covet material items even if they held some sentimental value.
More important, Kathleen knew she couldn’t very well cart all these things with her when they left for their new paradise in Colorado. Besides, she wouldn’t need them. Reverend Everett had promised that everything would be provided for them, their every need and desire would be attended to. She hoped that meant it would be much cleaner and luxurious than the compound. Most of the time the place smelled bad. And on her last trip there, she could swear she had seen a rat scurrying along the side of the conference hall. She hated rats.
She left the boxes and walked through the rooms, looking to see if she had forgotten any of the items she had agreed to sell to the man from Al and Frank’s. The man whose name she couldn’t remember. She decided she would miss this apartment, though she hadn’t lived here very long. It was one of the few places she had bothered to decorate and make into a home. And it was one of the few places that didn’t remind her how trapped and alone she could feel. Although some evenings nothing could prevent her from feeling the walls closing in on her.
She told herself that it would be nice to live in a community where her new friends lived just across the hall. But hopefully not Emily. Dear God, Emily’s constant complaining would drive her nuts if she had to live across the hall from the woman. It would also be nice to have people she could talk to, rather than spending her evenings answering Regis Philbin’s million-dollar questions. Yes, she was tired of being alone, and she certainly didn’t want to grow old alone. So if the price was a few rare figurines her grandmother had willed to her, then so be it. It wasn’t like those silly things had done anything for her lately.
There was a knock at the door, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps she had gotten the days mixed up. Was it possible the man from Al and Frank’s meant to come today and not tomorrow? She’d just have to tell him that she’d changed her mind. That’s what she would do. She couldn’t possibly sell them to him today. She needed time, after all, to get used to the idea.
She opened the door, ready to say just that, and found herself staring at her daughter, instead.
“Maggie? What on earth are you doing here?”
“Sorry I didn’t call.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen? Is Greg okay?”
She saw Maggie flinch. It was the wrong thing to say. Why did her daughter always have to make her feel like she was saying the wrong thing?
“Nothing’s wrong, but I do need to talk to you. Is it okay if I come in?”
“Oh, sure.” She opened the door and waved her in. “The place is a mess.”
“Are you moving?” Maggie walked over to the stacked boxes.
Thank God the boxes weren’t labeled. Her daughter would never understand about the materialism and divorcing it to feel free or not coveting, or whatever it was…Oh, it didn’t matter. Maggie would never understand, and no one outside the church was supposed to know about Colorado.
“I’m just cleaning out some old stuff.”
“Oh, okay.”
Maggie gave up her questioning and stood at the window, looking out over the parking lot. Kathleen couldn’t help wondering if the girl already wanted to escape. Well, it wasn’t like it was a day at the circus for her, either. At least, she didn’t expect anything from Maggie. Not anymore, that is.
“Would you like some iced tea?”
“Only if it’s no trouble.”
“I just brewed some. It’s raspberry. Is that okay?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. She retreated to her small kitchen, hoping its cozy warmth would soothe her nerves.
When she reached for the tall iced tea glasses, she noticed a bottle in the far corner of the cupboard. She had
