The Hideaway

“Major’s right,” Bert said. “And like Mrs. Busbee said in that article, Mags was the town matriarch and she took care of people. She never seemed to have extra money to put into the house, but money would show up when someone needed help. I stopped trying to figure her out a long time ago. She is who she is—or was—and we loved her for that. End of story.”

That was just it though—they had all known there was more to Mags than she let on, and the townspeople respected her for her help in times of need. I, on the other hand, took her for exactly who she was on the surface, never bothering to consider that a full, rich life had been waiting just underneath. I realized I loved her life, her spirit. I loved who she had been all along.

39

MAGS

1976

I wasn’t normally a churchgoing woman. Back in Mobile, we attended the Episcopal church, although I always got a feeling it was more because of the beauty of both the stained glass and the congregation. The Methodist church right down the street would have been fine, but it didn’t have glass brought in from Europe and couldn’t claim the mayor of Mobile and the head of Bay Imports as members.

Dot and Bert had been going to Baldwin Baptist since they moved in, and they asked me to accompany them every Sunday. And every Sunday I declined. The house was quiet on Sunday mornings, and I usually spent those hours on the dock or in my garden. Why mess up a perfectly good morning with fire and brimstone and a healthy heap of guilt to go on top?

“You should try it just once,” Dot said to me one Saturday evening as I tiptoed through my garden picking bell peppers. “What can it hurt? It might even help.”

“What makes you think I need any help?”

“Just think about it,” Dot said. “No one’s going to make you walk the aisle if you don’t want to, and it may make you feel better to let go of—well, anything you may be holding on to.”

Dot was many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Why do you think I need to feel any better than I do right now? I’m fine.”

Dot moved closer to me, sidestepping a tall pepper plant. “I’ve been here for sixteen years. That’s sixteen years of watching you walk around with a weight on your shoulders that you never talk about and pretend isn’t there. And watching you love someone who is never coming back.”

I drew in a quick breath and stepped back.

“Don’t get mad, just listen to me for a minute. You are a strong woman in every area except one—William. You’ve told me a thousand times that you’re over him, but it’s just not true. I know he came in here and set your world on fire, but it was a long time ago, and life goes on. After all these years of being your best friend, I think I’ve earned the right to say this: You need to let him go.”

So much for trying to look strong.

I wasn’t ready to give up, but would it free me if I did? I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to be free. What if, miracle of miracles, he did come back one day? If I’d already shut my heart off and let him go, I might not be able to kick it into gear again.

I put my arm around Dot. “I’ll think about it.”

Surprise crossed her face. “I thought you’d slap me for sure.”

“Have I ever done anything to make you think I’m a violent person?”

She smiled. “Maybe not, but after Robert left, I told Bert to hide the oyster knife just in case he ever came back.”

Not long after that conversation, I gave in.

“I won’t even ask what changed your mind. Just be ready at eleven,” Dot said. “And try to wear something normal.”

I didn’t tell her, but what made me change my mind was a simple question from Jenny that literally stopped me in my tracks. She and I had taken a stroll before dinner, and after chatting about her biology homework and the roses growing outside Grant’s Hardware, Jenny took a deep breath. I knew something was on her mind, but I also knew just enough about teenagers to know if I came out and asked her what was wrong, she’d never tell me.

“Mama, how did it feel when you and Dad fell in love?”

I was so unprepared for that question, I stopped putting one foot in front of the other.

She turned. “What are you doing? We’re in the middle of the street.”

I followed her to the sidewalk, trying to come up with an answer.

“I know you don’t like to talk about him,” she continued. “I just—Mabel told me Mark Kupek is in love with me. She asked me if I’m in love with him, but how am I supposed to know? What did it feel like with you and Dad?”

Which one? The man she thought was her dad or the real one? I still hadn’t given Jenny the letter I’d written on the beach in Gulf Shores, even though she was now approaching high school. Every time I gathered the courage to pull the letter out of its hiding place and take it to her, I lost the nerve. She’d be rocking on the back porch with a paperback in her hands, or laughing with friends on the end of the dock, or playing checkers with Bert. She was content with her life and the family she had at The Hideaway, and I couldn’t bring myself to shatter the peace.

Her question about love made me realize I’d put myself—and her—into a bind by not laying out the truth and letting her decide how to feel. Instead, I’d chosen the lens through which she’d view her family. But my daughter had asked me about love, and the only true love I knew was William, so I told her the truth.

“It was electric, like a thousand butterflies in my chest or a thousand balloons flying free. Sometimes being apart was even better than being with him, because I could anticipate seeing him. When we’d finally see each other again, the air between us would crackle and snap, and I couldn’t cross the room fast enough to be next to him.”

It had been a long while since I’d thought of those first weeks with William. Was that all love was? Electricity, excitement, and anticipation? No, not all.

“That’s how it felt, but love is a choice you make in your head too. I knew I was in love with your father because I couldn’t imagine my future without him. I didn’t want to imagine it. He became such a part of me that I knew if he wasn’t there, I’d lose a part of myself too.”

“Did you? Lose a part of yourself?”

“A small part,” I said. “But I had you, and you opened my heart up in ways I never expected. You, my dear, were a balm for that wound. So were our house and our friends. I have a lot of good things in my life. But I still haven’t forgotten him.”

We walked in silence a few moments before she spoke. “I’m definitely not in love with him.” She might as well have said, “I’d rather not have chicken for dinner tonight.” My Jenny, so uncomplicated.

“Who is Mark Kupek?” I asked.

“Just a boy,” she answered.

I laughed and put my arm around her thin shoulders. My sweet girl. “That’s how it is—they’re always ‘just a boy,’ until they’re not.”

The church service was much like I expected it to be—lots of flowered hats, big smiles, hand-clapping hymns, and a good old fiery sermon peppered with “Mm-hmm” and “Preach it” from the congregation.

But something happened during the prayer time. After lifting up every injury and ailment in the congregation and the tribulations of every possible extended family member, the preacher stopped and called for a time of silent prayer. His voice lost its showman’s edge and grew raspy and honest.