Pieces of Hate (6 page)

You’ve got the gift, all right, Mrs. Watkiss had said, touching Margaret’s temple, then her hand. Here . . . and here.

Margaret stared at her own right hand, turning it this way and that, inspecting the five-fingered appendage as if it belonged to someone else.

You go back to your sister now. That’s where you can do the most good.

. . . the most good . . .

When she listened carefully, Margaret could still hear Mrs. Watkiss’s nose whistling quietly as she slept.

Making a decision, Margaret put the television remote in her lap and turned it on, then curled a hand around Lynda’s, careful not to disturb her sleep. Then, Margaret sat in the chair, watching the silent television, and holding her sister’s hand, having decided to hold it as long as was necessary . . . just in case there was any truth to the old woman’s craziness . . .

9

Margaret awoke suddenly in the chair at the gentle sound of Lynda’s voice. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

“Good grief,” she mumbled, sitting up straight in the chair, “I dozed off. That’s your job.” She did a double take at her sister.

Lynda was not just sitting up in bed . . . she was sitting up, skinny legs crossed Indian-style, her body facing Margaret, smiling. She was shaking her right hand and waggling the fingers.

“You were holding my hand,” Lynda said.

“Yeah, I guess I was.”

“No, I mean you were really holding it,” she said with a chuckle. “It went to sleep.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. I’m touched, really. In fact . . . I’m puzzled.”

“About what?”

“Well . . . I know we agreed to put the past behind us yesterday, but . . . I can’t help wondering exactly why you came here. Was it for your high school reunion? Or did you actually come to see me after hating me all these years?”

Margaret sighed. “Look, we’re the only family we’ve got. And even I couldn’t go on hating you forever,” she added with a smirk.

After a reluctant pause, Lynda asked, “So, does that mean you don’t hate Mom and Dad anymore?”

Margaret sighed again, more sharply this time. “I guess some things are easier to get over than others.”

“You know, they didn’t hate you.”

“Please, Lynda, do we have to — ”

“Just listen a minute, okay? I’ve been thinking about this ever since you left here yesterday and I want to get this off my chest. Now, I know you hated them, maybe even more than you hated me. And you had good reason. They were cold people. You and I were different; I could see beneath their crust, but you didn’t want to look. Then you left for the big city and I stayed home and got married, which was the only thing I really wanted to do, I guess. Anyway, you were gone, so you didn’t see what I saw. You know, they really loved you, Margaret.”

“Nice of them to let you know. Of course, it would’ve been nice if they’d filled me in on the secret.”

“They talked about you a lot. They were very proud of your success in advertising. When Mom was killed in the car accident, Dad completely fell apart. I’ve never seen a man cry so much. I had to care for him like a baby. But even though I was waiting on him hand and foot, I felt like nothing more than an annoyance to him . . . because he kept asking for you. He wanted to know why you weren’t at the funeral, why you hadn’t called, or at least written. By then, you hadn’t written in a long time and none of us knew how to reach you. He started drinking heavily, then got cancer. Right up to the end, he kept asking for you. He hardly knew who he was, but . . . the last thing he said to me before going into the coma was, Tell Maggie how much her mother and I loved her . . . and that we’re both sorry.’“

By the time Lynda finished, Margaret’s head was bowed so far forward that her chin rested on her collarbone. Her eyes were stinging from the tears that were dropping into her lap.

“Oh, please don’t cry. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, or anything. I just wanted you to know that behind their cold, unaffectionate fronts, they loved us both very much. They loved you. So now, you can love them, too. Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean it’s too late. Now please, Margaret, don’t cry.”

Margaret did not move or make a sound.

Lynda got up on her knees and reached out her hand. “Come here. Please, come over here.”

Margaret stood and silently embraced her sister, surprised by the strength in Lynda’s arms as she held Margaret close. With the faint sound of air whistling in and out of Mrs. Watkiss’s nose beyond the drape behind her, Margaret smoothly slid her hands over Lynda’s bony back, willing the crazy old woman’s story to be true . . . praying that it was true.

“Now stop crying,” Lynda whispered into her ear. “I’m the dying patient, I’m supposed to be crying.”

When Lynda tried to pull away, Margaret held on to her and said, “No, not yet. Just a little longer. Please.”

A moment later, Margaret backed away from the bed, removed her compact from her purse and gasped at her reflection as she sat down in the chair. “Oh, God. I look like a raccoon.” She grabbed a small box of tissues from the bed table and began to clean her face.

“I’m glad you came to see me, Margaret. I really am. It makes me feel so . . . you know, this might sound stupid, but it makes me feel young. I even feel a little hungry. I might have some Jell-O later.”

As she reapplied her mascara, Margaret glanced at Lynda, surprised by her sudden surge in energy. She was sitting Indian-style on the bed again, bouncing ever so slightly, like a schoolgirl sharing secrets with her girlfriends at a slumber party.

Lynda said. “I wish I could go to that reunion with you Saturday night, just to watch, just to see their reactions. You’re gonna knock ’em dead. Are you going to the cocktail party, the dinner, or both?”

“I don’t even know if I’m going to the damned thing.” Margaret said, slapping her compact shut and slipping it back into her purse. “I think I’d rather spend the weekend with you. You know, I could rent a VCR and hook it up to that thing — ” She nodded toward the television on the wall. “ — and rent a few movies. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could even — ”

“You can’t be serious, Margaret!” Lynda hissed, leaning forward. “You have to go to that reunion, I mean . . . well, you just have to!”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Cut the false modesty. You know exactly why. Because you’re going to make them sizzle with jealousy. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. Fat and homely Margaret shows up at the reunion and makes the eyes pop out of all those balding heads, makes hearts pound above all those beer bellies, makes all those former cheerleading sex kittens green with envy. For someone who can hold a grudge for so long. how could you possibly resist such an opportunity? I mean, can you imagine how Albert Huffman would react?”

“Albert Huffman? Your old boyfriend?”

“Oh, stop it. You know we didn’t even do it, Albert and me.”

“You didn’t? But I thought you said — ”

“I was just being nasty, Margaret. And I’m sorry. But the reason we didn’t do it was that he was a loser, a real zero. You could’ve done so much better.”

“Hah! I couldn’t even do worse back then.”

They began to do all the giggling and dishing they had never done as girls. They talked about Becky Gilbert, a cheerleader who had talked Mark Gepper, a butcher’s son, into filling Margaret’s locker with pig’s feet.

They remembered Daryl Cotch, the quarterback, and Amelia Turner, captain of the cheerleading team, who had been The Couple at school in those days, who had always joked about Margaret whenever she was in earshot; Amelia would say things like, “Stop looking at her, Daryl! I know you’re lusting after her! If I ever catch you two together, I’ll kill you!” and Daryl would say, “But she’s just so gorgeous, Amelia . . . so sexy . . . I can’t keep my eyes off her. She’s incredible!” Then, everyone around Margaret would laugh.

They laughed about Brandon Lyons, who was rumored to be the most well-endowed male at school; Brandon had been as handsome as he was empty-headed, and he knew he could have any girl on campus. He was forever tormenting Margaret in public: “How come you don’t seem to be interested in me, huh, Maggie? All the other girls are. They can’t wait to get to my love pump! Hey, how about this — you can think of it as a big fat sausage, huh? Does that sound good? You can think of it as food! Maybe a gigantic popsicle! Would that change your mind?” There were others, and Margaret and Lynda laughingly roasted them all.

Marty Cullen came up, as well. While Margaret was busy being the school fat-ugly girl, Marty was stuck with being the school nerd-fairy. He’d been tall and painfully skinny, with an Adam’s apple nearly as big as his chin. His bony, long-limbed clumsiness had been as much of a joke to everyone as Margaret’s girth and homely features. As far as Margaret knew, he’d never had a single date during his high school years; he’d been a loner, stumbling from one class to the next, trying his best to avoid everyone else, as afraid of them as she had been. The boys called him everything from “weasel” to “fag”; the girls, of course, didn’t need to call him names, using far more subtle, and no doubt more cruel and painful, methods of torture. But Margaret remembered Marty as being very smart. He’d helped her with a couple of classes in which she had not exactly excelled, such as math and science. Especially math. He’d been a whiz at numbers.

“Come on, Lynda,” Margaret said as their laughter died away. “Maybe I’m not fat anymore, but I can promise you that nobody’s going to put a sash over my shoulder and hand me a bouquet of roses. There’s a lot of mileage on this body, and my odometer just happens to be my face.”

Lynda shook her head slowly as she nibbled on her lower lip. “You need a reality check, girl.” She spun around on the mattress and stood on the opposite side of the bed, grabbing the I.V. pole with her right hand.

“What are you doing?” Margaret asked, a hint of panic in her voice. “Are you even supposed to be out of bed?”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Come here.” She went to the sink beneath and to the right of television set. Turning to Margaret, she beckoned with her left hand. “Come here to me.”

Cautiously, Margaret stood and went to Lynda, keeping a distance of about two feet.

Lynda laughed. “What’s the matter, afraid of me, or something? Come here, in front of the mirror.”

Margaret felt her heartbeat speed up, remembering all those times Lynda had made her stand in front of a mirror so she could point out to Margaret just how fat and ugly she was.

Lynda put an arm around Margaret’s shoulder and pulled her over to the mirror. Standing behind her, Lynda put her hands on Margaret’s shoulders.

“Now look at yourself, Margaret,” Lynda said, smiling. “Am I wrong? Was I lying? No, I wasn’t wrong. You’re beautiful. I mean, aside from a little runny mascara, you are really a knock-out.”

Margaret’s jaw slowly went slack as she stared at her reflection. She flipped the switch to the left of the sink and a light came on above the mirror. She looked even more dumbfounded as she leaned over the sink, bringing her face close to the mirror.

Her skin was beautifully, youthfully, and unbelievably smooth. She touched two fingertips to the flesh beneath her right eye which, very recently, had been puffy and baggy. It was not puffy and baggy now. Even the tiny wrinkles on her eyelids and around her eyes and the crow’s feet at the corners were all gone. The wrinkles around her lips had disappeared, and her lips looked full, though a bit chapped.

“My God,” Margaret breathed, touching her face with both hands now, moving her fingertips over her skin gently, in wonder. “My . . . God.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t be that shocked. You had to know how great you looked, Margaret.” Lynda was still smiling, but her smile began to melt away as she stared at Margaret’s shocked expression in the mirror.

You’ve been given something that will keep you well, dear, Mrs. Watkiss had said. Is this what she’d meant by “well”?

It was true, Margaret thought. Everything she said was true . . . and my face proves it.

“Margaret? Are you all right?”

“Fine, yes,” Margaret whispered as she stood up straight, never taking her eyes from her reflection.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Um, look . . . I came over to the mirror, like you asked. Now — ” She turned around and faced Lynda, who took a step back. “ — I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”

Lynda nodded cautiously. “Okay.”

“Go lie down. On your bed. I’m going to sit in that chair. And we’re going to hold hands.”

“What?”

“We can talk or watch TV or listen to the radio, whatever you want, but we . . . are going . . . to hold . . . hands. Understand me?”

“Are you sure everything’s . . . okay?”

“Never better,” Margaret said with a big smile. It was the kind of smile she couldn’t control, couldn’t hold in, and it felt wonderful. “Just do it. And don’t ask questions, okay?”

Lynda returned to her bed and Margaret to her chair. And they held hands. Tightly.

And as Mrs. Watkiss’s nose whistled behind the drape, Margaret felt a swelling inside in her chest that she had never felt before. It was a happy feeling, giddy, even a little magical.