Thursday: October 18, 2007

John Thornton stared at the police report on his desk, the lines blurring together as he read it for the fifth time. The load the truck had been hauling along the icy Canadian road shifted its weight, causing the trailer to tip. The cab had slammed into a line of trees and the engine ignited. The truck was lost along with the shipment, and the driver helicoptered to the closest hospital.

"Is she dead?" John asked, even though his gut told him the answer.

Williams stood leaning against the counter where the coffee machine sat and shook his head. "She didn't have a chance. DOA."

"Godamit," John breathed.

"One other thing,"

John looked up.

"Seems she was drinking. At least that's what the cops said. Driving over her time too."

John lost his first driver in in his third year in the trucking business. Mac Johnson's semi had flipped on the interstate and a car plowed into the cab, unable to stop. John swore to himself he would never let it happen again. He bought the best cabs available with the widest sleeping berths, enforced strict hours on and off the road, penalizing his drivers for working longer than the law allowed.

And now it had happened again. John scrubbed his face with one hand and accepted the cup of coffee Williams set on his desk.

"The police need family to make an ID. The body arrives at the morgue sometime today or tomorrow. They'll do an autopsy before releasing the remains to the family."

John took a burning sip and nodded.

"You want me to call it in?" Williams asked.

"Is Higgins out?"

"Due back in a week."

"Call him."

"What about his shipment?"

"His daughter is dead, Williams."

"I'll see what I can do to work it out."

Williams turned to go, and John stopped him. "You get him here, no matter the cost."

"I'll take care of it."

Saturday: October 20, 2007

Margaret stood in the basement of the St. Agnes Hospital staring at the brushed metal doors. Mary clutched her hand in both of her own icy ones, face pale and drawn.

"I can't, Margaret." It would've been a wail except Mary's mouth barely uttered enough sound to be heard.

"I know," Margaret felt dead inside.

She held on to Mary until the younger girl found the courage to push open the door in front of her.

The room was chilly and smelled strongly of lab chemicals and cleaner. The doctor in charge explained to Mary what was expected of her. A police officer waited to take her statement. Mary shrunk back into Margaret when she saw the sheet covered table, where her sister's body lay concealed.

"Whenever you're ready." The coroner said. "It won't take long."

Mary closed her eyes, and took several shuddering breaths, "Alright."

Margaret didn't want to see Bessie, not like this, but she couldn't look away. The coroner pulled back the sheet exposing until just her head was visible.

Elizabeth Grace Higgins, age twenty-two, was dead from blunt force trauma and smoke inhalation. There were cuts and bruising and a lost, unreal quality to her. It was a violent death. Margaret knew from listening to the report, but her heart eased when she saw the look of peace on Bessie's face.

Margaret took Mary home, looking around helplessly at the small crowd of children gathered about.

"Come along, you." Margaret said, taking up the younger two. "Tommy, make Mary something hot to drink. Janie and Jimmy, make sandwiches."

"And what about me?" Lilly asked.

"You, dearest, will help me with the babies."

When the younger children were cleaned, fed, and tucked away to sleep, Margaret sat with Mary long into the night, waiting for a call from Nick. Tommy grumbled his way through his school work, shoving it aside in frustration. Jimmy didn't breathe a word to anyone.

The intercom sounded and Mary got up, buzzing them in. Margaret held her breath. Mary waited at the door, frowning when the knock came. She peered through the peep hole, and stood without moving.

"Mary?"

She opened the door and let in the police officer and —to Margaret's surprise—her father, half carrying a very drunk Higgins.

Margaret sucked in her breath as realization hit her. Mary wept silently as the officer spoke. "I'm sorry to bring him like this."

Mary only nodded.

"Miss Higgins, are you sure it's alright to leave him here?" The officer looked around.

"We'll be fine." Margaret was surprised to hear her voice speaking so calmly. "Put him in the back bedroom."

Mr. Hale and the officer didn't leave until all was settled. Margaret sank into her father's hug once the policeman had gone.

"We found him at the tracks on the North side." He explained. "I'll stay the night, if you don't object, Mary. Tommy and Jim and I can look after your father. You girls go on to the house."

"But, the kids?" Mary asked, concern and worry etching her face.

"Janie can manage the little ones," Margaret put her hand on Mary's arm. "We can't all stay here. There isn't room."

Mary eventually allowed Margaret to take her to the Hale's home, and tuck her into bed with a cup of tea.

"I'll never forgive my dad for this." Mary muttered, looking into her cup.

Margaret patted her arm, her own heart full to bursting with anger and sorrow.

"How do you do it?" Mary asked, her voice a whisper. "How do you wake up the next day and live like it never happened?"

"You don't."

"What then?"

"You carry on because you must." Margaret sighed feeling so much older than she wanted to be. "Because life does not wait for those that mourn. It marches on and you must march with it."

Margaret pulled her mum's quilt out of the trunk by the foot of her own bed and wrapped it around herself, breathing in the memories of happier times. She held her box of photos, rummaging through them, lingering over her favorite picture of Bess. She'd taken it right before Christmas last year, the snow falling in large chunky blurs and the carefree laughter lightened Bessie's whole face in a bright smile. Margaret held the picture to her chest and wept until she fell asleep.

Saturday: November 3, 2007

It took two long weeks for the body to be released and to arrange the funeral details. Mr. Hale and Margaret were hard pressed to keep Nick Higgins sober and lucid. The younger Bouchers and Mary spent their days with Margaret at the house away from the turmoil of home.

They buried Bessie on a rainy day at the top of the hill under the great oak tree in Hilton Cemetery. Mr. Hale stayed close to Nicholas, driving him and the boys back to their apartment when it all was over. It wasn't a fancy funeral and the service was brief. Margaret stayed long after Mary left with the rest of the children, who were tired and cross from the whole affair. She walked over the muddy paths between the stones, the chilly wind fingering her face and hair.

All the world continued on without her, and all she wanted to do was to stay, to be warm again, to rest and not have to think. She walked around a curve in the path at the bottom of the hill and stopped. She recognized him, even though his back was to her.

Her blood went cold at the sight of John Thornton, her anger blazing to life. He turned at the sound of her footsteps. John watched Margaret approach his face hard. She couldn't tear her eyes away, anger and hatred making them burn. He'd given Bessie the job that killed her. He could've stopped this.

Why was he even here?

"Miss Hale."

"Mr. Thornton," Margaret said.

She took two steps forward until she stood next to him and glanced down at the headstone.

"Is that your father?"

John nodded.

"Did you know my friend Bessie Higgins died two weeks ago?" Margaret almost laughed at her casual tone. "We buried her today."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"I know you think I'm incapable of human decency," John said, ice in his voice, "but I would give everything to change her fate."

Margaret kept her eyes lowered, hardening herself against his apology. "Everything?" She challenged. "For a drunk's drunk daughter?"

Margaret blinked away her tears even as her conscience rebelled against the harshness of her words, "I know it's not your fault, but I can't help hating you for it."

His whole body tensed as she spoke. Margaret searched his face but he looked away.

"Do as you like," He murmured. The low rumble of his voice made her skin prickle. John's eyes flicked towards the hill behind Margaret, and she suddenly noticed the tired defeat written in the lines on his face. Her breath caught in her throat. John crouched and brushed a few late fallen leaves from a smaller headstone. Margaret glanced down, reading the single word: Taylor.

He didn't say anything, but Margaret didn't need an explanation. This stone must be for Fanny.

John was no more responsible for bad circumstances than Fanny or Bessie or Nick or Boucher. She couldn't hate him, no matter how much she wanted to.

"I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that," Margaret said softly. "Especially not from me."

A strange impulse made her lean over and kiss his cheek. Margaret moved away quickly, feeling heat crawl up her neck and cheeks as she left him there. Halfway up the hill, she stopped and turned back. The sun was setting in a flame of orange in front of him turning the stones and John Thornton into haunting dark silhouettes.

It was beautiful.

Margaret caught her breath and lifted her hand to touch her lips that were still burning.

Tuesday: December 25, 2007

John Thornton spent Christmas Day at his office, going through stacks of papers, filing, sorting, and shredding. They were jobs Bess Higgins once did for him. Her loss as an office manager meant he spent one day a month buried under menial paperwork, but he hadn't found the time to replace her. The whispers in the business world were making their way to Milton. Things were not looking good for the economy.

John sighed and poured himself some more coffee. He knew he was hiding from his mother and Fanny. He wondered when his mother would show up looking for him. He glanced at his watch. The day was almost over. The last task to complete was a stack of DACs to write up for his truckers.

When he reached Nick Higgins' file John stopped, feeling his temper rise. The man was a shit piece of work. He ought to fire him, but John tossed his file aside after a long moment. Nothing good came from Slick Nick and his games, but something in John wouldn't toss him out.

Not so soon after Bess.

Not after working for John since the business began.

He'd stick him on long hauls for the rest of his miserable life, John decided. That should keep the meddling down to a minimum. John grumbled to himself and wrote out the report as fast as possible and shoved the file in the drawers with the others. Sometimes he hated giving a damn.

Since meeting Margaret Hale he cared a hell of a lot more than he should.

John rubbed at his cheek angrily as the skin prickled with the memory of her lips. He should've kissed her back. But that didn't work out well the last time he tried it. The memory reared its terrible head, biting and stinging in mockery.

I don't like you. I never have.

John shoved it away and went back to work.

Sunday: December 30, 2007

"Got any plans for New Years Eve?" Nick didn't look up from the table where he sat staring at his hands. His face carried a haunted look most days. Things had all gone wrong. He thought he knew which cards to play and when— but it had all been wrong. Margaret was packing away the last of the Christmas decorations at the apartment. Mary paused, a strand of lights loosely wound around her neck, trying to sort out the bad bulbs.

"No," Margaret said, "Why do you ask?"

"I thought you might be going to the Latimers."

"I have to work, I'm afraid."

"Too bad." Nick shot a knowing look at her. "I heard you liked that New Year's Eve parties."

"Dad—"

Margaret's face told him he was better off holding his tongue. Nick felt a fresh wave a guilt, and shoved himself away from the table.

Tuesday: January 1, 2008

Margaret stared at her ceiling, listening to the tick, tick, tick of her clock. There were still lingering fireworks ushering in the new year, even at two in the morning. Terry let her off work early, trying to steal a midnight kiss. She slapped him hard and didn't apologize.

At least Terry hadn't fired her.

Margaret rolled over onto her stomach and pulled out her new smartphone. It was a late Christmas gift from Dale Dixon. She didn't like the way he still tried to pacify her. Margaret tossed it onto her bedside table without checking her email or social media. Nothing interesting ever happened to her anyway, she decided.

Liar.

Too many interesting things happened to her. Margaret flicked off her light, and closed her eyes.