Ten years later | Monday: December 2, 2019
Margaret Thornton arrived in Milton, Connecticut on a gloomy day, the sky cold and grey, the brilliance of fall all but faded. It was as dreary and weary a city as it had seemed to her eyes almost twelve years ago when she'd first arrived. She shivered as the wind pulled at her coat, forcing icy fingers down her neck in a rude greeting. She hunched her shoulders as she walked to the waiting taxi, slinging her bag onto her shoulder.
"Where to?" The cab driver chewed on a toothpick, eyes looking past her.
"Saint Anne's Hospital."
Margaret pulled the old battered polaroid camera from her rucksack and loaded it with the film box she'd saved for this particular trip. She blew dust from the viewfinder and waited as the cab zigzagged through the tangled streets about the airport. There was one building she always waited for, and when it rose— straight and familiar in front of her, bell tower cutting across the smoky sky—she snapped a picture. She never grew tired of the view of Saint Jude's Cathedral. She smiled at the photograph as it developed. She was always improving, but sometimes a shot worked no matter the lighting or the angle.
When she arrived at the hospital, Margaret was turned away. "Mrs Thornton was quite clear, ma'am. Family only," the nurse said, a note of apology in her voice.
Margaret rolled her eyes, "Will you be so kind as to tell her that Dr Margaret Thornton wishes to see her? Her daughter-in-law."
The nurse raised her eyebrows but she nodded, "Leave your phone number and we'll call you if she changes her mind."
Margaret scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and handed it to the nurse with an exasperated sigh. Some things never seemed to change, no matter how hard she tried.
The Watsons lived on the east side of Milton, where the houses were manicured and maintained with prompt rigid excellence. The gated community always made Margaret miss the softness of her own home in Blanding, South Carolina. The housekeeper showed her to the sumptuous guest room Fanny always kept ready. Margaret slowly put away her things. She set a battered polaroid against the lamp and sighed, running a fingertip over John's barely smiling face. She'd only been gone a day, and already she missed him. Fanny was out running her five boys to their various sports games and Mr Watson wouldn't be home until long past supper. Margaret grimaced at the sudden thought of food. The flight hadn't been kind to her but that was to be expected. What she wanted was a good cup of tea, the way her father used to make it in England, with scones, butter and jam.
"Anything is better after a cup of tea."
Margaret eventually made her way down to the kitchen, and poked around in the cupboards until the cook, a Ms Bates, appeared and informed her that if she wanted anything she would be happy to get it for her.
"That's alright. I can manage."
"The Missus insisted," The older woman frowned, flapping about, a little flustered.
"Do you have loose-leaf tea?"
"Certainly, ma'am. Miss Fanny keeps all that. Should I send up a tray?"
"Nonsense," Margaret stood, resolute, shaking her head. " I'll wait." When the tea was ready, and several scones sliced and plated, Margaret finally felt herself relax. "Thank you, this is lovely."
"Miss Fanny said you were to have everything to your liking," the older woman sniffed.
Margaret's eyes softened, and she smiled, thinking the cook looked liked an old chicken with its feathers ruffled in annoyance, "Then I should like tea every morning, if you would be so kind."
The cook perked up and nodded, "Yes, ma'am."
Tuesday: December 3, 2019
Fanny Watson sat alone in the hospital waiting room, staring at her hands. It was quite late in the afternoon, and Margaret had only just returned from the Mathematics and Teaching conference for the day. She watched her sister-in-law for a moment, her heart heavy.
"Fan?"
The young woman lifted her golden head at the sound of Margaret's voice and stood, looking relieved and exhausted.
"You came."
"I said I would," Margaret hugged her, and Fanny crumpled into her arms, crying quietly. "Fanny May, it's alright. Don't you cry," Margaret held her sister-in-law until the wave of grief passed, "Here." She held out a well-loved handkerchief. "How's your mother today?"
"She sleeps most of the time now," Fanny brushed at her face. "The doctors say she won't last much longer."
"What can I do for you?"
"You're here and that's enough. How on earth did you talk my stubborn-ass brother into letting you come?"
"He didn't let me," Margaret said, smiling indulgently. "My work sent me for the Maths teaching conference and I insisted. Needless to say he wasn't pleased with me."
Fanny smiled knowingly. John hated Milton. When he had left the city years ago, it was with every intention of never coming back. And he also hated being away from his wife.
"Mama knows he won't come unless she asks him to," Fanny sighed, her voice hard. "But she won't do it. She won't apologise and won't admit to him that she's dying. He won't come until she does and—Lord Almighty, they're both so goddamn stubborn, and I've had it up to here with both of them." Fanny shook back her hair, squaring her shoulders. Thorntons were all cut from the same bullheaded cloth, Fanny included. Margaret felt a sudden and deep regret pass over her. She and Hannah hadn't ever truly reconciled and John couldn't forgive his mother for rejecting her. It felt so cheap to ask for peace at the very end, but she had to try. She must succeed where John had failed so many times. For herself and for John.
There wouldn't be any more chances.
"Go on home, Fan." Margaret gave her arm a loving squeeze, "Leave your mother and brother to me."
"Gladly," Fanny chuckled darkly and folded up the handkerchief. "I never thought my mama would die. Isn't that stupid? I'm thirty-two years old and I feel like a child," She looked lost, her eyes filling with tears. "I hate her sometimes, but then again I don't."
"I know."
"She's going to throw a fit if she finds you sitting with her."
"I've never gave a rat's ass what Hannah Thornton thought of me," Margaret said, folding her arms. "I'm not about to start now, you know."
Margaret sat with Hannah while she slept. She looked peaceful, even as she lay there, her life slowly being eaten away. She'd developed pneumonia after her latest round of chemotherapy and Margaret shuddered at the sounds of her struggled breathing. It wasn't until after dark that Hannah opened her eyes, staring at Margaret with all the severity and dignity she possessed.
"So you're here." Where Fanny Watson's voice was soft with a lingering southern twang, Hannah Thornton's was clipped and rough, almost defiant of the disease slowly killing her.
Margaret smiled and nodded, "How are you tonight, Mrs Thornton?"
She waved her hand in a sharp dismissive gesture, "Alive."
"Do you want me to leave?"
"If you like."
Margaret folded her hands, "We both know you care very little for what I like." Hannah chuckled, a thick racking cough shaking her frame. Margaret stood, and held a cup of tepid water to her lips after she caught her breath. "Please call John. He should be here."
"He won't come back."
"He will if you ask him to," Margaret insisted. "You're his mother and he loves you."
"Why don't you ask him?"
"Mrs Thornton—"
"My name is Hannah. You may as well use it, Miss Hale."
"And my name is Margaret," she snipped, setting the cup down.
"I'm dying."
"Exactly. Your son should be here before you go."
"Margaret," Hannah said, her breath catching, "you'll respect my wishes in this."
"Hannah, please," she took the older woman's hand, feeling tears of frustration sting her eyes. "John will never forgive you if he cannot say goodbye."
"Where you are, my son is never far behind."
"You still haven't forgiven me for that, have you?"
Hannah Thornton didn't answer, but she didn't look away.
"I didn't steal him from you," Margaret said with gentle force, mimicking a tone John often used with his mother.
"He was bound and determined to have you, even after you broke his heart."
"I did break his heart," Margaret admitted, feeling the sting of the words but determined to persevere. "I'm not asking you to like me."
The silence hung between them, Margaret holding on to her mother-in-law's hand, in spite of the bitterness in her face. "I always liked you," Hannah muttered. "You're exactly the kind of woman I wanted John to marry. Passionate, fierce, strong."
Margaret felt her mouth open in surprise, "Well, you have a very strange way of showing it."
"I've seen him suffer too much pain I couldn't mend," Hannah continued, a strange look in her face. "His father almost killed my boy when he died." Margaret stilled. John never spoke much about his father, but she knew he still had nightmares, although he'd never admit it. "I couldn't stand seeing him hurt again—heart and spirit crushed."
"But?"
"You've brought him more happiness than heartache," Hannah sighed. "I wanted to hate you, but I was wrong. I'm sorry."
"Thank you," Margaret squeezed her hand. "Now, can we part friends?"
"Friends?" Hannah pulled away from Margaret's hand. "You always were a stubborn headstrong girl."
"Very much a Thornton." Margaret said with a smile.
Wednesday: December 4, 2019
Margaret spent the next day in meetings and lectures, taking notes, smiling, chatting, and trying not to show how exhausted she felt, ducking to the washroom more than once when her stomach refused to hold on to what little she managed to eat. The conference would last two more days, but she ached for home, for her children, for John. The listlessness she felt at being alone surprised her. She'd always hoped time off from the children and normal life would be rejuvenating, but the looming illness of Mrs Thornton left her longing for her own happy life. She stood in the drive of the Watsons's home, staring up at the overcast sky, trying to see the stars that lay hidden beneath the thick covering of clouds and city lights. She sighed and turned back to the house. The stars were never clear in Milton. She let herself in through the back door, shivering.
Margaret stopped short in the mud room, her skin tingling as a deep baritone drifted down the hall.
"John?" Margaret didn't know she'd spoken aloud, as her feet carried through to the kitchen.
John Thornton sat at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He stood when Margaret entered and swept her up into a warm hug.
"Bloody hell, what are you doing here?" She asked, hugging him tighter, breathing in the familiar smell of home—cheap soap, coffee, aftershave, petrol, and peppermint. "I can't believe you're here."
He pulled back and brushed the hair from her face, "I missed you."
"I was only gone for three days," Margaret said, shivering.
"You're cold." John sat and pushed his cup of coffee towards her. "Drink up. It's still warm."
Margaret made a face, and shook her head as she scooted a chair up next to her husband, being careful not to bump his legs, "Tea would be better."
"That's all Miss Margaret eats is tea and crackers, Mr John," Ms. Bates muttered, preparing the hot drink. "I can't get anything sticking into her."
He frowned at her, his worry forming a stern line on his forehead, "Maggie?"
"I'm fine," she smiled, lacing her fingers through his, "I haven't had much of an appetite. I never do when I travel, but I think I'm more tired than I expected to be."
"You shouldn't have come," He took a long sip of coffee. "I told you—"
"One of us had to ignore your mother, and we both know it had to be me." He didn't answer and Margaret watched him over her cup, feeling his worry. "Have you slept at all, love?"
"No," he answered, setting down his coffee. "I can't sleep when you're gone."
"How are the boys?"
"Alive."
"And?"
"And they miss their mother."
"I love you." Margaret gave him her scolding smile, "Even when you're grumpy."
"What's not to love?" John gave her his crooked grin.
She snorted and went back to her tea. She and John watched each other over their cups, contented in the silence.
John grumbled to himself as he stretched out on the floor, a blanket tossed carelessly over him.
"You could try the bed," Margaret offered.
"You try fitting six feet six inches into a tiny-ass bed," he growled, turning onto his stomach. "My feet hang off the edge."
"If you'd visit more, Fanny might buy a king."
Of course Fan would only have a queen as revenge. But Margaret was right. If his sister thought he'd visit, she'd have a bigger bed. John punched his pillow, reshaping it. He was too damn old to be sleeping on the floor. "You knew I'd come."
"I hoped you would, but you didn't have to."
He sighed, "Yes, I did." He flipped his pillow, his face sinking into the cool fabric. "I was being in asshole."
"You said it, not me," she chuckled. "Your mother knew you would come too."
John made a grunting sound in his throat, not trusting himself to answer. They lay there, in the dark, until he heard her sigh.
"Move over," she stood, pulling the blankets and sheets off the bed, spreading them out on the floor when John made room. She tossed down the pillows and settled herself as best she could. "Better?"
John rolled onto his side and pulled her close, "I hate when you leave."
"Three days is only—"
"Three fucking days," he interrupted, nuzzling into her neck. "And I hate it."
"You're impossible."
He grunted, already half asleep, "I love you, Maggie."
"I know," She turned over, giving him a tired smile, "I'm here, love. Stop worrying and sleep."
Thursday: December 5, 2019
Fanny looked up at her brother, swallowing hard. They stood in the hospital waiting room, John's mouth set in a stubborn line, Fanny's hands fluttering about her clothing, as if there was something amiss. There was, but it wasn't her clothes.
"She doesn't have much time left," Fanny finally said low and soft. "She's been waiting for you, John-John."
John yanked off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, clearing his throat. He tucked the cap into his back pocket and followed Fanny down the hallway. Margaret stood alone, waiting patiently as her husband said goodbye to his mother, hoping he would forgive her. Margaret thought of her own father and mother, both of them passing before she could make things right. She would give anything for one final goodbye. Margaret looked up as John left the hospital room, slamming the door, his face dark and haggard as he marched down the hall. Fanny appeared a moment later, tears streaking down her cheeks.
"Go on," she said, wiping her face. "He needs you."
Margaret nodded, and hurried through the hospital until she reached the double doors leading outside. The sunshine broke through the clouds for a brief moment, warming her cheeks. John was leaning against one of the concrete pillars, looking out at the Milton sky.
"It's not long," Margaret asked gently, reading him like a book, "and she wants to be alone?"
He nodded.
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
John took his hat out of his pocket and settled it on his head. He took Margaret's hand and they walked out into the chilly mist. He opened the passenger door of his truck for her, and drove away from the city. The familiar route tugged at Margaret's heart. When they reached the cemetery on Hilton Drive, she stepped out into the cold silence, the city noises muffled by the mist and fog. They marched up the hill to where the great oak tree stood sentinel over the grave of Bess Higgins. Margaret brushed the wet leaves and placed her hand on the wet stone, allowing the place in her heart that missed her friend to mourn.
"How's the view from up here?" She whispered. "It's weary down here."
She let John lead her down the hill, and they stopped at his father's grave. He kept his eyes turned down, pushing at the dead grass with his foot. Margaret took his hand in both of hers, and kissed it.
"My dad's family never forgave my mother for burying him in Milton," his voice was rough and so tired. "She pissed them all off, " John knelt and took his hat off.
"All those Thorntons are dead now."
"My mother's the last of that generation." John put his hat back on, standing, "She made certain there was room next to him."
Margaret nodded, "They loved each other very much."
"Not enough."
"Stop that. She did love him and you know it, even after everything."
"Like your mom loved your dad?" He snapped.
Margaret didn't answer for a long moment. John looked away, folding his arms in a way that she knew, and she felt her anger at his biting remark fade. "My mum hated my dad because she loved him so much and he hurt her terribly. I think the same is true for your parents. There was love there, just all twisted and broken and very human." She took his hand again, "She loves you, and you love her, in your silly dysfunctional Thornton way."
She watched as the hard lines of his shoulders softened and he pulled her roughly to him in a fierce hug.
"I love you too, you know."
"I know."
Hannah Thornton died quietly that evening, without fuss or inconvenience. John took his sister into his arms and let her cry. Margaret took care of most of the arrangements as quickly as possible, but there was very little to do. Mrs Thornton had seen to that with the help of Mr Bell and an expensive lawyer. The funeral was a small family affair. John didn't cry—not for his mother or himself or even Fanny. Margaret wished he would, but it wasn't his way.
When everyone else had gone, they took their time walking back to the truck. Margaret knew John longed to be home again, to see the children, to live the life they'd built together away from Milton and all its pain.
"What did you and my mother talk about—at the hospital?" John asked. "Fanny told me you were there."
Margaret paused, looking back over her shoulder at the fresh marker, "We made our peace."
"Did she actually forgive you?" He took Margaret's hand.
"Not in so many words, but yes, I think she did. She even apologised."
"How the hell did you manage that?"
"I made her a promise. It's silly, but I think she was pleased."
"A promise?" John managed a small grin, "What kind of a promise?"
"To name our baby after her."
John turned and raised his eyebrows, "Are we making a baby?"
"We already did, love," she said, pulling a plastic pregnancy test from her coat pocket, "and it's entirely your fault too."
"Wait," he stopped walking, jerking her to a stop as he studied the test. "When did this happen?"
"Mr Thornton, in the den, with his bloody-high sex drive."
"You weren't complaining—"
"No, I was trying to watch a show on the telly, if I recall correctly, and you," Margaret poked his chest with her finger, "were being extremely attentive. Ring any bells?"
"Maybe," John said, a wide, stupid grin splitting his face. "I'll be damned."
"Your farm boy accent gets very thick when you're pleased with yourself, John Thornton."
He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, still grinning, "You're sure?"
"Of course, I'm sure." She pointed to the test. "Two lines means pregnant, love."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I only took the test this morning," Margaret rolled her eyes and started walking again. She smiled when he caught up to her and wrapped both of his arms around her from behind, resting his chin in her hair. She twisted around and buried herself in his solid warmth. Another man probably would've said something sweet or romantic, but John wasn't other men. She waited, looking at him until he said the only thing she ever wanted to hear. "I love you."
Margaret's smile suddenly turned into a frown.
"What's wrong?"
"What the bloody hell will we do we do if this baby's another boy?"
He rubbed his chin, considering, "I guess we keep popping them out until we get it right."
"John Seamus Thornton—"
"You did promise my dying mother a granddaughter."
"I—you asshole—"
"As many as possible, Maggie," he said, his grin widening. "Remember?"
"Yes, well, I just—never mind—you're very lucky I love you so bloody much."
"I know."
Monday: June 29, 2020
Hannah Maria Thornton came into the world on a sunny summer day. Her wrinkled red head was covered in a shock of thick fluffy black hair. A very stern and very black pair of eye brows perched over a large pair of bright blue eyes made Margaret chuckle when she saw her daughter for the first time.
"Why do all my children look just like you? It's bloody unfair."
"Too bad for her."
"Shut up. You bloody well know you're fit and quite handsome."
He looked up from studying their baby and grimaced, "My face on a woman would be ugly as fuck."
"She's beautiful," Margaret insisted.
"She's a potato."
"Shut up, smartass."
"You're fault, not mine," John held his daughter in one hand and leaned over the hospital bed to kiss Margaret, a mischievous look in his face. "I never told you I was born eight months after my parents were married." he smirked, "My mother convinced everyone that I was a little early. I think she even convinced herself."
Margaret scooted over and made room for him to sit down. "Are you implying what I think you are implying, love?"
"My dad told me when I was twelve," He shrugged. "Now you know all the dirty family secrets."
"I already knew," Margaret giggled as he frowned. "Mr Bell told me about your questionable timing a while ago."
"When?"
"Fanny's wedding."
John shook his head, annoyed, "Meddlesome old bastard."
"Stop that," She gave him a mildly disapproving look. "I happen to like Mr Bell. Most of the time, anyway." John rolled his eyes, shifting little Hannah as she wrinkled up her red little face, trying to cry. Margaret tucked the blanket back where she had kicked it loose around her feet, "Give her here."
"Why?" John tucked the tiny baby against his chest and leaned back into the mountain of pillows, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. "She likes me."
"She needs to eat, love."
"She needs me," He shut his eyes, ignoring her with a dry smile, "You got her for nine whole months. It's my turn."
"You mean you need her," Margaret teased. "There'll be plenty of time, after I feed her."
"Now."
John would hold their daughter every moment he could in the hospital. It made going back to work easier. Margaret shook her head and pulled her camera out of their duffel bag, and snapped a quick photograph. When the picture finished developing, she tucked it into his shirt pocket. He would put it on his desk next to their wedding photo, and the picture of their three boys.
"Baby hog," she murmured, leaning against his shoulder.
He sat up, and draped one arm around her, pulling her closer to him, "You love me."
"I do," Margaret looked at John and gave him the smile that belonged to him and him alone. "Always."
The End.
