January 27th

Maria:

My daily doses of a bitter rainbow of pills don't always help me sleep through the night. Last night I was awake when Margaret came home. It was very late and she hadn't mentioned anything but after so many years living without us I suppose she needs some independence.

I heard her taking a shower and later, tossing and turning in bed. She's being so selfless and stoic, as she's always been, but I realize she's carrying too much weight on her shoulders. How I wish she had someone to lean on.

This morning she was already up when I came down for breakfast and her face looked strange. She told us she had been mugged outside the gym and came home so late because she had decided to go to the emergency room, but fortunately it wasn't anything serious - just a bump and a sore shoulder. She didn't call us because there was nothing we could do but worry and, always the pragmatist, she didn't see any use for that.

It is a discovery both humbling and heart wrenching that we've become children to our daughter.

This afternoon we're going to our first meeting with a group of people who... well, Margaret insisted and we're yielding. I'm not sure I want to go see other people sick but when my daughter is set on something it's quite difficult to say no.

Margaret:

It's 2.30 PM and I feel miserable. The more I think about last night the worse I feel. I should have thought about my parents first, I should have stopped Mr. Thornton on his way to his car, I should have talked and not done what I did.

A pounding headache is stalking me but is kept at bay by the Vicodin. My left shoulder is badly bruised and I can barely move the arm, my hand is sore and scratched. I must have fell badly on my knees, because dragging myself up or down the stairs is challenging, even getting up from a seat. I school myself not to groan and I grind my teeth more than once. Oh God, let this day be over soon.

The dishes are done and my parents are gone to their first therapy group meeting. My mother left a cake baking in the oven and set the alarm to 3.00 PM. I make some tea and sit with my laptop to read mail from Edith, always so blissfully inconsequential. The doorbell rings and I pray, please don't let it be Mr. Thornton.

Apparently I've exhausted my luck avoiding Mr. Thornton at volleyball.

-"Mr. Thornton, good afternoon" I say not quite meeting his eyes. "My father is not home, I'm afraid, and it may take long".

-"Ah," he clears his throat and then I notice he has a bouquet of flowers in his hand. "Good afternoon, Miss Hale, may I come in?"

I would say no, you may not, but that would be unacceptably rude.

-"Of course". I step aside and he comes into the hall, large and looming and with a bouquet in his hand.

-"These are for you", he says extending them to me. "How are you feeling?"

I don't let myself admire these admittedly gorgeous flowers while I take them with my right hand and head for the kitchen, barely muttering a "I'm fine, thanks". He hangs his jacket in the hall's rack, as he always does, and follows me.

If there is one thing I know about Mr. Thornton is that he is not a smooth talker and right now, I'd rather he were mute or that he only spoke a foreign language I didn't understand. He watches me as I fill one vase with water and unwind the cellophane, and once more against my wishes he talks in perfectly understandable English. Will he never tire of contradicting me?

-"I would like to thank you for what you did last night", he starts.

-"Oh no, please, don't thank me", I interrupt and wave my hand. My left hand. I try not to wince. I think he notices.

-"Why shouldn't I? It was very courageous of you, and if you hadn't intervened I might not have lived to tell it."

Mr. Thornton's face has something different today. I think it's smugness. For the first time I notice that his eyes tilt up at the corners and sparkle. I think he's having a grand laugh at me and I get defensive.

-"I simply did what I felt it was right" I reply a little huffy.

-"And I think that's one of the many things that make you such a beautiful person" he says softly and smiling.

That leaves me speechless for a moment. It dawns on me that he thinks I... that I did it because I want to make myself noticed, that my actions have ulterior motives. I raise my face from the flowers and look at him straight in the eye, in disbelief. I blush violently, as I think I've never blushed before, from my ears to the bridge of my nose and chin and everything in between. I think even my eyelids go red. I wouldn't exaggerate if I said my face is in flames.

He evidently mistakes the heat on my face for avowal of reciprocity. He goes on. "I would like to invite you to have dinner with me, to get to know you better and put our differences behind us once and for all".

-"No." The monosyllable springs to my lips by its own will but I don't disagree. He looks surprised.

-"Excuse me?" his smile drops, his brows contract, an cloud of menace shadows the previous smugness.

-"No, I don't want to have dinner with you, and see anything more of what I've already seen of you." My words come rushing. "Why would I want to?" I ball of anger rises from my chest, I know I'm losing my head but I don't stop to take a breath, "I told you, I did what I felt was right. I would have done for anyone, even one of those men. It insults me that you take it otherwise." I remember the strokes on my hair last night and the old lady's words, and my ears catch fire as well.

-"It insults you, I see. Enough to flee the emergency room without waiting for me, right?", he's getting angry too and I experience some relief. A cross Mr. Thornton is so much familiar than... this.

-"I am free to come and go as I please. Who do you think you are?" I can't help the icicles of contempt hanging like knives from my words. The question is not about him coming with flowers, is about him contradicting me, squashing me like a bug at every possible chance, of being the one to fire my friend, of being the object of my father's adoration. Does he want me to join the chorus of people at his feet? No thank you.

Accepting this invitation is not about eating. It would be like a capitulation, and I don't want to surrender myself to this overbearing man.

-"I don't think anything. I know who I am" he spits back, "and I know I am man enough to admit my feelings, and to acknowledge that my life has been saved by someone else's actions".

Mr. Thornton is furious. And he's hurt. The word "feelings" disconcerts me.

-"My presence is an affront to you, I know. You despise me and you feel it's a disgrace to have been invited by me, but I cannot change who I am. And I'm not sorry!".

Mr. Thornton is hurt and I did it. It wasn't smugness on his face earlier, it was hope. This wasn't a condescending invitation but had been considered carefully. I just had no idea.

-"Mr. Thornton, please." I plead trying to change my tone, "Don't go in anger. Please think of my father, don't let this ruin his friendship with you".

Mr. Thornton shoots me a murderous look.

-"Tell Mr. Hale I'll be absent for today's lesson but I'll phone him. Good afternoon".

He shows himself out and slams the door on his way out.

My head is about to explode, my heart beats erratically and I am short of breath. All I want to do is to curl on my bed and hide under the covers for a week, but instead I take the cake out the oven and I run a cycle of laundry.

Note: Comparing a marriage proposal to a dinner invitation is quite unfair, but it's also true that marriage these days is completely another business. I hope you found the comparison acceptable.