Over the years, she had been dropped in mud, splashed with spaghetti sauce, and soaked with sleep drool; whenever my mom decided it was finally time to wash her, she’d throw her in the laundry along with my clothes. I’d sit on the floor, watching the washer and dryer, imagining her tumbling among the jeans and towels and hoping she wouldn’t be destroyed in the process. But Maggie-bear—short for Maggie’s bear—would eventually emerge clean and warm. My mom would hand her back to me and I’d suddenly feel complete again, like all was right in the world.
When I went to Ocracoke, Maggie-bear was the only thing I knew I couldn’t leave behind.
*
Aunt Linda checked on me during my breakdown but didn’t seem to know what to say or do, and apparently she decided it was probably best to let me sort through things on my own. I was glad about that, but kind of sad, too, because it made me feel even more isolated than I already did.
Somehow, I survived that first day, then the next. She showed me a bicycle she’d bought at a garage sale, which looked older than I was, with a cushy seat big enough for someone twice my size and a basket on the front hanging from massive handlebars. I hadn’t ridden a bike in years.
“I had a young man in town fix it up, so it should work fine.”
“Great” was all I could muster.
On the third day, my aunt went back to work and was out of the house long before I finally woke. On the table, she’d left a folder filled with my homework, and I realized that I was already falling behind. I hadn’t been a great student even in the best of times—I was middle-of-the-pack and hated when my report cards came out—and if I hadn’t cared much about acing my classes before, I was even more apathetic now. She’d also written me a note to remind me that I had two quizzes the following day. Even though I tried to study, I couldn’t concentrate and already knew I was going to bomb them, which I promptly did.
Afterward, maybe because she was feeling even more sorry for me than usual, my aunt thought it might be a good idea to get me out of the house and drove me to her shop. It was a small eatery and coffee bar that offered a lot more than just food. It specialized in biscuits that were baked fresh every morning and served either with sausage gravy or as some sort of sandwich or dessert. Beyond breakfast, the shop also sold used books and rented out video cassettes; shipped UPS packages; had mailboxes for rent; offered faxes, scanning, and copies; and provided Western Union services. My aunt owned the place with her friend Gwen and it opened at five in the morning so the fishermen could grab a bite before heading out, which meant she was usually there by four to start baking. She introduced me to Gwen, who wore an apron over jeans and a flannel shirt and kept her graying blond hair in a messy ponytail. She seemed nice enough, and though I only spent about an hour in the shop, my impression was that they treated each other like an old married couple. They could communicate with a single glance, predicted each other’s requests, and moved around each other behind the counter like dancers.
Business was steady but not booming, and I spent most of my time thumbing through the used books. There were Agatha Christie mysteries and westerns by Louis L’Amour, along with a good-sized selection of books by best-selling authors. There was also a donation box, and while I was there, a woman who’d come in for coffee and a biscuit dropped off a small crate of books, almost all of them romance novels. As I riffled through them, I thought to myself that if I’d had less romance in August, I wouldn’t be in the mess I was in right now.
The shop closed at three during the week, and after Gwen and Aunt Linda locked the doors, my aunt took me on a longer, more extensive tour of the village. It took all of fifteen minutes and didn’t change my initial impression in the slightest. After that, we went home, where I hid out in my room for the rest of the day. As weird as the room was, it was the only place I had some privacy when Aunt Linda was home. When I wasn’t half-assing my way through my schoolwork, I could listen to music, brood, and spend way too much time contemplating death and my growing belief that the world—and especially my family—would be better off without me.
I wasn’t quite sure what to make of my aunt either. She had short gray hair and warm hazel eyes, set in a face deeply lined with wrinkles. Her gait was always hurried. She’d never been married, never had children, and sometimes came across as a little bit bossy. She also used to be a nun, and even though she’d left the Sisters of Mercy almost ten years ago, she still believed in the whole “cleanliness is next to godliness” thing. I had to straighten up my room daily, do my own laundry, and clean the kitchen before she got home in midafternoon as well as after dinner. Fair enough, I suppose, since I was living there, but no matter how hard I tried, I never seemed to do it right. Our conversations about it were usually short, a statement followed by an apology. Like this: The cups were still damp when you put them back in the cupboard.