She also debated whether to have a glass of wine. Not now, but later, maybe before bedtime. She hadn’t had a drink in months, even counting the little get-together at the gallery in late November, when she’d pretty much simply held the glass for show. While she was undergoing chemotherapy, the thought of alcohol had been nauseating, and after that, she simply hadn’t been in the mood. She knew there was a bottle in the refrigerator, something from Napa Valley she’d purchased on a whim, and though it sounded like a good idea now, she suspected that later, the desire would fade and all she’d want to do would be to sleep. Which might, she admitted, be for the best. Who knew how the wine would affect her? She was taking painkillers and ate so little that even a couple of sips might leave her either passed out or rushing to the bathroom to make an offering to the porcelain gods.
Call it a quirk, but Maggie never wanted anyone to see or hear her vomit, including the nurses who’d watched over her during chemotherapy. They would help her to the bathroom, where she’d shut the door and try to be as quiet as possible. Aside from the morning her mom had found her in the bathroom, as far as she could remember, there’d only been one other instance when someone had seen her throw up. That had been when she’d gotten seasick while photographing from a catamaran off Martinique. The nausea had come on fast, like a tidal wave; she’d felt her stomach immediately beginning to turn, and she barely made it to the railing in time. She retched nonstop for the next two hours. It was the most miserable experience she’d ever had while working, so over-the-top that she hadn’t cared in the slightest whether anyone was watching. It had been all she could do to take any photographs that evening—only three out of more than a hundred were any good at all—and in between shots, she’d done her best to remain as still as possible. Morning sickness—hell, even chemotherapy sickness—couldn’t compare, and she’d wondered why she’d whined so much back when she was sixteen.
Who had she really been back then? She’d tried to re-create the story for Mark, especially how terrible those first weeks in Ocracoke had been for a lonely, pregnant sixteen-year-old. At the time, her exile had seemed eternal; in retrospect, all she could think was that her months there had passed too quickly.
Though she’d never said as much to her parents, she’d longed to return to Ocracoke. The feeling was especially strong in those first two months she was back in Seattle; in certain moments, the desire was almost overwhelming. While the passage of time diminished her longing, it never completely went away. Years ago, in the travel section of the New York Times, someone had written an account of their journeys in the Outer Banks. The writer had been hoping to see the islands’ wild horses and had finally spotted them near Corolla, but it was her description of the austere beauty of those low-slung barrier islands that struck a chord in Maggie. The article summoned the smell of Aunt Linda and Gwen making biscuits for fishermen early in the mornings, and the quiet solitude of the village on blustery winter days. She remembered clipping the article and sending it to her aunt, along with a few prints of some recent photographs she’d taken. As always, Aunt Linda had responded by mail, thanking Maggie for the article and raving about the photographs. She ended the letter by telling Maggie how proud she was of her and how much she loved her.
She’d told Mark that she and Aunt Linda had grown closer over the years, but she hadn’t elaborated fully. With her endless letters, Aunt Linda became a more constant presence in Maggie’s life than the rest of Maggie’s family combined. There was something comforting in the knowledge that someone out there loved and accepted her for the person she was; to Maggie it was the months they’d spent together that taught her the meaning of unconditional love.
A few months before Aunt Linda died, Maggie had confessed to her that she had always wanted to be more like her. It was on her first and only visit to Ocracoke since the day she’d departed as a teenager. The village hadn’t changed much and her aunt’s house triggered a flood of bittersweet memories. The furniture was the same, the smells were the same, but the passage of time had slowly taken its toll. Everything was a bit more worn, faded, and tired, including Aunt Linda. By then, the lines on her face had deepened into wrinkles and her white hair had thinned to reveal her scalp in places. Only her eyes had remained the same, with that forever recognizable gleam. At the time, the two women were seated at the same kitchen table where Maggie had once done her homework.