In the middle of a muggy autumn night, Maggie is awakened by a strong wave of nausea. It’s her first night back in the Townships as a separated woman, and she opted to sleep at her parents’ house instead of alone in Knowlton. In spite of their disappointment over her decision to leave Roland, her parents did not turn her away.
She creeps downstairs and rifles around the pantry for some crackers. She grabs a handful, throws on one of her mother’s scratchy cardigans, and goes outside. Her father is standing in the small vegetable garden, surveying it as though it’s perfectly logical to be out gardening at midnight in October.
“What are you doing, Daddy?”
He turns and looks up at her, illuminated by the yellow glow of the floodlight above the back door. His eyes take a moment to focus, and she knows he’s drunk. “Checking on your mother’s herbs,” he says, in his twilight slur.
“Now?”
“It’s a waxing moon,” he says, tipping his head up to the sky. “One must always sow seeds under a waxing moon, never waning.”
She sits down on a white wrought iron garden chair and inhales the crisp autumn air.
“The scientists are beginning to discover the effects of lunar rhythms on the earth’s magnetic fields,” he says. “Which of course affects growth.”
He crouches down and digs around in the soil, pulling out a small potato. “They say a potato grown in a laboratory will still show a growth rhythm that reflects the lunar pattern.”
He attempts to stand up but wobbles a bit and has to reach for the chair to steady himself. She notices his hands are trembling and his entire body seems to sway with every passing breeze, as though it’s not firmly rooted to the ground.
“I love the smell of thyme,” Maggie says, inhaling the scent of the herbs. The air is warm and muggy for October.
“I must plant some parsley for your mother,” he says, more to himself. “It’s good for enhancing the smell of roses, too.”
Maggie stands up and stretches. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“You should go back to Roland,” he tells her. “This baby is exactly what you two need.”
What you two need. As though it’s a blender or a vacuum cleaner. A thing. That’s how Roland described it, too.
“We’re both moving on, Daddy. It was mutual.”
“You have everything, Maggie. I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t understand that I want to be happy?”
“It takes more courage to stay.”
“I disagree,” she says wearily. “I’m sorry if that hurts you.” She kisses his forehead, which is damp and thinly beaded with sweat.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a silver flask. She watches him take a sip and then tuck it back in his pocket.
“Good night, Daddy.”
He doesn’t answer, just continues staring straight ahead, his face etched with exhaustion and disappointment. There’s such despair in his eyes it almost makes Maggie wish she could have made it work with Roland, for her father’s sake.
Maggie still hasn’t reached Gabriel, nor has he materialized. Her dream of having this child with him is beginning to dim. And yet, in spite of these frequent undulations of despair, a stubborn fissure of faith—or possibly blind delusion—has persisted. She will not give up on him, which is why she will do it alone rather than go running back to Roland for security. She believes it to be an act of faith more than anything.
She leaves her father standing there with his herbs and his flask, and she goes back inside. She wanders past his sanctuary and stops, noticing that the door is slightly ajar. For as long as she’s lived in this house, she’s never known him to leave it open. Either he’s drunker than usual, or he just assumed everyone was asleep and there was no need.
Maggie lightly pushes the door open and slips inside. She stands there for a moment, breathing in the scent of her father. His well-worn book, Operating a Garden Center, is open to the chapter called “Attracting Customers,” which means the store is having a slow season. Her eyes sweep over the rest of his books, his radio parts, the mess of his papers and pending projects, the steel gray file cabinet in the corner of the room.
Without thinking and before even registering what she’s doing, she finds the key in the top drawer of his desk, poorly hidden in an empty cigar box. She kneels in front of the file cabinet and opens it. She flips through the files—mostly bills—until her hand comes to rest on a thick manila envelope in the bottom drawer. There’s an address stamped in the corner. Maggie reaches for it just as her father comes up behind her. “What do you think you’re doing?” he cries.
She jumps to her feet, dropping the envelope. All she can make out is the name Goldbaum, LLB before her father slams the drawer shut with his foot. Her gut tells her it has something to do with Elodie. “What is this?” she asks him. “Why did you have a lawyer?”
He takes her by the wrist and forcibly shoves her out of his sanctuary. It’s the most physical he’s ever been with her. His cheeks are flushed, and the veins in his nose seem to have suddenly exploded in anger. He closes the door in her face and locks it.
She stands outside his door for several minutes, shocked by his uncharacteristic outburst. She can hear shuffling and banging from inside.
“Daddy!” she yells through the door. He doesn’t respond.