Page 102 of Creeping Beautiful

But that doesn’t mean she’s mine.

She is not fully mine. Or Donovan’s. Or Adam’s.

She is ours and that’s just how it is. We can deal, or choose not to, but there is no way around that fact.

Still. I know what they’re doing in the kitchen.

At least I think I do. But then I hear them whispering. I place the sheets on the stairs and wander down the hallway to the back of the house where the kitchen is. Trying to be quiet so I can catch a few words.

Because while I would be happy to give them their privacy if they were fooling around, secrets are something else altogether. I don’t actually like secrets. I’ve been living with them my whole life and they are a burden I could do without.

I stop and press my back against the wall just before the archway opens up into the combined family kitchen area. Straining to hear them. Because while I like Donovan, I’ve never fully trusted him. All those tapes. I told Adam they were a bad idea but Donovan wanted them for some paper he was writing back in the day. And even if Adam put all of his on some super-secret hard drive, Donovan didn’t. I know that because he brought them with him. A whole fucking bag filled up with Indie’s thoughts.

I hear Indie say, “They’re gonna find out, Donovan.”

“It’s fine,” Donovan whispers back. “I can handle them.”

I should get really suspicious about this line of conversation between Indie and Donovan, but I figure it’s about them. Something to do with their relationship. And I’m not sure that’s any of my business.

I wait there for a little bit longer. Hoping—and not hoping—I will hear more. But then they really are fooling around because I can hear kissing.

I go back the way I came. Pick up my sheets, take them into the laundry room, and shove them into one of two commercial washers. Then I go back upstairs, put on my boots, and jacket, and come back downstairs making noise.

It’s juvenile. But fuck it.

I don’t care. I slam the door on the way out too.

But the last place I want to be is outside. Because that’s where everything happened that day. And everywhere I look there’s a bad memory waiting for me.

It’s raining again. Not hard, but a healthy drizzle. So I head to the pavilion. My one spot on this vast acreage of marshy woods that is all mine.

Of course, I have not been out here in four years and it looks it. Leaves everywhere. All the cushions, and pillows, and blankets that made this place feel homey and comfortable are gone now. There used to be mosquito netting around the perimeter in the summer. And in the winter, I would hang thick, canvas curtains all the way around to keep the wind out.

I don’t much like the hot, sticky summers but Louisiana winters are perfect. Adam and I used to watch football out here all fall. Then basketball all winter. And when Indie was still small and young, we’d have movie night with her. That was fun. And we’d all pile on top of that giant swing I made and just have a little bit of fun. Try and forget who and what we were.

It was good. It really was. Even when Donovan was here. I mean, that guy was mostly just a downer. But it wasn’t his fault he was only here after a job and most times Indie wasn’t herself.

I head towards the garden shed because if those cushions and curtains are still here, that’s where they’ll be. It’s not a shed. Shed is just an easy word to describe it. It’s a pretty big building. Probably started its life as a barn a hundred years ago. It’s been renovated though. Concrete floor now. Nice drain in the middle so we could hose off the floor when it got too dirty. And it’s got a huge door, which is metal and rolls up like a garage door these days, but probably started out as some real nice wood back in the day.

Adam packed everything up real neat after we abandoned this place. Well, hired someone to do it, I guess. White sheets on all the furniture the way you see it done in movies. Which is so Adam. He’s so fuckin’ proper. So fuckin’ orderly. So fuckin’ conscientious. So fuckin’… Southern.

My point is that all the outdoor cushions are inside those special bags you buy for such cushions when you want to put them away and keep them nice over the winter.

But then I realize they are all piled up inside something and my heart seizes up. Like a fist just reached into my chest and gave it a squeeze.

I walk over to the crib and trace my fingertips down the dusty white wood of the headboard. Indie picked this crib out. She wanted this crib for her little girl so bad I could see the longing in her eyes when she, and Adam, and I were walking through that baby store when Indie was six months pregnant.

She wanted everything to be perfect. All the beautiful things were on her mind back then. Everything was pretty.

Magnolia Accorsi was born the second week of June, nearly bald, and with yellow skin because she was jaundiced. But next to her mother, she was the most perfect thing I had ever seen. And I would just like to state for the record, I did not vote for Magnolia. I mean, Jesus Christ. I couldn’t decide if the name was pretentious, or Bohemian, or just plain Southern. I wanted to name her something very simple. Like Ella. Or Amy. Or, if I was gonna go a little crazy, maybe Katherine with a K.

But that baby girl didn’t have a chance in hell of ever being simple. And now that I think about it, the name makes sense. Indie and her flowers.

I made everyone call her Maggie, though. Or Mags. I would say, “Hey, Mags. How you doin’ today, sweetie?” And she would turn her head towards me and smile. And sometimes giggle. And you know what? All those years I missed of Indie’s childhood just faded away when Mags did that. Those missing years didn’t matter anymore because little Mags was the spitting image of her mother.

It was like I got a second chance.

Indie did not move to Ole Miss with Nathan because Nathan broke up with her just a few weeks after Maggie was born, stating that she and the baby belonged at home, not in some second-rate family dorm room. And he deserved a chance to figure out who he was while away at college.