Free Those We Love Most by Lee Woodruff Page B

weekend, and he had bought tickets to a Sox game this Sunday. The grandchildren seemed to be resurrecting themselves, recovering their old personalities and moving forward. Her daughter was a different story.
    It was agonizing for Margaret to witness her child so transformed and in so much pain. What had happened to James was one thing, unspeakable and unimaginable. But to see your once vibrant daughter gutted like a fish, well, that was almost more than a mother could bear.
    At least Margaret had succeeded in getting Maura to eat a little before she and Sarah headed home for naptime. She spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden, allowed herself one cigarette, and then wrote some thank-you notes at her desk. In the remaining hour before dinner, Margaret drew a bath. The late August day had been hot, and she’d gotten into some prickers near the shed that had left little red itchy bumps on her forearm. The soak would be soothing. She climbed in, sunk down to her shoulder blades, and closed her eyes, feeling the release of a long day as the setting sun projected a deep orange glow on the wall from the bathroom window.
    She’d invited Maura over this afternoon for lunch, hoping to lure her out of the house a bit more, distract her with a change of scenery. There really were no words to help. Those old chestnuts about time healing all wounds or the folks who thoughtlessly said “thank goodness she has her two other kids” were simple fools. She would wait it out with Maura, that was what she’d do. Time could be whittled away with constant motion and momentum until one day the pain would release its tight pincer-hold on her daughter. It was all she had to offer, her ability to roll up her sleeves and help Maura white knuckle her way through the worst of the grief.
    Margaret would wet mop the kitchen linoleum and then tackle the flecks of mold in the shower. She would read to Sarah and defrost the garage freezer, knocking the thick chunks of ice away with a screwdriver. The activity level in the Corrigan house, with just Ryan and Sarah, still seemed so chaotic. Ryan had multiple activities and sports, equipment for this and forms for that. Sarah was walking everywhere, language blooming at warp speed on her tongue.
    The light toward dusk had begun to purple and soften the room. Running more hot water to warm up the bath, Margaret wondered if it had been just sheer will that had propelled her through it all back in her days as a younger mother. She came home now from the stretches of time spent at Maura’s, the veins throbbing in her legs, steeping a cup of lemon tea, drawing the utter silence of the house around her like a cape.
    And yet Margaret was satisfied that her presence was a comfort. Just being there to care for them all and usher them through the day gave her a sense of purpose, and creating some order out of the utter devastation in that household was satisfying. Order was what Margaret understood best.
    It bothered her still, after all these years of marriage, the way Roger came into the house and threw his possessions around willy-nilly, shedding the responsibility of the workday at a dizzying speed. Glasses, loose change, wallet; his items claimed no particular place in the world and therefore he was constantly asking her, “Have you seen my car keys? Do you know where my watch is?”
    Years ago she had hammered in little hooks for the keys and she’d found an old silver bowl, a wedding present from a fraternity brother of his, that she’d designated for the contents of his pockets when he walked in the door. “You can put your key chain and wallet here,” she’d tried to coach him night after night, pointing to the bowl on the table by the front entrance. But he was unable to think like that, unable to remember something so methodical. She shook her head now, smiling in exasperation at the futility of her system. The bathwater rippled forward, the bubbles stilled to a weak foam at the edges of the