Magdalene Read Online Free PDF Page B

few
things.”
    “Pardon my saying so, Ms. St. James, but
won’t that make you late?”
    “Yes, Sheldon. Yes, it will.
Perhaps...twenty minutes or so?”
    “Yes, Ms. St. James.”
     
    * * * * *
     
    Mid-Life
Crisis
    “Mitch, you okay? The pack’s here.”
    He knew that.
    From the vantage point of his office three
stories up, through floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows, Mitch had
watched his board of directors, his friends-cum-family, drive onto
the grounds in two vehicles, then disappear into the parking
garage.
    It wouldn’t take them long to get to his
office once they parked.
    Still Mitch stood with his arm pressed
against the glass, up over his head, his forehead against his arm.
He watched sparks fly out of the massive doors of the foundry half
a mile away and regretted the weak winter sun; it was pretty in
daylight, but it was spectacular at night. He liked going out and
contributing to the creation of those sparks.
    In the eternal battle of man against steel,
Mitch conquered.
    Every minute of every hour of every day, and
Hollander Steelworks was a living testament to that.
    “I’m fine, Darlene, thanks,” he said without
turning. His poor assistant, so worried about him.
    But here it was, early December, the ground
around the office building covered in white or glittering ice melt.
The only grief he could muster today, his wedding anniversary, was
that he didn’t remember much about the time before Mina’s disease
had really started to drain the life out of her; didn’t remember
much about his wife, the woman he’d loved and married twenty-three
years before. She had loved him, believed in him, supported him,
borne his children. He remembered what she had done, but not who
she was.
    He only remembered the longsuffering invalid
he had nursed so long.
    Mitch heard the booming voices and
boisterous laughter of four men and three women drawing closer to
his office suite.
    Still he didn’t move, even when he saw their
reflections in the glass.
    The big hand of Mitch’s best friend came
down hard on his left shoulder and shook him lightly. “Sorry,
Elder,” Sebastian murmured. “I didn’t think about the date when I
scheduled this. You should have said something.”
    Mitch shook his head. “If it bothered me
that much, I would’ve.”
    Another man approached on his right and
halted at the glass, his arms crossed over his chest. “You okay,
Mitch?” he rasped.
    Second time in five minutes someone had
asked him that, but Mitch knew Bryce would understand completely,
and he couldn’t lie to Sebastian when it was important.
    “Wondering if I did everything I could,” he
finally replied.
    “You got her seen and gave her the best care
money could buy,” Sebastian said.
    Palliative, not curative.
    “If it makes you feel any better,” Bryce
offered, “her first obstetrician should’ve suspected something was
wrong and checked her over.”
    The second one missed it, too. The
third—
    Mr. Hollander, I want to admit her so I can
run some tests. Something’s wrong, and we need to find out
what.
    —had called in a neurologist who finally
uncovered it: early-onset multiple sclerosis, progressive,
undiagnosed for over ten years.
    I’m sorry, Mrs. Hollander. There is no cure.
No drugs. And this is...serious. I don’t know how much longer
you’ll live, to be quite honest.
    Sixteen years, eight of them spent lying in
bed in a deteriorating state of consciousness.
    “What are you not saying?” Sebastian was
nothing if not persistent.
    Mitch continued to say nothing.
    “Oh, don’t start piling on the guilt. You
got nothin’ to feel guilty about.”
    Oh, yes he did. He felt guilty for not
remembering her, for not missing her. Shouldn’t a widower grieve
longer?
    Or at all?
    “Mitch,” Sebastian said with some
impatience. “Her body died last year. Her essence left years ago. You’ve done years of grieving.”
    Mitch was not shocked that Sebastian had
read his mind. It was to be expected; they