Alex Kava - The Soul Catcher

“What?”

“The bread. You know those small pieces of dry bread that you use to make stuffing.” Maggie stared at her like she didn’t know what she was talking about. “Oh, never mind. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

Of course, Maggie probably didn’t know. She was never much of a cook, either. She remembered the girl trying to bake sugar cookies one Christmas and ending up with rock-hard, burnt Santas. Then she refused to be consoled when one of the guys from Lucky Eddie’s suggested they paint them and use them for coasters. Poor girl. She never had much of a sense of humor. She was always so sensitive and took too many things to heart.

When she finally looked up from the list, Maggie was staring at her, again. Uh-oh. Now she looked pissed.

“What else should we have for our Thanksgiving dinner?” Kathleen asked.

“Mom, I didn’t come here today to talk about Thanksgiving.”

“Okay, so what did you come here to talk about?”

“I need to ask you some questions about Reverend Everett.”

“What kind of questions?” she asked. Father had warned them about family members wanting to turn them against him.

“Just some general stuff about the church.”

“Well, I have an appointment I need to get to,” she lied, glancing at her wrist only to find no watch. “Gee, Mag-pie, I wish you would have called. Why don’t we talk about all this on Thursday.”

She walked to the door, hoping to lead Maggie out, but when she turned back, Maggie stood in the same spot, clear across the room. Now Maggie frowned at her. No, not a frown. It was that worried, angry look. No, not anger. Well, yes, anger but also sadness. She had the saddest brown eyes sometimes. Just like her father, just like Thomas. Yes, she knew that look. And yes, Kathleen knew exactly what her daughter was thinking even before Maggie said it.

“I don’t believe this. You’re drunk.”

Maggie knew as soon as her mother called her “Mag-pie.” It had been her father’s nickname for her. One her mother had adopted, but only when she was drunk. Instead of a nickname, it had become a signal, a warning, a grate on her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

She stared at her mother, but the woman didn’t flinch. Her hand stayed firmly planted on the front doorknob. God! She had forgotten how good her mother was at this game. And how god-awful she was, because she let the emotion rule and carry her away-the emotion of a twelve-year-old. Suddenly, she found herself pacing the short length of her mother’s living room.

“How could I have been so stupid to believe you?” Maggie said, annoyed that her lower lip was quivering. A quick glance showed no change in her mother’s face. That perfected combination of puzzlement and innocence, as if she had no clue what Maggie was talking about.

“I have an appointment, Mag-pie…and lots of packing to do.” Even her voice had not shifted, not even a notch. There was still that sugary cheerfulness that came with the alcohol.

“How could I have believed you?” Maggie tried to ward off the anger. Why did this always feel so personal? Why did it seem like a betrayal? “I thought you stopped.”

“Well, of course, I stopped. I stopped packing to talk to you.” But she stayed by the door, hand still planted-maybe she hoped if Maggie didn’t leave, she could simply escape. She watched Maggie pace from one end of the room to the other.

“It was the tea,” Maggie said, slapping her forehead like a child finally getting an answer to a quiz. She snatched up her mother’s glass and took a whiff. “Of course.”

“Just a little something to take the edge off.” Kathleen O’Dell waved it away, a familiar gesture that reminded Maggie of some form of alcoholics’ absolution.

“To take the edge off? For what? What did you need to take the edge off of? So you could get through one goddamn visit with your own daughter?”

“A surprise visit. You really should have called first, Mag-pie. And please don’t swear.” Even that tone, that Pollyanna tone, grated on Maggie’s nerves. “Why are you here?” her mother asked. “Are you checking up on me?”

Maggie tried to slow down, tried to focus. Yes, why had she come? She rubbed a hand across her face, again annoyed that there was a bit of a tremor in her fingers. Why did she have so little control over her reaction, over her body’s response? It was as if the hurt little girl inside of her came to the surface to deal with this, because the adult woman had not yet found a sufficient way.

“Maggie, why are you here?”

Now her mother had come back into the room, suddenly anxious for an answer.

“I needed to…” She needed to remember the investigation. She was a professional. She needed answers. Answers her mother could provide. She needed to focus. “I was worried about you.”

It was her mother’s turn to stare. Suddenly, Maggie wanted to smile. Yes, she did know a thing or two about playing games, about the power of denial or in her mother’s world, the power of pretend. Her mother wanted to pretend one drink to take the edge off was not a fall off the wagon? Well Maggie could pretend she was simply worried about her, afraid for her safety, instead of looking for answers about Everett. That was what brought her here, wasn’t it? The investigation and trying to solve it. Of course it was.

“Worried?” her mother finally said, as if it had taken this long for her to formulate a definition for the word itself. “Why in the world would you be worried about me?”

“There are some things about Reverend Everett that I don’t think you know.”

“Really?”

Maggie saw suspicion slipping in past the bewilderment. Careful. She didn’t want her to get defensive. “Reverend Everett is not who he seems to be.”

“How do you know? You’ve never met him.”

“No, but I did some research and-”

“Ah, research?” her mother interrupted. “Like a background check?”

“Yes,” Maggie said, keeping her voice calm and steady now. The professional kicked back into gear.

“The FBI has always hated him. They want to destroy him.”

“I don’t want to destroy him.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

“Mom, I am the FBI. Please, just listen to me for a minute.” But her mother was fidgeting with the living room blinds, wandering from one window to the next, shutting each and taking her time. “I’ve talked to others who have told-”

“Others who have left the church.” Another interruption, but still with that annoying distracted cheerfulness.

“Yes.”

“Ex-members.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you simply can’t believe a word they say. Surely, you must know that.” This time she looked at Maggie, and there was something in her eyes, an impatience Maggie didn’t recognize. “But you’d rather believe them, wouldn’t you?”

Maggie stared at her again. Her mother’s mind was already made up. Nothing Maggie could say would change what she believed or didn’t believe. No surprise there. What exactly was it that she had expected to find out? Why had she come? It wasn’t likely her mother had any damning information about Everett. To warn her mother, perhaps? Why did she believe her mother would suddenly listen to anything Maggie had to say or to advise? This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have come.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said out loud, and turned to leave.

“Yes, you’d rather believe them, strangers you’ve never met before.” Her mother’s tone was no longer cheerful, a cruel sarcasm edging in. This, Maggie recognized. This, she remembered. “Not like you would ever believe me. Your own mother.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that,” Maggie said calmly, facing her mother and trying to ignore the change, not only in her mother’s tone but even in her gestures-nervous swipes of fingers through her hair. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a tumbler or bottle and finding the tea glass. She grabbed it and emptied it in one gulp, satisfied and not realizing it had been Maggie’s glass by mistake.