Pray for Peace (Maggie and Abby)

[maggie]

I initially started a Maggie/Abby fic just after my own mother passed away last year and ended up hating how it was turning out. After several renewed attempts, my Creative Writing teacher encouraged me to continue and I found inspiration in my muse, as usual, Alanis. Each chapter is a snippet into Abby's younger years, in no particular order, simply inspired by each subsequent line of the song. It's an experiment of sorts and a challenge for many reasons - delving into the terrifying first person, portraying manic depression in a light I hope will give insight to my readers, and tackling a story that has a lot of personal attatchments. This dedication is threefold: first, to my own mother, who minded my grammar from a young age and sent me into the world of writing with a fanatical obsession over proper form. Second, to the friends I have who suffer from manic depression, and in writing this I hope to spread awareness. And three, to my Creative Writing classmates and professor who encouraged me along the way and made me laugh in the process. Namaste.

“Pray for Peace”
Alanis Morissette

I pray for peace
They require me to kick into high gear
We may as well have had our phDs
My quickened pulse was never taken into account
I pray they let out or talk it out
She would give me a wink across the room
I would have made a really good lawyer
I had a really good strategic way to hide the holes in the wall
Thank God it was the god damn wall
We were the feminine forces
Who would calm my mother down?
Who would calm me down once I talked her through it?
My mother and I were the official peace makers
It was a full time job
I would send my mother directly to bed, do not collect 200
We'd talk about it ‘till 5am when I’d visit five years later
We would pray for peace
It was perfectly familiar and comfortable

“I Pray for peace”

Christmas Eve, 1987 (Age Eighteen)

We’ve been driving for nearly twenty minutes. I have no idea where I am, and the snow is picking up. I’m freezing without my coat, but I didn’t stop as I left. I just had to get us out of there.

Maggie begged me to come home for Christmas. I told her no, told her I was too busy, told her my friend had invited me to her parents’ house. But she asked over and over, and finally, she had Eric ask me. It was a dirty move. I can’t say no to my baby brother. So I drove to Milwaukee, three hours in the snow and sleet, in my 1978 Honda that shudders when I go over 50 miles per hour. The first day and a half were fine. Maggie seemed almost normal, baking cookies, buying a turkey. I took Eric sledding, and it was...nice. Like we were a regular family. And then I went to the store to buy cranberry sauce and all hell broke loose. I walked in to the smell of burned turkey. Baking sheets were strewn around the kitchen, crumbs everywhere, broken dishes. My mother sitting in the middle of the floor, crying and screaming, Eric backed against the wall looking shaken, tears running down his face. I took him by the arm and marched him out of the house, to the car, away from her. My blood boiled. He’s twelve years old and it’s Christmas eve. I won’t let her do this to him.

Eric has been silent the whole ride, wrapped in the front seat in a ratty blanket that was lying in my backseat. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I just know he’s the only thing that matters in my life, and I won’t let her hurt him. I see lights and people ahead. It’s Christmas Eve, and everything is closed, but here are people and lights and...it’s a church. I don’t think, I just pull into the parking lot and park the car. I turn to my brother, my beautiful, sweet, little brother who hasn’t done anything wrong and I finally speak. “Let’s go inside.”

He nods. Neither of us have ever been interested in going to church, but it doesn’t make a difference right now. It’s Christmas Eve. We might as well.

We sit in the back, my arm around him. We half listen, half gaze around at the decoration, and enjoy the warmth and comfort in this place. The minister tells us all to bow our heads in prayer. I close my eyes and rest my head on my folded hands as I’ve seen people do in movies. Before I realize it, tears are rolling down my face, dropping onto my lap. I bite down on my lip to keep from making a noise. I won’t let Eric see me cry. I begin praying, as best I know how. I don’t know who or what I’m praying to, I just know I need something to change. Some help. Some peace.

I wipe my eyes hastily as the minister speaks again. I turn to Eric and manage, somehow, to smile. “You want to go home?”

He nods, and I take his hand. It’s time to go pick up the pieces again.

[loopyallie]

Wow what can I say! Beautifully written as always... I do like to read fics about Abby and Maggie in the early years, the serious ones, picturing what their lives would have been like, in your own mind, how you imaged it be...

Excellent!

Look forward reading more!

[maggie]

Well since I technically already posted that one, I'll post another.

“They require me to kick into high gear”

March, 1984 (Age Fifteen)

She’s flitting about, nonsensical gibberish falling from her mouth like she’s vomiting words; no particular order, no coherence, just utter nonsense. Grabbing items and tossing them into the cart as though trying to win a scavenger hunt, as though she has to accumulate a certain pile of this and that or the world will cave in on itself. Frozen waffles, limes, molasses, dried apricots, a bag of lentils, two cans of imitation crab meat, a glass bottle of iced tea...none of which we need. None of which we even eat, save perhaps for the limes that we slice and put in our soda on the weekends. I’ve got a grip on my brother’s sleeve, making sure he doesn’t join in the fun. Just what I need is both of them running rampant.

She grabs for a carton of eggs and bumps against the counter, letting the container fall to the floor, the dull crack of a ruined dozen. She stares at it a moment and then breaks down. “Look what I did, jesus, I’ve ruined dinner.” She sinks to her knees, head in hand, and commences her performance. There’s a crowd gathering.

I kick into high gear, direct my brother to push the cart to the front and unload the groceries, two crisp twenties in hand. I pull my mother to her feet and slowly walk her to the front, still a spectacle in motion as she reverts to the mindset of a small child, wailing and cursing over her blunder. I sit her on a bench, still muttering and fidgeting in the throes of hysteria, and take the two brown grocery sacks from the cashier, leaving the change with my brother. He knows better than to run off with it, he’s learned by now. She follows us, still in a state, to the car, where I deposit the groceries, help my brother into his seat, and urge my mother into the passenger’s side. My hand is steady over hers, trembling, as I pry the keys free and glance around to be sure I won’t be noticed, then adjust the driver’s seat to accommodate the imposition of driving underage. These things aren’t acts of rebellion. I don’t really have much of a choice. I drive slowly, carefully, knowing that all I’ve worked to hold together will fall to shit if I’m caught. The authorities tend to frown on underage drivers.

Slowly...painstakingly, I rev the engine, the old car shuddering to life beneath us. My hand grips the stick shift, the other the wheel, foot strains to meet the clutch, and we move, leave the place behind us. I drive better than she does. Tap the accelerator, caress the brake, flick the turn signals this way and that, all with expert care. I’m practiced. I know this routine.

[loopyallie]

Fantabulous!

Sad but true... I remember going shopping with my ex and he got stuff put them in the trolley (Cart to you Americans) that we never get or needed...

[hanna]

im already in love with it.
ddeeelliicciouuss job!

[maggie]

“We may as well have had our PhD’s”

March, 1983 (Age Fourteen)

There’s a stream of curses a mile long falling from my lips that I can only thank god Maggie can’t hear as I sprint along, dodging traffic and pedestrians. My lunch break is not even half an hour long, and somehow I have to get home to pick up the essay I left on my bureau when I caught the bus this morning, late as usual. 12:07, and I’m barely halfway there. Fourth-period history starts at 12:29 sharp, and there’s not even a question of coming in late without detention. I’m not even supposed to be off campus for lunch as a freshman, but that’s sort of beside the point now, weaving through another block on the way home. I suddenly wish like crazy I hadn’t worn those high-tops today and that I had my running shoes. 12:09, and I reach the corner of Bauer and Madison. Two more blocks. I think my lungs are in about four hundred pieces inside my chest, like confetti, and there’s going to be a nasty bruise where my backpack is hitting my hip. More cursing as I turn onto Sycamore, and a flying leap over the curb across the street and through the Nelsons’ back yard, into the McNamara’s yard, and across. I bolt for the garage, but it’s closed. Perfect. The key has to be in the deepest pocket of my bag, which I dump onto the lawn as I wrench the door open and tear inside. Weird. The house is clean, for once, and there’s an empty glass on the counter. I stop in my tracks. There are noises coming from the garage…something’s not right. And it hits me. Maggie.

I don’t even stop to think before grabbing at the garage door, but it’s locked. From all the noise, I know at least the Volvo is running, and maybe the Honda. Jim’s Honda. He left it here while he went off wherever it was for work. I don’t even have to think about it to know she planned it. The operator’s voice is way too calm. “9-1-1, what’s your –“

“It’s my mother, she locked herself in the garage and –“

I hear shuffling on the other end and the voice interrupts me. “Stay calm, dear. What is your address?”

“377 West Pineridge, I think the cars are running, both of them, somebody has to –“

“I’m sending someone right now, dear, can you stay on the line with me and tell me your name?”

The phone is cradled in my shoulder and chin as I search the kitchen drawers for the spare I know is there. “It’s Abby, my mother’s name is Maggie, she’s been depressed… she’s suicidal, she’s tried it before.” Damnit, no key…her purse, check her purse. “Look, I know what I’m talking about, she hasn’t been taking her pills, you have to give her something.”

“What kind of pills?” The voice is more serious now.

Her purse is nowhere in sight. “Dep…dep-something. Depacote.” The bottle is on the counter, full. I can at least know she didn’t overdose this time. “Look, tell them to put her in a psych hold, she’s going to –“ The key, on the top of the fridge. “I found the key, I have to go.” Amid protest, I toss the phone down as I run like hell to the garage door and open it. It’s not even a little bit of a shock to find both cars running. She’s in the Volvo, passed out, and I pull the key from the ignition and drag her out onto the driveway under the arms. Two fingers to the jugular, I’ve done it a thousand times in the CPR class at the YMCA. Slow, but there. I count it against my wristhingych…I’m on forty-six when the ambulance arrives. She’ll be fine, they tell me, like I haven’t just done their job for them. Right, fine. She’s never fine.

[hanna]

god abby goes through so much for her mom. things teenagers shouldnt have to go through, and you know exactly how to perfect it. great update! cant wait for more