It's a heart thing

By Peggy Warren

It's a heart thing is the story of four women all dealing with life-style changes in their mid-forties while living under the same roof. The main character who walks out of her marriage on an impulse, goes to her favorite brother who offers his house while she sorts herself out. He offers his house in trade for dog sitting Albert, his Great

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rustik Haws LLC
• Release date: Apr 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781952617133

Peggy Warren

Peggy Warren, is a true believer in the promise of the human spirit. My spirit guides me. All I have to do is listenpay attention, she beams as she talks about creating Gathering Peace, as well as her other books, featured on www.peggywarren.com She lives in Colorado with her husband, Ted, Toby the beagle, and Smoky the cat. They have three grown children.

Book preview

Chapter 1

"THAT IS WITHOUT a doubt the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!" Maggie’s mother hollered over the phone from Atlanta.

In Dallas, Maggie’s stomach knotted. Nice of you to call, Mother. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

You’re avoiding the issue, Maggie. I didn’t mean to overreact, but your brother told me, and it took me by such surprise.

I’m sorry he did that. He had no right to.

Were you not going to tell me?

Maggie had no answer. Her entire life had revolved around pleasing her mother, and certainly leaving Sammy would not make for a pleasant conversation.

Are you there? Alexia asked.

I’m here, but I can’t talk about it. Can I call you back when I can?

Of course, but make it soon. I’ll be waiting.

Maggie hung up the phone with a bang. She hated ending the conversation like that, but she had no idea how to handle this mother who had never been there for her, and was suddenly barging in. But what Maggie hated even more was that the words rang true. It was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard herself.

Maggie’s psyche had forever been riddled with fear, not only of her mother. She had been working with a therapist, but her sudden impulsive departure from the marriage preempted any chance of using what she’d learned about facing fear.

Maggie was a successful artist, a skilled oil painter who had always used her talent as an outlet for the inner turmoil that haunted her. What took her to a therapist in the first place was not the fears but the debilitating depression she had fallen into when her talent as a painter had been cruelly judged.

By going to her family doctor, Maggie had hoped to get a prescription for an antidepressant. She was too embarrassed to describe the humiliation that had brought her to him, and she couldn’t come up with something else to describe how she felt.

Dr. Barnsworth had been treating Maggie for years, even had one of her paintings, so he felt sure that she was suffering from empty-nest syndrome since Jody, her only child, had just gone off to college. He recommended that Maggie see a colleague of his, a psychotherapist.

He said, Maude specializes in women’s midlife issues, Maggie, and has had great luck. You’ll like her. If she supports an antidepressant, then I’ll give you a prescription. With no other option, Maggie agreed to see Maude Meehan.

Maude’s simple, sparsely decorated waiting room was not what Maggie had expected. But then how could she expect anything when she’d never been to a therapist? What she had visualized was to be greeted by a lofty, protective receptionist and a room full of troubled souls with blank expressions and red-rimmed eyes.

She was pleased that there were no frills, no secretary, and no other patients to intimidate her in her vulnerable state. She settled into a nubby tweed-covered armchair and rested her head against the wall. Her eyes focused on a brass plaque that hung above the matching sofa across the room. She read the message: Make a difference. Remember that how you see yourself is your imprint on time. Think love, and love will be your imprint.

Is that what therapists do for people, find them an imprint? Maude would be challenged if that was her job. Maggie crossed her arms and squeezed.

The door beside the sofa opened. Maggie?

Maggie unfolded her arms. She assumed this woman standing before her with a wide smile and floppy curls must be Maude. She stood and looped her bag over her shoulder. All the apprehension that had her insides tangled unwound with the warm, welcoming smile. Maude put out her hand, and Maggie shook it. I’ve been studying the plaque on the wall, she said. It’s pretty intimidating, Dr. Meehan.

Not meant to be. And please call me Maude. First names make the therapist/patient connection a lot easier for me. If you don’t mind, you’re Maggie, and I’m Maude. Her smile assured Maggie of the sincerity in her words.

Thank you, Maude.

And my hope is that the words on my plaque are thought- provoking, not intimidating, she said. That’s a tough way to start, Maggie. Definitely not intentional.

Another wide, eye-crinkling smile. She looked to be about Maggie’s age, so that was another plus. Maggie didn’t want to have to spill her guts to some right-out-of-college know-it-all.

Maude led Maggie down a narrow hall into a cozy office with a picture window that framed an exquisite view of Dallas, nine stories up. Maggie was almost blinded by the reflective light that bounced off the mirrored downtown high-rises.

Maude sat behind her desk, surrounded by book-lined walls, the wood shelving matching the mahogany desk.

Nice view, said Maggie.

It’s a striking view, said Maude. I know. Maybe a little distracting for my patients, but it’s heaven for me, especially at the end of a long day when the city lights are ablaze. Do you live in the city?

I’m in the suburbs with no view, so this is a treat. Sit over there across from me, and we’ll get started.

Maggie landed her fanny firmly on the chair. Maude eaned back, her arms on the wooden arms of her chair. She looked like the inquisitor, until she smiled broadly.

What can I do for you, Maggie? Is there something in particular you’re wanting to address?

I’m depressed, Maude. I don’t know what else to call how I feel. She felt foolish trying to describe the indescribable. Dr. Barnsworth said he thinks I’m having a midlife crisis, and he told me to see you. All I wanted was an antidepressant, and he wouldn’t give me one without you agreeing.

I’m sure he told you I specifically work with women in midlife crises, and that includes depression. Identifying the reason—that’s where we start. Why do you think you’re depressed? Annoyance bubbled in Maggie’s chest. If I knew, then I wouldn’t be depressed, would I, she said. I mean, isn’t how you feel a matter of choice? I don’t choose to be depressed.

If we’re going to get anywhere, Maggie, I need details. I can’t support an antidepressant without details. I didn’t mean to irritate you, so do you think we can start over?

Another one of Maude’s wraparound smiles eked out an apology from Maggie. I wish everything were easier, that’s all.

If it were, I wouldn’t be here, would I?

Maggie dropped her head, determined to regain composure. Silence echoed off the walls until she finally looked up. I don’t know how to start, Maude, she said. I’ve never done this before. I’m not good at talking about myself.

I am good at listening, so start anywhere you like…or don’t like. Your choice. Maude clasped her hands in her lap.

Maggie was pleased with the new relaxed therapist, replacing the inquisitor, but what she wanted was to get an antidepressant and get out of there. She knew that wasn’t what Maude wanted, so she took a deep breath, and as she let it out, the words tumbled in an outpouring of facts—her father’s sudden death at forty- nine when she was eleven, the revelation that his affluence was a fraud, the money gone, the private school and servants gone, her devastated mother’s search for another mate for herself and provider for her two children. She found one, a nasty SOB; he died. She found another, not much nicer, and he died, too. Her mother’s inability to combine finding a man, getting one, and fawning over him made her unavailable as a mother.

Maude congratulated Maggie for her clarity and honesty. She said the revelation of such pain with no tormented emotion was overwhelming.

No, it wasn’t, Maude, said Maggie. I didn’t feel any emotion. She rubbed her arms up and down, hoping to feel a definable emotion, but nothing came other than a lump the size of a golf ball lodged in her chest.

Maude’s attention hadn’t wavered; her hands were now linked in front of her, and her expression was free of any of the judgment Maggie expected.

I’m so sorry we didn’t tape that, Maggie, Maude said. I’d like you to hear your story, to own it, so we can take it apart, bit by bit, and show you how brave you are. My guess is that you didn’t have any emotion to go along with the facts because you’re dissociating. You’ve placed yourself outside yourself because it’s too painful to be with the feelings.

‘Placed herself outside herself.’ Maggie wanted to laugh. That was about the weirdest thing she’d ever heard. She forced herself to stay focused. I don’t understand, Maude, she said. How do you place yourself outside yourself?

It’s a common behavior for people who suffer trauma. It’s a self-survival mechanism. Some people live that way all their lives. It keeps them isolated. Other choose to explore the feelings that have them dissociated, locked in a crippling fear.

Maggie said, You think I should be in the ‘others’ group. Is that what you’re saying? So I can’t have an antidepressant?

I don’t know. That’s your choice. My choice would be to explore your feelings without altering them chemically.

"I don’t know what my feelings are to explore, Maude.

This whole mess started when I got ripped apart at my first public art show, when the art critic said my paintings were too perfect, that they have no soul. My art has been my life. I paint flowers, and they’re always perfect flowers. That’s what people like. But when he said they have no soul, it hurt so bad that I spiraled down. I don’t want to paint anymore. I don’t even want to live. My painting was everything."

"Tell me, why do you think perfect flower paintings would have no soul? Do you feel like he was perhaps saying the perfect you has no soul, Maggie? Is that what you heard? Flowers in a painting don’t have a soul, only the painter does."

Maggie felt like whipping herself out of there in lightning speed, but at the same time, she felt chained to the chair. Maude’s words were so gripping she couldn’t speak.

Maude leaned forward, her arms folded on the desk. Let’s explore those words, Maggie. Are you perfect?

I try to be. Why?

I have to please people. What people?

My husband, my mother, my ugly stepfathers, everybody, all my life.

That must be very tiring,.

Maggie squeezed the seat of the chair so hard her hands burned. Don’t, Maude, she said. I hate what you’re doing. Of course you do. All I’m doing is trying to get you to understand why the art critic devastated you with those words.

Any artist would be devastated. Those words hurt.

But they spiraled you into a depression that you can’t get out of? I think the words were a gift, Maggie. They’ve brought you here to explore what’s going on. Of course you have a soul. If everyone likes your paintings, they must touch the buyer’s soul. The art critic is just one person, and obviously not a very sensitive one. His comment about the paintings was simply his opinion. It was the way you heard it that crippled you. That’s what we’re going to address: the why of having to be perfect and how to allow yourself to be imperfect. Do you want to talk about that?

Maggie gazed out the window. The perfect puffy white clouds floated above the hard-edged structures. Sammy was the structures; herself, the puffy clouds.

Maude leaned back in her chair. What are you thinking, Maggie? You’re drifting away.

Maggie’s brain tweaked back to Maude, the inquisitor in a courtroom, an interrogation. Was it time for the verdict? Guilty of evasion? The death sentence?

She ran her hands up and down her thighs, avoiding Maude’s searching gaze, watching the shade of the velour change as she went back and forth, looking for any distraction.

Silence forced words out as Maggie lifted her head, Sammy likes my perfect self. Am I going to become a nasty bitch if I get rid of perfect?

Nasty bitch isn’t all bad, because in the total spectrum of humanness, it’s just one end, the far one. On the other end is where you are. You won’t adopt nasty bitch until you fill in all the parts between. Then nasty bitch will come naturally, as a visitor when she’s appropriate.

The courtroom scene played on in Maggie’s brain, the words out of Maude’s mouth running together, blending like the puffy clouds. Puffy words from the puffed-up lawyer. She squeezed the seat of the chair, willing herself to be with Maude, the real Maude who was speaking Maggie’s case with compassion, not oratory.

Maggie couldn’t contain the giggle that bubbled from her throat, her body suddenly a container of puffy white snow. Why these images—puffy clouds, puffy snow, so much whiteness? Purity, perfection. Babble, babble inside her brain. Another giggle edged out.

Why are you laughing? Maude asked.

Maggie covered her face with her hands, pushing against herself before she dropped them. I don’t know, Maude, said. Can’t this be over? I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Yes, of course it can be over in here, but it’s only beginning for you out there.

Maude got up and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk. She poured one for Maggie.

Another image: Maude washing her down the drain. Maggie took the glass and swallowed the water while she wondered if all Maude’s clients were so stubborn, closed tight. It all seems so hard, Maude, she said. Can’t I just have an antidepressant?

I wish I could say that a cure for your depression was that simple. Maude perched on the edge of the desk and twirled the empty water glass in her hands. I want to add one thing about the laughter, she said. I know you’ve talked enough, but I want you to think about the way you laugh to cover up the sadness you don’t want people to see. Longtime programming, my dear.

Maude stood up. Maggie sensed the time was up, so she pulled her checkbook from her purse. Am I a lost cause? she asked.

A lost cause? Where did that come from?

I don’t know. Do you?

No. So let’s get you back here, and we’ll take some time to look at it. I have a group of women who meet here once a week. I think you might get a lot of good work done with them. We do exercises in sharing, getting to be open and honest. Would you like to do that?

Do I have to?

Maude smiled. Let’s say yes, you have to. She looked down at her appointment book. This Wednesday night at seven.

Maggie went that Wednesday, and five more Wednesdays. After watching and listening to the other women share their feelings with involved emotion to express them, she got the true meaning of dissociation--she telling her story, the other women living theirs. The comfort she felt with these women, their vulnerability so pure and present, was a breakthrough, their support reassuring.

The sessions were currently on hold because Maude was leaving town to attend to her ailing mother.

And now, here Maggie was, facing the unfaceable, having to describe to her mother why she was living in her brother’s house, rather than her own, after twenty years.

CHAPTER 2

THE DAY MAGGIE walked out had started normally enough with Sam going off to work and Maggie heading

into her home studio. She painted every day, her studio cluttered with finished paintings, and empty canvases that held promise for sales and paintings to come.

Most of Maggie’s work was displayed in homes, sold directly as she moved in social circles all over Dallas. Sammy, a prominent figure in the advertising world, made contacts available for Maggie as they entertained and were entertained by his successful and wealthy clients.

Maggie had spent days working on a Maude-induced imperfect flower painting, struggling to be more abstract with the subject, more fluid.

She took the Saran wrap off her paint palette and threw it in the trash while studying the painting on her easel. Pleased with its progress, she picked up a brush, loaded it with red paint, and was ready to add a few finishing touches, when suddenly Callie, her calico cat, leaped onto the art table with a resounding meow, sending the can of brushes flying, jerking Maggie’s arm, which whipped a destructive slash of red paint across the canvas.

She whapped the cat to the floor, sending him scurrying under her sofa. A dog trampling pansies out the picture window had caused Callie’s predatory fit. Maggie reached under the sofa, pulling Callie out and pressing her to her chest. They got up and sank into the sofa. It’s okay. The dog’s gone, he can’t get you, she whispered into his multicolored fur. I’m sorry I hit you. I never would have done that before Maude. We’ll blame it on her.

The front door banged, and Callie leaped from Maggie’s clutches and meowed at the studio door. Maggie looked at her watch and couldn’t believe the day had sped by. Six o’clock. Sammy was home, and he’d expect her to be cleaned up and waiting. She opened the door and let Callie out.

She looked down at her purple flannel pajamas. She couldn’t believe it—a first to still be clad in pajamas when Sammy came home—breakthrough art instead of adornment. Sammy liked adornment and usually adornment awaited him, but not tonight.

Maggie dabbed on lipstick that she kept on the paint tray, then threw on her smock and buttoned the front, ignoring the torn-away sleeve and nasty paint smudges. She glanced in the full-length mirror that hung on her wall; no hope for anything close to adornment.

Another thing Maude had suggested was that when Maggie was inclined to berate herself, she smile into the mirror, see herself smiling back, and feel the lightness that came.

Maggie smiled, but all she saw were marshmallow-puffed cheeks. There was no pleasing herself as Maude had promised, only disgust for the weight she’d gained from stuffing her face through all this analysis crap. She caught the reflection of her Mickey Mouse slippers in the mirror. There was nothing to replace them with in the studio, so the slippers would have to go with her to greet Sam.

The phone rang. She scooped up her cell off the paint table without looking at caller ID. She growled into it. Hello.

Hey, Mom. What’s happening? You on the go or something?

No, Jody. I’m on the no-go. Dad’s just come home, and I’m still in my pajamas.

Oh, yeah? You sick? You don’t sound so good.

No, but he probably will be when he sees I’m not dressed.

"He’ll get over it. So how come you aren’t dressed? Like this

must be the first time in a zillion years that you haven’t been all duded up for Dad."

Tell me about it.

Well, don’t get haughty, said Jody. I only called ’cause I need some advice. It’s the pledge thing. I’m getting rushed by the Delta Chi or Alpha Delts. What d’you think, Mom? Who’s the best? I mean, I like the Delts because they’ve got a cool house, but I’m not sure about the kids, y’know?

Maggie started out of the studio, the phone to her ear. That’s good, she said.

What do you mean, that’s good? Dammit, you aren’t even listening. This is important. I need to talk about it.

Maggie, you home? Sam called from the kitchen. I can’t talk right now, Jody.

What, you can’t talk right now because you’re afraid Dad will be pissed because you’re not dressed? C’mon, Mom. Chill out. Dad’ll get over it.

Let me call you back, Jody.

Never mind. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’ll probably go with the Delts because that’s who Allie’s going with.

Sounds good. Either one sounds good to me.

And that was true. Maggie hadn’t had the privilege of such a choice at the art school she’d attended.

Yeah, I’ll let you know. Bye, Mom.

Wait a minute. I don’t need you to be mad. I can’t help with sororities because I didn’t go to college, remember? Trust your gut is about all I can say.

Yeah, well you should trust your gut, too. First, you let that stupid art critic ruin your show, and now you’re letting Dad ruin your life. Get a grip, Mom. It seems pretty stupid to care whether Dad wants you to be all gussied up, just like it seemed pretty stupid to let any art critic bring you down. Your paintings do nothing but spill out soul. He’s nuts!

Jody’s exasperation cut a swath through Maggie. She had no words in her own defense. Thanks, honey, she said. And good luck with whatever choice you make.

Yeah, you too, Mom. Bye.

Don’t hang up on me, Jody. I’m sorry I can’t give you advice about sororities. She hated the desperation she heard in her voice, but she couldn’t let Jody go this way.

I know. Jody’s voice softened with the compassion that was her trademark. I’m not hanging up on you, she said. Go do your thing. I love you, Mom.