Earlier that day, Helen and the girls had come to visit. They had brought cold salads and baskets of blackberries and flowers. They’d spent the entire afternoon telling Ruth stories about Marigold’s youth. They talked so much that Marigold was sure Ruth’s head was going to split open. Before Helen left, with Abe’s hand in hers, she held Marigold for so long that they almost forgot they were holding each other. No words were spoken because none were needed.

That evening Marigold went for a long walk with Ruth through the thick forest. She asked Ruth, “Would it be okay if I held your hand, sweetie?” And Ruth stretched out her hand. They touched. The girl’s hand was warm, and Marigold’s was not. They walked the shore of the bay until the no-see-ums and mosquitoes had destroyed their arms and legs. They picked a few wildflowers. And Marigold felt the warmth that was once in her hands move into her chest instead.

“Why did you name me Maggie?” Ruth asked.

Marigold told her the story and sang the lyrics of the song, and did her best not to cry. It was so odd to be singing it to this girl she knew but didn’t know. She was not Ruth, not to Marigold. But then, she was not her Maggie either, but someone infinitely more beautiful and striking than Maggie could ever be. This was a woman. A woman who was her own person. Strong, brave, and kind.

Ruth pulled Marigold into herself. “You know, I always thought of you and wondered what you’d be like.”

Marigold lost herself in their embrace. “I thought of you every second of every day.”

They pressed themselves together and rested their foreheads against one another. Their red hair became mingled, and their hearts were as close as they’d ever been without being sewn together. Marigold could feel Maggie. And within the strange manner the universe works, she knew her Maggie had become the person she was intended to be.

“I’m sorry,” said Marigold, for it was all she could think to say, and it was something she’d been wanting to say for a very long time. Anything else would have sounded wrong. Anything else would’ve been too much.

Ruth smiled. “Quit your sorryin’,” she said.

Discussion Questions