Margaret Fraizer - A Memoir in Progress

Margaret Fraizer sat in the old weathered Adirondack chair on the beach in front of her cottage at the eastern end of Long Island. Bundled up against the frigid wind of mid-November blowing in off of Long Island Sound, she sat silently watching the sun setting in the western sky casting its purples and pinks and oranges across the sky. A smile crossed her lips when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the frozen sand approaching.

 “Mags” a male voice called out.

“Richard, you made it.”

“Why do you insist on dragging these chairs so far from the cottage,” he said in mock disapproval. He stopped to catch his breath. “Here is a fortification,” he said handing her a steaming mug,

“What’s this?” she said accepting the drink.

“Hot buttered rum. I made use of your kitchen before I braved the storm. You should be more careful leaving the house unlocked. Anyone could just walk in.” He turned and looked out across the horizon then bent down, kissed his friend on the cheek, and handed her a mug. “Here is a toddy to ward off the chill.” He then settled himself into the chair beside her. 

“Oh, Richard you worry too much,” she laughed and took a sip from the mug. “This is delicious and just what the doctor ordered.”

“Why do you do this to yourself every year? I’m getting…we are both getting too old to be sitting out here in this bitter wind watching the sunset. How many years is it now?”

“Today is his fortieth birthday.” 

 “And how long has it been since he has called.”

“Fifteen years.” 

Richard did not comment. They both sat back sipping their drinks and watched the sun sink lower in the western sky and the stars lighting up the night.

 “Richard,” she said after a time. “Thank you for coming out tonight. I know it’s asking a lot.” She took another sip of the warm rum then reached out and patted him on the arm. “And thank you for this,” she held up her mug. “Cheers.”

 “Cheers.”

 “Maggie, let’s go inside. The wind is picking up and you’ll catch a chill. I stoked the fire before I came out.”

 She sighed, “Oh, all right.” They rose and walked arm-in-arm back to the cottage.

“How’s the book coming?” he asked as they walked. “You’ve been promising chapters and so far nothing.”

“That’s the other reason I asked you out here.”

“Don’t tell me, you haven’t begun yet? A synopsis will keep the publisher at bay for a while longer.” He glanced down at her in the dim light. “You have at least that much don’t you?” he asked suspiciously.

“I know I owe you a book,” she admitted.

“Two, books,” he corrected.

“Two. But there is another project I want to embark upon and I wanted to discuss it with you.”

“Another project,” he echoed dubiously.

“A memoir.”

They walked in silence until they got inside the cozy cottage. 

“Richard, can you fix us another rum, and then we can discuss my idea for a memoir.”

Settled down in front of the fire and enjoying another rum, Richard said, “Okay. Spill. What is this memoir writing all about?”

“Well, I have thought about it from time to time. A couple of times I’ve even tried starting, but those attempts ended up as “Josie Finds a Home” and “Home at Christmas.”

“‘Josie’ was your first New York Times best seller. And ‘Home at Christmas was the first in your Christmas series and your first Lifetime movie adaptation.”

“Richard! Can you stop being an agent for five seconds and listen? Can you do that for me? Please!” She chided. “The kernel of both of those stories came from my own life and longings but they were fiction. A fantasy. I write about families and women living their lives and always a happy family ending.”

“Hallmark called about turning your Hawthorn books into a television series.”

“Richard!” She exclaimed.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll just sit here and listen.”

“Thank you. But you’ve made your point. I am successful. I have achieved a great deal. But…I don’t know. Maybe it’s my age. But turning sixty-six, no matter how healthy you are or how busy and successful or how in demand you are reminds you you are one year closer to becoming a septuagenarian. Lord, what a terrible-sounding word that is!

“I’ve been thinking about Lincoln and my life in general and mistakes I’ve made and people I have hurt,” she paused and moved to the fireplace warming herself. “

“Maggie,” he said. “Lincoln is a grown man and responsible for his own choices.”

“I know. But I just can’t stop thinking about what I did. Having a stupid affair with someone I didn’t care about to hurt the father of my child. Lincoln cannot forgive me and I care more about that than whether I hurt Phillip or not. Which I don’t think I actually did do. I can’t forgive myself.”

“You don’t think you hurt Phillip?”

“Not really. But it hurt Lincoln and I can’t stop feeling ashamed.”

“You need to get some perspective, Maggie. It’s not a great thing but it’s not the end of the world. Phillip forgave you. My God, you still talk on the phone every week.”

“I started keeping a journal. Nothing formal. Just thoughts and memories from my life. Some going back to my early childhood. Memories of my parents and sisters. Family relationships. Questions I have that will never be answered. Just stuff that’s been lying in the background.” She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. “It feels like the past is clawing at my insides wanting to have a voice and be heard. I think I need to see the words on paper. I have always been able to keep the darkness at bay. But now I feel the darkness clawing away at my insides. The diversionary tricks I used to use are no longer working. Even if my son never speaks to me again and never forgives me, at the very least I can give him an explanation, that’s the wrong word. Not an explanation. An accounting of my life. Richard, I need to do this. Not just for Lincoln but more importantly for myself. To help me understand who I am. To understand how I came to be so successful and yet so alone. If not for you and ironically Phillip, I would be utterly alone. Like my mother was.

“But, have you forgotten that you have a signed contract and you accepted advances for your next two books,” Richard asked.

“No, I haven’t forgotten. The rough drafts are completed. You can have them tonight. But I need a break to focus on pain and regret. Who knows, perhaps all of this introspection will generate a novel worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.”

“All right. You’ve got three months to come up with a working draft of a memoir. If you can’t have a working draft in that time then it isn’t ready to be written and I’ll take those drafts with me when I go back to the city.”

“Fair enough. Maybe I’ll take a memoir writing class,” she said smiling at her friend.

“Right. You do that.” He stared into the fire then heaved himself out of the chair and said, “I’m going to bed,” he looked at Maggie quizzically and waited for Maggie to respond. “The manuscripts you say you have?”