What We Trade Our Hearing For (a North and South Story)

4. Songbird

"My friends are all dying

I can't catch my breath

I dress up in black now to match the events

We've all got thorns - Yeah, they prick and they poke

I imagine your veins burst a red blooming rose

I wish I could get back everyone that I love

I'm not your Songbird and you're not my Dove"

-Mammoth Indigo

Maggie

Maggie had largely been avoiding the issue of her mother's health. For sure, it was partially the reason she had fled Boston, but it was really just an easy excuse, a way to circumvent the questions of her friends and family members. In truth, she hadn't checked her messages or emails since she left and had only used her phone to call Becca to make plans. She supposed she should at least shoot her cousin Eden an email, if only to let her know she was alive and not dead in a ditch somewhere. But the thought of contacting anyone back home made her stomach twist, as did the 99+ unread messages icon and numerous missed calls she saw every time she opened her phone. She tried to look at her phone as little as possible these days.

Instead, she had filled her time with reading- she had an extensive reading list that had been stacking up, but now she was burning through it like wildfire. She'd also been listening to music, catching up on new releases and planning concerts she wanted to see with Becca. Unfortunately for her, many of the bands she preferred would be playing at The Mill, though there were several venues that catered to the same crowd. At least one show she planned to attend was at another concert hall, with a few more that she was on the fence about. Concert season was in full swing; she could spend almost every night at one place or another, if she wanted.

She'd picked up a few light photography gigs as well, nothing major or long term, but it gave her more wiggle room in her budget. Since she still hadn't found a place of her own, she was saving a fair amount living with her parents. Between that and her savings, she wasn't in too much of a rush to find a permanent job, especially since she wasn't sure if Atlanta would be her permanent home, either.

Her parents were, of course, enjoying her presence. Her mom seemed weaker by the day and seemed to miss her northern home. Maggie wondered privately whether the move really was for her mother's benefit, or if it was for her father's, after all. Him being southern born and raised, she always had the feeling that he never quite fit in with the northern ways, though he had lived there for the majority of his life at this point. When Mr. Bell started talking up Atlanta in the recent years, it didn't seem to take much for her father to latch on to the opportunity to move there.

And he was flourishing. Mr. Thornton had continued his lessons, though his sister decided against giving it another try, much to Mr. Hale's relief. He and Thornton seemed to really enjoy their lessons, and on the rare occasion that Maggie was around during their sessions, she could tell a marked improvement in the younger man's playing. She supposed it must be gratifying to her father to have such a willing and eager student, when most of his other pupils were children who weren't always so enthusiastic.

One sunny Sunday, Maggie came home from reading in the park, which she had taken up the habit of doing ever since Becca and Nick had shown her how gorgeous it was. As she came through the door, she was surprised to find the whole front of the house in disarray- large white cloths, blue tape, and ladders everywhere. She realized her father must have gotten tired of the drab wall color at last.

As she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she bumped smack into Thornton precariously carrying a full bucket of paint. She'd been intending to chastise her father about not asking for her help but was left gaping at the unexpected visitor in front of her. She'd never seen John in such casual and, well, ratty clothes. His ripped jeans were spattered in paint from projects past, and his worn white t-shirt was tight across the chest, obviously a relic from a time before he'd grown into his adult body. And boy did he fill out that t-shirt now, with his biceps flexing with his efforts to try and prevent the paint bucket from spilling. He wasn't entirely successful; a small splash of blue paint sloshed onto his shirt, and when he glanced down, some smudged onto his jaw as well.