Caroline McGee is Going to Be Fine

“We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. As the last remnants of winter fluttered from the sky onto the window my head delicately rested against, a sense of peace navigated through my veins. Though I had endured much through the past several weeks, I was much like the the snow covered pines we passed on our journey: graceful, strong, resilient, unmoving, beautiful. I had braved every trial life threw at me and now, she was rewarding me. Though I wasn’t in need of this trip, I wanted it and was grateful for it. I, in all truth, deserved it.”

Caroline paused, her favorite green ink pen tapping her notebook. Though not in deep artistic thought; instead, in sheer, unadulterated irritation as her Uber driver turned up his music and off-key passionately sang the lyrics to Moonage Daydream. At the height of her annoyance, he cooly looked into the rearview mirror, smiled at her and said,

“Bowie. Classic, right?”

In addition to smelling like cigarette smoke, he’d yapped on about his Rolling Stones cover band, The Traveling Pebbles, the entire hour-long drive from the airport. In the midst of his singing, she found herself missing his talking.

“Mhm,” she responded, the tapping of her pen growing quicker by the second.



“Hey, I’m sorry,” the driver said sincerely, switching off the music. Caroline sighed, a smile beginning to spread across her face. She stopped tapping and opened her mouth to forgive him when he abruptly interrupted her with the continuation of his apology.

“I forgot to ask: want a drag?” He said offering her the dimming cigarette he’d had in his cupholder.

She stared blankly at the back of his head, frozen in the wave of stupidity that had just blown through the car. Her fiery eyes suddenly embraced an eerie calmness as she flickered them towards the rearview mirror, meeting his.

“I’m fine,” she said smoothly as he retracted his arm and turned the volume of the music up.

Caroline McGee was fine. The same way she was fine when the unkempt Dodge Durango came to a sudden halt sending her pen rolling under the seat, held hostage by empty fast food cups and snack crumbs. The same way she was fine when the driver rolled her luggage over her toes, breaking a wheel, and then politely reminded her about the necessity of rating and tipping. And the same way she was fine when she discovered the owner had double booked the cabin she was to be staying in, and instead of spending the weekend in blissful solitude, she’d be spending it with a chatty old woman who swore this weekend was her last hurrah before she “bit the dust” and refused to stay elsewhere.

“Looks like it’ll be a girls weekend, Pageant Queen,” the old lady with a husky smoker’s voice joked.

 Caroline slumped on the couch, her face glowing bright red as she inhaled deeply.

“That’s fine,” she said exhaling, “But may I at least have the southern room? The bath tub in that room is bigger and—"

“No you may not,” the woman, who had introduced herself as Margaret, interrupted imitating Caroline’s posh tone, “You may have the room on the left. My stuff’s already unpacked,”

Caroline blinked back annoyance and dragged her bag to her newly assigned room.

“The cottage was quaint but beautiful. Its smoky blue walls were shining with history and warmth while the chestnut oak floors glistened with winter regality. Smooth velvet loveseats would embrace me as I curled up under a goose down blanket with my favorite Agatha Christie. And my room, the most coveted space in the house, welcomed me with a queen-sized bed; a fitting name for a chamber so luxurious, only the queen herself deserved to rest there. Still, I found myself longing for the simplicity of a smaller dwelling to call my home for the next few days, but my salvation from the grandiose winter palace came in the form of a charming elderly woman, a widower about 60 or 70, but still in her prime. She smelled of fresh peaches and Burberry and spoke to me in a sweet sing-songy voice, one only heard in princess movies. Her name was Margaret, but her gentle demeanor could take a stern turn if I didn’t call her Mother Maggie.”

Caroline smiled as she completed the chapter of her memoir. Her life, as her therapist explained it, was not so interesting that one should spend thousands of dollars making a movie about it, going into crippling debt hiring Gal Godot to play her. But it was remarkable enough that a memoir might be worth the read for a bored housewife on a slow Wednesday afternoon, if and only if, Caroline wrote it herself.

Feeling satisfied with herself, Caroline grabbed her expensive bubble bath from her suitcase and headed towards her bathroom.

The bathroom was decent; it didn’t have a weird smell despite looking like it might. The white marble counters were clean and though one of the lights was out over the vanity, it was still a very well lit space with a wide, flattering mirror. The tub had a bit of an ivory hue that Caroline chose to ignore. She was in desperate need of a relaxed night and was not going to let an odd-colored tub stop her from getting it. She ran the water and immediately dumped her entire bottle of bubble bath inside, determined to have a Hollywood-worthy bathing experience. While the tub filled up she explored her room. Her walk-in closet was much larger than the one she had at home, but it smelled a bit stale and the clothing racks were weak and poorly built for a place that should accommodate heavy winter coats. As she passed another mirror she examined herself as she stood in nothing but her thermals.

“David is a fool,” she said to her reflection, winking flirtatiously.

She wasn’t bad looking and was in better shape than most 45-year-old divorcées, but she had a habit of being imaginatively introspective in such a way that the truth was no longer visible. For example, as she stood, gazing at herself, admiring her own thin frame and high cheek bones, she remarked,

“Hm… put me in the gym a few nights a week and I could play Wonder Woman,”

When in all actuality, she looked far more like Tilda Swinton or Ellen DeGeneres with dark hair, and was about as coordinated as an elephant on a tight rope.

As her bath water completely filled, a mountain of ivory colored soapy bubbles extended past the surface of the tub. Caroline pondered the strange color of the bubbles, but shrugged, opting to instead enjoy her night of pretend luxury. She sat in the tub and tilted her head back in thought.

This is a nice place her mind said. The cabin was located within the heart of a beautiful Canadian mountain and while she’d never been outside of New York before, the modest cabin was a nice change of scenery— even if it was littered with dead animal rugs and zebra stripped couches. Tacky decoration aside, it was a rather large cabin, conveniently secluded from civilization. It was an ideal place for a couples retreat, if she were still in a couple, or a mother-daughter bonding experience, if her daughter were speaking to her. But Caroline was fine. This cabin would be enough for her, even if there was an old woman shouting incorrect Jeopardy answers at the TV in the next room.

Caroline leaned forward and pushed the bubbles onto her face and around her chin, making a bubble beard. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and laughed at herself, just before grabbing her phone and taking a quick picture: it could be something to laugh at later, too. She leaned in towards the water to wipe the suds from her face, but not before she noticed how filthy the water seemed to be.

“I know I showered this morning,” she said flicking her hand through the water, “I couldn’t have been that dirty.”

She ran her hands along the sides of the tub, bringing what she initially thought was just an odd paint job with her. A thin, oily, chestnut brown residue stuck to her fingers producing a stomach turning gag from Caroline as she realized the scum had stuck to her back, neck, hair and arms as well.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, smelling the bath tub grime on her fingers. It smelled a bit like fried chicken, “What even is this?”

“A wise woman once told me an essential part of self-care was hygiene. And while we all can’t be as fortunate as I was to have wisdom elegantly poured directly from the mouth of Madonna, I do want to preface this chapter with this gem: a warm bath filled mile-high with lush bubbles in a luxury cottage is better than diamonds. And I, my friends, just had the diamond mine of bathing experiences.”

Caroline slumped on the faux fur couch in the living room with her arms crossed. Her terrycloth bath robe had gotten caught in the zipper of her suitcase and now a gaping hole was in the center of her back. She stared up at the TV where Alex Trebek was ushering the contestants into Final Jeopardy.

“On learning what his series would be called, the star of this reality show said, ‘That sounds like a Chinese food place!’” said Trebek.

“Chinatown!” Margaret yelled.

“Duck Dynasty,” Caroline grumbled under her breath

“Duck Dynasty!” the contestant stated firmly.

“That is correct!” Alex Trebek complimented.

“Oh,” Margaret teased turning towards Caroline, “Someone knows hillbilly culture! And here I thought I’d be having opossum stew alone tonight,”

Caroline sighed, ignoring Margaret.

“You know,” Margaret continued, “You are the only person I’ve ever seen go into a bath clean and come out dirty,”

Caroline hugged her knees, frustrated.

“There was an issue with the tub. But it’s fine now,” she said solemnly.

“It ain't fine,” Margaret said firmly, “You should call the owner. Because you look gross,”

“I said it’s fine,” Caroline said again, hugging her knees closer.

Margaret stared at her a bit longer before switching the TV off.

“Well, if we’re gonna be roomies, I suppose we should get to know each other,” Margaret said clearing her throat, “I already told you I’m Margaret and not to ever call me Maggie. No kids. No husband. No career. Never wanted any of it, plus odd jobs suit me just fine. I live in my van, she’s parked out front there, and I bought this trip as sort of a 'farewell' to the world. I’m sure one of these days I’m out of here. I just don’t know which one. Your turn.”

Caroline stared blankly at Margaret before sighing again and repositioning herself towards her.

“Well, you know I’m Caroline,” she said softly, “I don’t care for nicknames either but most people call me Carol, which is fine. I’m from Milwaukee originally but I moved to New York about 20 years ago to work at this company called Covell Marketing. I’m an ad exec. I’ve actually been an ad exec for the duration of the 20 years because my chauvinistic boss keeps passing me over for promotions… but it’s fine. Uhm, I was married, I actually met my husband… ex husband, at work, he was a client. But we’re divorced now because he cheated on me with a girl who is literally half his age. And it's fine. He’ll be 50 in December and she’s 25 and that’s fine, you know, for him. But I know this because I stalked her Instagram a little bit and I saw a picture of them she posted from back in March of last year and he was at her 24th birthday party on the same night he was supposed to be at couples therapy with me, but it’s fine, you know? He should live it up while he can! After all, he’s jobless and I’m writing him $1,000 alimony checks each month, so it’s fine! Go nuts right? And oh! Yes, I have a daughter too. She’s 13 and really smart but she’s going through that phase where she’s kind of a jerk? And when they asked her who she wanted to live with she said her dad because, and I quote, “I know what he did sucks, but he’s still more fun than you,” so now I see her once a month, per her request and that’s…fine. It’s fine, all of it, like it really is because all of the stuff that’s hit me in the past few months got me here! In this fine cabin! See, because after I had what my therapist Laura is calling ‘a minor mental break down’ in the middle of a grocery store, and I may have threatened to shank somebody with the kebab skewers I was holding over the last prime rib in the case, she, Laura, pulled some strings and negotiated this vacation instead of the misdemeanor assault charges I was looking at. Which would have been fine, right? Civil duty and all. So yeah that’s me. You have any pets? I’ve got a goldfish, Rocky, but he died right before I left. But it’s totally… fine.”

Margaret sat still, her mouth agape, before finally letting out a short exhale and a small chuckle. She folded her arms and stood up, never taking her gaze off Caroline. She chuckled one more time before finally walking towards her room and saying behind her shoulder,

“Grab your coat and meet me on the back porch.”

Though confused, Caroline did as she was told because, well, why not?

The snow nestled neatly on the porch’s railing as it fluttered from the sky. It was cold, as expected, but not unbearably so as demonstrated by Margaret who leaned forward against the railing wearing her parka and mitts. The snow tangled in her hair gave her a fantastical sort of air and to Caroline, who was red and flustered in her overstuffed duffle coat, Margaret was the picture of beauty against the soft light of the snow. She reminded her of a princess she’d once read about and, as long as she wasn’t talking, she remained graceful in composure and appearance.

“You see that mountain there?” Margaret said pointing.

Caroline nodded nestling her hands in her pockets.

“Yell at it,” she said firmly.

“What?” Caroline laughed.

“You need to yell at that mountain,” Margaret argued.

“For what?” Caroline scoffed turning away, “This is nuts. I’m going back in,”

“I have never, in 83 years of living, heard anyone use the word ‘fine’ as much as you do,” Margaret said turning her back to Caroline, “‘fine, fine, fine!’ you say, ‘everything’s fine!’ Except none of what you told me is fine! That thing with your husband? Not fine. Your bratty kid? Not fine. Heck! Even me, I just showed up here and told the owner I had reservation; I didn't pay for this place! And then I stole your room! And that was not fine, Caroline. Now if you’re not gonna yell at the people in your life, that’s okay, but you need to yell at something. And since that mountain ain’t gonna yell back, that’s gotta be it,”

Caroline looked out into the sparkling city far below. The mountain sat as a beautiful backdrop behind the tiny village. It was like something out of a painting: covered in crisp white snow housing lively deer who’d be chasing one another through its peaks. She imagined a life she did not have: how lovely it must be for the dwellers below to be cuddling under an open fire with cups of cocoa and slow, whining saxophones setting the stage for a memory. Then all at once an epiphany gently sat on her shoulders, like the mounting snow.

“I’m not fine,” she whispered smiling. Her smile formed into a slight chuckle as she parted her lips to say it again, louder this time, “I’m not fine!”

All at once she leaned over the railing, her hands steadying her so she wouldn’t loose balance and slip. And with all of the strength she could muster up she released a yell, a wail almost, from deep within her. And when that wail had ran out, she did it again, this time producing tears that she was afraid would freeze to her face. But her fears did not stop her from letting out what had festered in her for so long. She should have quit Covell years ago, her husband was a jerk and she hoped his girlfriend left him the way he'd left her, and the prime rib was hers; she saw it first! All of it poured out of her in tears and screams to that mountain, who’d seen far worse in its centuries of existence. And when she’d finished yelling she collapsed into the arms of Margaret who welcomed the hug, despite all appearances. Though her exterior, and several layers below, were tough, Margaret had once longed for the things Caroline was mourning: a devoted husband, loving children, a fulfilling career. And since she could not have them, she would pour that left over love into Caroline, who held tight onto her, sobbing.

When she finally felt empty, Caroline released Margaret and went in her room, leaving Margaret staring at the people below.

“This chapter is called Weekend Getaway. I had expectations of snow covered solitude and melancholy days neglecting my own mind. Instead I found solace, introspective intimacy and a friend. It is said that if you tell a lie often enough, it becomes the truth. I disagree. It consumes you. It becomes you. Though it is uncomfortable, I chose inward truth, beginning with the following: My name is Caroline McGee and I am not fine… but I will be.