The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners (12 page)

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“Back then, just before I went to the hospital, I wanted to hurt myself.”

“Hurt yourself?”

“Kill myself,” she whispered.

No one had ever told me this, but suddenly I knew. I’d felt my mother’s despair, her not wanting to be in the world. I forced myself to look at her, and I know I’ve never seen anything so terrible on another person’s face. The torment was agonizing; it came from her bones. And I felt it in mine.

“Mom?” I said, reaching for her.

“I didn’t kill myself,” she said finally, “but I almost did. I almost …,” she said, then stopped.

“Is that why you left?”

She didn’t answer. She stayed very pointedly silent. I could see her mind working, tumbling around something she wanted to say. Our hearts had once been so much in sync, I recognized the turmoil, the need to tell me fighting with some scruple about holding back. What couldn’t she say? Instead of speaking, she took my hand. Together we stood.

We walked to the curved wall of the terrace. My mother and I held hands, facing out to the beautiful sea, so far below. A minute ago, I’d wanted to fling myself over. Right now the feeling had passed, and all I felt was exhaustion. We gazed out at the bay. The blue was deep and clear, the color of our eyes. I thought of what she’d said before, that she felt unable to show me the way.

That’s what mothers do
, I wanted to tell her. Whether conscious or not, their very existence is a map for their daughters. She didn’t speak, but I felt her saying something back to me: the ocean is wide and deep, filled with beauty and menace. Life is a journey and a dream, exciting and treacherous. She was warning me and promising me, both at the same time.

“Okay” I said. “You can’t tell me the whole story of why you left. But I need to know why you didn’t come back. After you got well. Or even later—three years ago, after Dad died. Didn’t you know we needed you? Why didn’t you come back to us then?”

“Because I’d walled myself off,” she said. “Once I left, I gave up my rights as a mother. I couldn’t come and go; it wouldn’t have been fair to you and Lucy.”

“We wouldn’t have minded,” I said. “We would have wanted you back for as long as you wanted to stay.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, holding my face in her hands, looking into my eyes.

“If you’d spent time with us, you’d have wanted to stay!” I said. “And never leave us again!”

“I knew that this was right for me, Pell,” she said. “Being here, making a life for myself—it kept me alive. I had to literally shut the door on the past. If I looked back, even a little, if I called you on the phone, I’d be pulled home to you. And that could have been a disaster.” The words were agonizing for her to say—I saw it in her eyes. They raked me inside like a branding iron. I caved in on myself, almost unable to stand the pain.

I wanted to scream. Anguish like a tidal wave. My mother returning to us would have been a disaster. Even after our father’s death, when we’d been so alone, she’d chosen not to return to us. I stared at her. She’d used the word “almost,” said it twice. Almost what? What had almost happened?

Or was it just an excuse?

My feelings were too much to take. I took a deep breath. My mother was waiting for me to ask more questions, but I had none—or, if I did, I was afraid to ask them. I told my mother I was taking a walk, and she just nodded and didn’t try to change my mind.

I knew exactly where I had to go: the harbor, where I would feel like home, like Newport, where I would feel Travis with me, feel like myself again.

Ten

T
here were places on Capri no tourist ventured. Well, maybe a tourist who liked back alleys and what went on there. Midafternoon, Rafe drove the boat from his grandfather’s dock to the Marina Grande. He saw the hydrofoils and ferries from Naples and Sorrento, yachts on their way to the south of France, small boats, low to the water, heading to the Grotta Azzurra. But he barely registered the activity.

His grandfather had been paying him to tend the dock and boat, mend the nets, paint the boathouse; he had cash in his pocket, and he told himself it was to settle his debt. Motoring into the channel, he pulled back on the throttle. Slowly he approached the pier where work and fishing boats docked.

Nicolas worked at the gas dock; he waved Rafe in, let him tie up on one of the finger piers. Wharf space was tight and expensive here; Rafe waved his thanks to the old man.

“What brings you to port?” Nicolas asked as Rafe stepped off the boat.

“Just an errand,” Rafe said.

“Crazy summer day, just look at all these visitors,” Nicolas said. But instead of looking around at the day-trippers and vacationers, he stared into Rafe’s face. Rafe felt himself redden; he knew his grandfather’s old friend was examining his pupils, his affect, watching him for signs of relapse.

“Thanks for letting me dock here,” Rafe said. “I won’t be long.”

“You’d better not be,” Nicolas said, arms folded across his chest. Rafe felt the old man’s eyes on his back as he wound his way through the crowds, along the wharf. Shops and bars lined the shabby waterfront. The tide was out, and fishing boats were pulled right up on the shore. Guides hawking island tours called out and held up signs advertising trips to the grottoes and the Faraglioni. Rafe walked quickly along, ignoring everyone.

This used to be dangerous territory for him. Maybe it still was. Among the innocent shopkeepers and tour guides, there were people selling another kind of wares. Time was, he could find them no problem. He played a game with himself now: that guy with the black motorcycle jacket, the girl in the pink sundress. Were they holding?

Rafe lit a cigarette. He caught the eye of the guy in the leather jacket. He’d never seen him before; he was new here. But the way he looked at Rafe, a flick of his gaze, let Rafe know he had something to sell.

Walking on, thinking of his grandmother. In his mind he saw her smile, a knowing look.
Yeah, Grandma, I’m doing okay. I really am. This is just a game
.

She’d died two years ago. No game there. He’d been high, whacked out of his mind. But he saw certain things as clearly as if he’d been stone sober: the ambulance, her bird-thin body crumpled, the way she’d cried when they tried to lift her.

Asshole
, he said to himself.
You fucking shit. You did that to her. You might as well have pushed her down
. Before and right after she’d died, he’d been one of the furtive ones down here at the wharf, or wherever he was: Trafalgar Square and Hyde Park in London; Washington Square Park and South Street Seaport in New York. Tourist areas were good: there was always someone selling whatever you needed. And Rafe had needed what they had.

“Hey, man,” Arturo said, putting down his sign: thirteen euros for a tour around the island and a stop at the Blue Grotto. Arturo probably thought he was better off with Rafe’s business.

“I came to pay you,” Rafe said.

“Yeah?” Arturo asked, leading him off the beaten path, to an alley behind the funicular entrance. “That’s good. Because then your credit is fine with me, and you can have whatever you want.”

“I don’t want anything,” Rafe said. “Just clearing up my debt.”

Arturo smiled and shrugged, as if he knew this was all just precursor to the real deal. Rafe reached into his pocket; his heart was pounding. He was going through the motions he’d gone through so many times before. Hand over the money, get something in return. Take it, feel better. His mouth was dry. By habit, he glanced around, looking for cops.

“I’ve let you slide on this,” Arturo said. “I’ve been good to you.”

“Thanks for giving me time,” Rafe said.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Arturo said. “Nicolas and your grand father have eagle eyes. You tell them about me?”

“No,” Rafe said.

“Nicolas is always watching me. He and your grandfather told me they’d like it if I moved to Naples. Can you imagine that, those two old fucks? My family has been on Capri as long as Nicolas’s people, centuries before the Gardiners came.”

“I’m sorry they made it hard on you,” Rafe said. His stomach clenched. Another way he’d messed things up, dragged his grandfather and Nicolas into his sordid problems. Maybe he should just fuck up once and for all.

“Anyone else owed me, I wouldn’t have been so patient. But with your grandfather’s influence, I had to hold back.”

“Well, here’s your money,” Rafe said. “We’re even now, so don’t worry about it anymore.”

Arturo counted out the euros. He glanced pointedly at a stone building, a maintenance shed owned by his family, where tools and fishing supplies were stored. Rafe had gone in there many times.

“No,” Rafe said, before the question was even asked. “I’m done.”

“No one’s ever done,” Arturo said.

Rafe didn’t stick around to argue. He hurried down the narrow lane, stepping onto the waterfront just in time to see Pell Davis step out from under the awning of the funicular entrance. She blinked in the bright sunlight, getting her bearings. Rafe started toward her, but Arturo caught up to him.

“Here,” Arturo said, handing him a small envelope. “This is for free. Old times’ sake.” He walked away, picked up his sign, before Rafe could shove the packet back at him. But not before Pell saw.

“Hey, Pell,” he said.

“Hi, Rafe.” She sounded cool, her gaze seemed unfriendly.

“What brings you to the marina?” he asked.

“I like harbors. How about you?” she asked, staring at the package in his hand. He wadded it up and threw it into a trash bin.

“I came to pay off someone I owed,” he said. “That’s over now, and I have the afternoon free. I know we said Monday, but do you want to take that boat ride to the Faraglioni? I’ll show you the seahorses.”

“No,” she said. “Thanks anyway.”

She started to walk away, down the waterfront. People jostled her, but she kept going. Rafe felt panicked that she had the wrong idea, ran after her.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“I don’t think anything,” she said.

“I owed him money from before,” he said as she kept striding along. Her long dark hair swung as she walked, blocked him from seeing her face.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said.

“But I want to.”

They got caught in a throng of people jamming the dock for the next boat tour. Pell shouldered her way through, kept walking without looking at him. They passed a waterfront hotel, painted bright Pompeian red, and then she stopped.

“You should really get clear with yourself,” she said.

“I am,” he said.

“Are you sure? Because I saw him give you an envelope back there.”

“Did you see me throw it away?” he asked.

“I did. But would you have if I hadn’t been here?” she asked, staring hard into his eyes. The intensity made him feel uncomfortable, but he couldn’t look away. Her eyes were bright blue, sharp with pain. Swamped with whatever she was dealing with, she felt concern for him too—he could tell. He’d felt it sitting beside her on the rock ledge, after his grandfather’s party, and he sensed it now. Powerful emotions swept over him, reminding him of the way he’d felt in Malibu, talking to Monica.

“I would have tossed it no matter what,” he said. “Honestly.”

“Have you ever noticed how people say ‘honestly’ mainly when they’re lying?” she asked. “You know, if you let your grandfather down, I just might have to hurt you.”

“My grandfather?”

“Yeah,” she said. “He adores you. It’s so obvious, just spending an hour with him. You practically destroyed your life, but he’s not giving up on you.”

“He should have,” Rafe said.

“Self-pity,” she said. “Very attractive.”

They walked along, then stood staring at the water. Dolphins leapt, following a fishing boat. Sun glistened on their black backs. He stared at her glossy hair, wished he could take her swimming, show her the beautiful world underwater, where it was quiet and peaceful and far from pain.

“What was in the package?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably pills.”

“What kind?”

“I used to take downs,” he said. “I wanted oblivion. Just to sleep, all the time. I didn’t want to feel.”

“Because of your mother?” she asked.

The question shocked him. His mother had been dead so long, he rarely thought of her.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Didn’t you talk about it in rehab?”

“Of course,” he said. “We talked about everything. But you know what? Plenty of people go through much worse shit than I did, and didn’t start taking drugs. Look at you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know the whole story. How your mother bailed on you and your sister when you were little kids. How your father took care of you, and you were so close to him, and then he died and left you too.”

“Who told you?” she asked.

“My grandparents,” he said. “And my dad too, I guess. It’s just known. Everyone on the island has a story. Lyra’s is that she left her kids.”

“People talk about it?”

He stared at her. A breeze off the harbor blew her hair into her eyes. She had dark, European beauty, but she seemed in some ways like a naive American. How could she understand the crumbling ruins of Capri, how they attracted broken people who’d stepped out of their other lives? His grandparents hadn’t arrived here wrecked, but so many of the other foreigners had.

“Yeah,” he said. “It makes her fit in here. The weather’s been bright and sunny since you arrived, but wait for the first rainy day. The gloom and damp will pull you right down, remind you of every shitty thing you’ve done. There’s no better place to brood, and I’m sure that’s why Lyra likes it here.”

The Chiesa di San Costanzo loomed behind them, the ancient whitewashed church reminding him of his grandmother’s funeral, of prayers that had never been heard, of the suffering he had caused.

“She doesn’t like me,” he said. “You know why?”

“Because of Christina. She loved your grandmother,” Pell said, sounding distant, catching Rafe’s attention. What was that about?

“Yeah,” he said. “Partly. But also because she knows I’m like her. A misfit who’s screwed everything up.”

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t believe you are Max’s grandson, that you have even one drop of his blood.”

“I was just trying to make a point, explaining why Lyra is so down on me. Everyone on Capri has their own story, their own reason for being here. It suits everyone for different reasons.”

“You have a grandfather who loves you, believes in you. He’s not looking backward at whatever you may or may not have done, thrown away, not appreciated. He’s thinking of you right now, wanting you to stay healthy and well.”

“I am,” he said.

“How?” she asked. “By hanging out in the wrong places here on the dock, torturing yourself by getting envelopes from guys you should stay away from?”

“What do you know about wrong places on the dock?”

“I live in Newport,” she said. She let it hang in the air. Although he didn’t know that waterfront city, he was sure he could find an Arturo or two down by the harbor. He shrugged and gave her a slight smile, letting her know she’d made her point.

“What church is this?” she asked.

“San Costanzo,” he said, thrown off guard. “Why?”

“I’m hot,” she said as the sun beat down. “Can we go inside?”

They did, and it was dark and cool. Walking up the aisle, they sat in a pew near the altar. A cluster of candles burned brightly at the feet of the plaster saint. Rafe couldn’t make himself look. He remembered coming in here the week before his grandmother had died. She’d fallen into a coma, and he’d lit a candle for her to get better. She hadn’t.

Pell sat quietly beside him. He heard her breath, surprisingly fast, as if she’d just run a race. Glancing at her, to make sure she was okay, he saw her watching him. For a second, it made him think of Monica.

“Here’s the difference,” she said. “My father took care of me and Lucy. He didn’t let up for a minute.”

“But he died,” Rafe said.

“Not before he made sure we were okay. We went through hell after she left. Real, true hell. My sister used to scratch her face at night, try to claw the skin off. She hurt so much inside, she had to make the outside match. And I pulled out hunks of hair, ripped them right out of my head.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I hated myself. I thought if she could leave me, I must be the worst person in the world. Ugly, and I don’t mean in looks. I mean inside. I felt like a monster, a little ugly troll whose mother didn’t love her.”

“You’re not ugly,” Rafe whispered, and he wanted to take her hand. It was church, and he felt stiff, and he didn’t know how she’d feel about it. His hand moved almost on its own, stopped just before he touched her.