The Deep End of the Sea (28 page)

Nothing of
mine
is here.

“Did you do this?” I ask Bernadette after she shows off the luxurious bathroom attached to my suite.

She’s affronted. “Of course not. I hired designers. I was told you fancy Paris, so I thought I might bring some of it here to you.”

My eyebrows lift. “You did this all in one day?”

“You’d be surprised what you can do when you have buckets of money to throw around, missy.”

I pick up a small statue off of the dresser, the one thing in the room that looks remotely Greek. It stands out like an argyle sock amongst a sea of whites: a statue of myself, of when I was a monster. I wonder if I can get rid of it. “It’s nice. Thanks.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, because they were warned that it better suit to your tastes or they’d get no money from me,” Bernadette says. She taps the cane on the dresser. “Even if it’s ridiculously French. Good gods, child. Why French?”

What if I never get to go with Hermes? I keep my voice light, even though I want to curl in a ball as I set the statue back down. “I don’t know. I’ve just always wanted to go to Paris.” I stare down at the hideous face, frozen in porcelain. Had my face looked like that? Was this what Hermes saw all those years?

Could he have truly fallen in love with such ugliness?

“You’ll still be wanting that wish, as it won’t be possible for some time, now.” Her cane hovers near the statue. “This is from me, child. Don’t go looking like those hoity-toity designers had the wherewithal to place this in your haven.”

Haven? Does she really think I could ever view this place as my haven? I whirl around to face her. “You thought I would appreciate such a gift?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” At the incredulous look on my face, she clarifies, “Well, you will, at some point. This I know. We always must remember who we’ve been, child. It’s just how things are.”

“Easy for you to say,” I spit. “You weren’t a monster.”

The milky orbs focus in my direction. “Some may disagree.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I think you need a reminder, that’s all.”

I pick up the manila folder she’d laid down on the dresser when we’d first come into the room. “Funny, I was pretty sure you all wanted me to become somebody different. I wasn’t even aware I had any say in the decision.” I flip the folder open and tap on my new driver’s license. “Madeline Gregorson wouldn’t want that ugly thing in her beautiful, impeccably French themed room.”

“I disagree.”

I bark out a laugh. “How is that possible? As
Madeline
, I’m apt to know my own mind.”

Her cane whips out and strikes my upper arm. I yelp and jump back, clutching my bicep. “You are most certainly not in the right frame of mind right now to know much of anything. You are scared and confused, and I will be patient with you to an extent, but know I will not coddle you simply because you want to feel sorry for the hand dealt to you. You think you are the only one to have life go in ways not imagined?”

Stars above, does my arm ache from where she struck me. “And you have?”

“I wouldn’t be here had it not, would I?”

The numbness is finally thawing. “So you’ve been screwed over by the go—
them
, too?”

“Listen to the mouth you have on you.” She sits on my lilac colored bed. “I’d heard you’ve been good at languages and slang. Personally, I find such talk disgraceful.”

I stare at her until I finally bark out a laugh. “Do you know who I am?”

“Are you addled in the brain? Obviously I know who you are. I found a statue of you, didn’t I?”

Anger seeps through the ice. “Do you know what they did to me?”

“I know that you’re here with me right now,” she snaps, “and not back where it was you were, possibly facing a worse future. So shut your mouth, missy, and be grateful for the gifts you’ve been given today.”

I bite back my frustration. This isn’t her fault; I shouldn’t be taking out my anger on her. “I’m sorry. The room is lovely; I thank you for it.”

Her cane swings out and clips me again. “Not those gifts, you daft girl!” She stands up and shakes her head. And with that, she exits the room far more gracefully than I would have suspected an elderly, plump woman reliant on a cane would be able to.

Dear H,

Bernie brought me this journal this morning, saying she thought it would be therapeutic for me to write in. When I asked her why she would think that, she said that’s what she heard girls do, which seems like a lousy reason to me. But who am I to disagree with the cane (more on that later)—so here I am, writing in this damn journal at the kitchen table while she makes me lunch and watches me like a hawk. If you ever get to meet Bernadette, do not be fooled by her eyes. She may appear blinder than my cat, but she’s got better vision than anyone else I’ve ever met.

In all the years I fantasized about travelling, I never imagined Wyoming would be one of those places. I’ll grudgingly admit it’s beautiful here, and the people so far kind. It’s not crowded, which makes it easier to breathe when Bernie takes me to town. She’s been trying to teach me to drive—I’m hopeless, I’ll admit it—and she’s got me helping with grocery shopping, trips to the post office, library, and out to lunch with friends of hers. In between her numerous lectures about how spoiled I am (AS IF, but arguing with her is pointless), she seems to think me diving into NORMAL life is exactly what I need right now. And NORMAL means shopping, doing chores around the house (which I tried to point out I always did anyway, but that made no difference here or there), and cooking (another thing I already know how to do). Nevertheless, the point is, Bernie is not letting me hole up in my bedroom 24-7 like I want so I can drown in how lost I feel lately. She’s forcing me with that wicked cane of hers to get out and learn how to, and I quote, LIVE.

The only thing is, I’m not sure what I want to LIVE for. She says this is my chance to decide for myself—says that back at the villa, all I thought about was how I felt sorry for myself. I disagree with her, by the way. That at my old home (pre-villa) all I thought about was how I wished I were something different. But now, without any influences from your kind, she thinks I ought to focus on me.

I got mad at her for saying these things. Who does she think she is, telling me what I’ve thought and done? But then I got to considering it (while I was at lunch with her network of elderly friends—sorry, even though I am far older than they are, I just felt like I couldn’t relate to tooth problems, brittle bones, and adult diapers yet), and maybe she does have a point. For a long time, I hated what I was, what I did, and what I allowed to happen to me. So here I am, fourteen days in, and I’ve decided that maybe I do need to find out WHO I AM and WHAT I WANT. And it’s probably the scariest thing I’ve ever decided to do.

After Bernie demanded I get my butt off the couch and do something other than eat ice cream out of the carton and watch sappy movies that left me ugly crying while alternating between anger, depression, and helplessness, the first thing I decided to do was sign up for a self-defense class. It was ridiculous; I knew it was ridiculous. Even Hermes told me he was no physical match for Poseidon, but there was no way I was ever going to be left in a position again where somebody could grab me and leave me dangling and flailing. I was going to follow Aphrodite’s lead and learn a proper roundhouse kick. At the very least, I could stand my ground with Athena (although, that was questionable, too, considering she is a goddess and I am ... well, whatever an ex-monster is). But the point was, Bernie was right. I’m done with being the gods’ toy. It was past time to take control of my own destiny.

Bernie seemed to approve of this choice, despite a well-placed comment over how it shouldn’t have taken me two weeks to arrive at a decision a four-year-old could’ve made in minutes. Fourteen days into our new relationship, I already knew better than to let such words get to me. The day Bernadette heaps praise on a person without a pointed comment first is the day the apocalypse is upon us. Snappy comments aside, all that mattered was that she helped me pick a martial arts studio in town and faithfully drove me to it for the private lessons I signed up for. Initially, I considered joining a class, but even ten people seemed overwhelming. One-on-one was much more doable.

“Baby steps,” I tried to rationalize to Bernie.

“Hmph,” alongside a slight sneer was her answer. Yet, she sat in the back of the dojo, watching my instructor (a woman of about forty named SanDee, who I came to realize doesn’t know how to frown or lower her voice below a chipper shout) carefully mold my body for sixty minutes a day. And then Bernie watched me practice at home for hours afterwards and on the days in between. I’d call her my cheerleader except I know that would earn me a whack on the thigh with her cane.

A week after I begin lessons, she orders me a punching bag, gloves, and mats. I continue to journal, writing letter after letter to Hermes that he may never see. A week after that, she helps me strip one of the spare bedrooms so I can create a mini-gym. Three days after my gym takes shape and I tell her I need to build up my endurance, she orders me a treadmill. “I’m not going to be running after you, missy,” she tells me one afternoon as she knits in the rocking chair installed in the corner of the gym. I’m practicing my kicks and am going on my second hour. I’m achy but determined. I may not be able to control a lot in my life, but I can control my body. She adds, “Best to do it in here where I can watch you.”

I let loose another kick, one that knocks the bag back several feet. Satisfied, I turn to face her, wiping my sweaty hair back off my face. “Maybe we can order you one of those scooters. You could scooter after me.”

This does not amuse her, but before bed, she does it because I tell her I need to get outside and let the cool morning air sting my lungs. The sheer fact that I’m finally admitting I need to get out of the house and go somewhere other than the dojo and our normal stretch of errands seems to please her. We pay for rush shipping, and two days after we order it, her scooter arrives.

I start slow, jogging an hour the first day. My lungs burn, my sides sting, but Telesphoros would be proud. I breathe in and out, in and out, until all I hear while wearing my noise cancelling headphones are the sounds of my breath and of my heartbeat. My body slides into automatic: feet pounding the pavement, one in front of another, arms swinging, ponytail flying in a comforting rhythm. Each day after, I add five minutes to my time. I run, I kick, I punch, I practice. Every motion, every mile helps clear my head, helps me focus on being in the moment. Helps me maintain some kind of control over my life. Helps me not dwell on how I still haven’t heard one word from Hermes. I try my best not to focus on how much I miss him during these times, even though I now write to him daily in my journal. But I can’t stop the thoughts when I lay in bed at night, or the dreams I have of him each time I sleep. During the day, though, I’m able to force my body and mind to conform to the reassuring regulations of discipline.

Nearly a month and a half after my first martial arts class, I turn my body into a lean, clean fighting machine.