The Deepest Blue (10 page)

I've said something wrong, but I don't know what. “Sorry,” I say, but I don't know what I'm apologizing for.

“Just open it,” she says—not angry, just very sad.

I take out the small box and open it. Inside is another box covered in dark blue velvet. It makes a cracking noise as I pry open the hinged lid. Inside is a broad gold band with a big square diamond set on prongs. It glistens and sparkles like the sun on cresting waves. I look at Maggie, but she is staring at the table.

“Wanna see?” I ask.

Maggie looks up, and I turn the box to show her. She reaches out and takes it from me, her hands shaking like an old lady's. She slides the ring from the box and examines it, turning it so she can see the inside of the band. Tears run from her eyes. “Today, tomorrow, always. Love, Rich,” she reads. Quiet sobs shake her body, and her head drops. She holds the ring in front of her as if she's almost afraid of it.

I don't know what to do, what to say. Seeing Maggie hurt so much is making me hurt more. This kind of pain scares me, overwhelms me. I can't get enough air in my lungs, can't get the thoughts organized in my head. I want to scream, bang my head against the wall, try to wake up from this nightmare and be safe at home, in my bed, with my dad just down the hall.

I startle as the phone rings. Maggie puts the ring back in the box and sets it on the table. She wipes her face on her sleeve and then answers the phone.

“Hello?” she says, her voice trembling and tentative. She turns her head and sniffs. “Oh, hello Chuck.” She listens, and I can hear the sound of Chuck's voice talking, though I can't understand what he's saying. Maggie takes a pen and notepad from the kitchen drawer and begins writing quick notes.

“Yes, I understand. I'll call as soon as I hang up with you.”

An ominous clap of thunder sounds, and I look out the window. A collection of thick clouds has gathered, and fat drops of rain strike the glass with force.

“Yes, he's here now,” she says, followed by a pause. “I'll let him know.” Maggie hangs up the phone and looks at me. “I need to make a quick call, and then I'll tell you what Chuck said.” Her voice is controlled, but she sounds frail, like she could crumble right in front of me at any second.

She punches a number into the phone. “Sylvia Young, please,” she says. She sits at the table and pushes the blue velvet box away from her with the notepad.

“Ms. Young, this is Margaret Delaney. I believe Mr. Marshall told you I'd be calling.”

I'm not used to Maggie using her full name, and it sounds odd to me.

“Yes, that's the situation,” Maggie says. “Tomorrow at eleven would be fine.” There is a long gap as Maggie writes more notes. She underlines something I can't read. Thunder booms above us, so loud and close the windows rattle against their frames.

“I'll be sure to explain that,” she says. “I'm sure it will be just fine. Thank you so much for seeing him on such short notice.” She says goodbye and then hangs up.

“This has something to do with me,” I say. I feel jumpy, like I'm collecting all the static energy from the storm.

“Ms. Young is going to be your attorney. We have to drive over to Jacksonville tomorrow to meet with her.”

I run my hand through my hair, realizing my dad's hat isn't there then dash to my room to find it. It's on the floor next to the bed. I pick it up, put it on, and then head back
to the kitchen to talk to Maggie. “Why the rush? I thought we didn't have to worry about some of this until later.”

Maggie picks up her notepad and looks at me. “Julia will be arriving Friday evening. She'll be staying until Wednesday or Thursday, at which time she plans for you to get on a plane and fly to Washington with her.”

“What?” I say. “No way. No way am I going with her.” I'm yelling, but I don't try to calm down. “How did she find out? How did she even freakin' know about any of this? I thought Chuck wasn't going to call her for a few days. I thought he didn't have her number? How did she hear about this?” The muscle in my thigh begins to twitch and bounce, and it feels like I'm losing control of my body and my mind all at once. “This isn't happening. This isn't happening,” I say over and over.

“That's why Chuck found Ms. Young right away, so we could begin the process before Julia arrives.”

“I won't go with her,” I say. “I won't. I'll leave. I'll go somewhere she can't find me. I will not go with her. I don't even know her. She doesn't know me. They can't make me.”

“Mike, this isn't helping,” Maggie says. Her voice is calm, and she talks in a soft voice. “You need to settle down so we can deal with things in a rational way.”

“Rational way?” I yell at her. “These people are talking about yanking me away from everything and everyone I know and care about. Do you get that?”

“You can be as upset as you'd like, but you will not yell at me like this. I can't help you if you can't settle down and deal with this rationally.”

Blood pounds through my ears, and my arms and legs feel so twitchy they may detach themselves from my body. “There is nothing rational about this.” My voice is a low, loud growl.

“Sit down, Michael.” It's not a request; it's a command.

“No.” I can't sit down. I can't be calm. I can't breathe. I head toward the door. “No,” I say, half yelling and half snarling the word. I yank open the door and take off running. Behind me I can hear Maggie's voice. I head down a side road, through the trees, and across the main road. The rain stings my skin. The sky roars overhead as lightning rips through the air. I keep running. A car honks at me as I dash in front of it, crossing toward the beach. “You stupid jerk,” I yell. “You jerk.” I realize I'm not yelling at the car but at my dad. I find a beach access between two overbuilt hotels and make my way to the shoreline. The surf pounds against the sand and the water churns, turning gray and cloudy from the storm. I find a piece of a broken conch shell and hurl it at the water. “What the hell were you doing?” I scream. “If you had just married Maggie . . . If you had just gone to Raleigh two months ago, or two years ago, none of this would be happening.” The words sting my throat, rain mixes with tears, and I am too tired to fight the storm anymore.

I sit on the beach, water coming down in sheets, and let the sobs overtake me. My body shakes from cold and running and emotions I can't even identify. I whisper to myself, “I can't do this. I can't do this.” I can feel my body rocking back and forth, but I'm not in control of the motion.

My T-shirt is stretched from the rain and cold from the wind. The shaking grows more fierce as I sit on the packed, wet sand. I realize I've run farther up the island than I was aware of, and it will take me close to an hour to walk home from here, but I decide that's where I need to go. I trudge through the wet sand, moving down the shoreline until I'm sure I've passed Maggie's street. Then I move toward the main road and start the trek toward home.

“And I thought you knew everything. That everything you did was perfect,” I say. “Give me crap about all my mistakes. Did you ever think about the ones you were making? You didn't have everything under control. That was a
lie.”

In my mind I can hear my dad's voice. “Now, son, I did the best I could.”

A sarcastic and bitter laugh jumps out of me. “Ha! That was your best?”

I plod along, rain running off my body like I'm standing in the shower fully dressed. Cars drive by, spitting rooster tails of water off the street at me. I pass restaurants, big hotels, little beach houses, trailer parks. I keep walking.

“Son, I'm really sorry,” I imagine him saying.

“You're sorry? Well a shitload of good that does me.” I stay silent for a few minutes, and then I start laughing out loud. “I am totally crazy.”

The rain begins to lighten up a little, and the lowering sun starts to shine through cracks in the clouds to the west, just off my left shoulder. To my right, the surf still
pounds away at the shore. Traffic cruises by with the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. The air is a mixture of rain and pine and ocean. My legs feel like concrete as I make the last few dozen yards to the house. I climb the steps and head straight for the shower. My wet clothes leave a puddle on the floor, but I'll deal with that later. The hot water eases the shaking in my muscles. It pounds on my head and neck. I feel empty, like a shell tossed up on the beach after a storm. The sound of the pounding surf still rings in my ears. I let the shower run. My fists are clenched, and I raise my hands to the showerhead, coaxing my fingers to relax their grip. Steam fills the air and my breathing slows, gets easier. The warmth spreads through my arms, down my back, along my legs. I let the water wash away the salt of the ocean and the salt from my tears. It drowns out the screaming in my head, replacing it with the whisper of receding waves.

The water begins to turn cool, and I shut off the flow. I wrap myself in a dark-blue towel and sit on the floor. I can't cry. I can't scream. I can't think. So I just sit.

At some point I doze off, my body leaning against the tub and my head resting against the shower door. I don't know how long I sleep, but I hear a knock at the door. I figure it's Maggie, come to take me back to her place. I wrap the towel tightly around my waist and leave the bathroom. I open the door to find Rachel standing on the top step, ready to leave.

“I didn't think you were here,” she says.

“Then why did you knock?”

She steps up to the doorway. “Can I come in?”

I push the screen door out of the way, holding it wide for her to come inside.

“Michael, I'm . . .” her voice trails off.

“What are you doing here?” I say as she steps inside.

“Sheriff Oakes was talking to my dad at the garage. I heard him say your dad had been killed.” She stands in the center of the room, looking like she's lost. “I talked to Jayd online. He said you sent him a weird message earlier.” Her eyebrows bunch together and make it seem like she's worried. “I'm really sorry,” she says.

“So you talked to Jayd,” I say. “Do you have a thing for my best friend now?” The words sound crazy the moment I say them, but my thoughts are so screwed up and everything else is going to hell, so why not this?

Rachel looks confused. “Why would you even say that?”

I head to the kitchen and pull open the fridge door. I grab two dark brown bottles of beer and carry them to the front room. Something inside—my conscience, my dad, I don't know—tries to get me to stop, but it is quickly silenced by some other voice, a new voice that doesn't care to discuss morals or values or appropriate behavior at the moment.

I twist the cap off one bottle and hand it to Rachel, who gives me a surprised look. I sit on the sofa, twist the cap off the second bottle, and take a long, cool swallow. It's not the first time I've had beer.

Rachel takes a tentative sip from her bottle. “Are you okay?”

“Dandy.” The sarcasm scorches the air in the room.

“Look, Mike, if you don't want me here—”

“Stay or go. Your choice,” I'm lying. I want her to stay. I want her here.

She sets the bottle on the floor away from her feet and looks me in the eye. “Why are you being like this? I just want to help. I care about you, and I just want to be here for you.”

“Really?” I take another long pull from the bottle and swallow. The bitter taste makes my whole face pucker.

“Why else would I be here?” Her voice is almost pleading.

“Maybe you were thinking that Jayd might show up? I don't know. Why you do anything you do is a total mystery to me.”

“Why are you stuck on that? He's worried about you, too.”

“So the two of you are sneaking around behind my back? Great. That's awesome, because I needed another pile of shit in my life.” The edge in my voice is sharp and vicious, and I hurl the words at her intending for them to sting.

She stands up and races toward the door, her expression tight and her eyes narrow.

My heart speeds up. I don't want her to leave. I go after her, grab her by the arm, and pull her next to me.

“Let go, Mike,” she says in a low voice.

“No,” I say.

“Let me go.”

“No,” I say again. The noise in my head is back, and it feels like the thunder and lightning have moved into my chest. I press my lips against hers and kiss her with force.

She slaps me hard. “Don't you ever do that again.” Her words carry a threat, and I take her seriously.

“Rachel.” I let go of her, but I'm begging her to stay.

“Who do you think I am?” Her face is twisted in fear and anger.

“Please, don't leave.” My own voice sounds scared and distant and small. “I'm sorry,” I say, hushed and worried. “Rachel, I'm really sorry. I don't know why I said what I said or did what I did. I don't understand anything that's happening to me, and it scares the hell out of me to feel so out of control.”