The Deepest Blue (15 page)

I come to the doorway and take the portable phone from her. “Hello,” I say as Maggie heads toward the kitchen.

“How are you?” Rachel asks, and she sounds worried.

“I don't know,” I say, and I really don't.

“If you feel up to it, some of us are going to the arcade again. I'd really like to see you.”

I think for a moment, but I can tell the idea isn't one that appeals. I'm tired, and my dad's service is tomorrow, and I'm supposed to speak, and I haven't written anything. I would rather stay in at the moment. “I don't think tonight is a good night for me,” I say.

“Just for a little while?” I can hear the disappointment in her voice.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I just don't want to be around Trevor or Caitlyn or Mandy.”

“So you don't want to be around me, either.” It's a statement, not a question.

“Rachel, I didn't say that.” I'm too tired and too frustrated to start an argument right now. “I don't know how to make you understand. My dad's funeral is in the morning, and I just don't feel like hanging out right now.”

“Okay.”

I wait for her to throw a tantrum, start a fight, but it doesn't happen. “Look, I have to get through this week. I have to get through tomorrow. I can't think any further than that right now.” I toss another ball of wadded paper at the trash.

“It's okay, Mike,” Rachel says. “I understand.”

I'm not sure if she does or doesn't, but I'm not going to get into it with her right now. “I promise, things will get back to normal soon.” I don't know exactly when
soon
is, or even what
normal
is. I just know I can't pretend everything is like it was last week.

“Is there anything I can do?”

I pause. “Not really. I just have to get through the next few days.”

“Let me know if you change your mind about tonight. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow.”

We say goodbye, and I watch the storm roll past my window, a giant bank of clouds crawling over the tops of
the pines. Soon the sun breaks through, and I pick up the legal pad and try again.

Maggie knocks on the door. “I've got ham and potato salad if you're hungry.”

I'm not really hungry, but I know I need to eat. I shuffle out of my room and plop into a chair. Maggie brings a plate filled with ham and potato salad and sets it in front of me. I shovel a forkful of the salad into my mouth. I don't really notice the taste, like it doesn't have a flavor. I chew for a long time, swallow, and take another bite.

Maggie sits down and picks up a knife and fork. She cuts her slab of ham into small bites, but she doesn't eat, she just pushes the meat around her plate, staring at it as if it were some sort of game.

“Not hungry?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Me, neither.” I set my fork on my plate and lean my head against my hand, resting an elbow on the edge of the table.

Maggie stares at something in front of her. “I don't know how I'm going to get through tomorrow.”

“Me, either.”

Her fork clatters against her plate as her head drops into her hands. Her shoulders shake and heave, but she doesn't make a noise.

I want to comfort her, but I don't know how. “It'll be okay,” I say, but the words feel false. “It'll be hard, but we'll be there together.” That feels better, more true.

Maggie wipes at her face and then rubs her hands on
her sweat pants. Her blue T-shirt is speckled with dark tear stains. “Together,” she says. “That's the most important part.”

“You don't have to try to be strong for me.” I don't know why I say it, but somehow it makes sense. “I can be strong for me.”
Time to get it under control. Step up and be a man,
I think.

“Maybe,” Maggie says as she sniffs back the last few tears, “I can be strong for you and you can be strong for me, and together we'll be stronger because we have each other to hold on to.”

I nod.

“How's the writing going?”

“Not so good.”

“Yeah, I saw the pile on the floor.”

“Everything I write sounds like crap, like it's fake or something.” Frustration rises in my voice and in my chest at the same time.

“You don't have to write anything out beforehand,” Maggie says. “You could just speak extemporaneously.”

“Say what?”

“Impromptu?”

I stare at her.

“Off the cuff.”

I blink. “You mean, just wing it when I get up there?”

She nods.

I don't remember agreeing to do this, and I'm not sure why I haven't taken the outs offered to me so far. The thought of getting up in front of people makes my stomach
swim. But the thought of getting up in front of people without knowing what I'm going to say? That makes me feel like I'm being swallowed by a giant wave, getting sucked under and dragged out to sea to drown.

“I'll keep working on it,” I say.

Maggie gives me a wilted smile. “Whichever way you chose.”

I spend the rest of the night on the bed or in the chair trying to think of something—anything—that I could stand up and say to the people who were coming to say goodbye to my dad. I let the memories flood through me. I try to remember the smell of his aftershave, the way he slid his hat on his head, and how his hair stuck up at gravity-defying angles in the morning. I think about all the things he'd taught me—or tried to teach me—and all the times I'd tuned him out or thought I had better things to do. I miss his voice. I try to listen for him, but either he isn't talking or I can't remember the sound of it right now. Sometime late, I go out into the hallway and grab the phone off the stand. I dial his cell number and wait.

“Hi, this is Captain Rich of the
Mighty Mike.
I can't take your call at the moment, so leave me a message and I'll get right back to you.”

There he is: alive and captured electronically. I hang up and call again, and again. Finally, I leave him a message.

“I miss you so much,” I say. “I miss you, and I love you.”

Rocket pushes his nose through the door and jumps up on the bed beside me. His tail thumps on the blanket, and then he rests his head on my chest as I turn off the
phone and sink back onto the pillows. The morning will arrive, and I will stand in front of the people who've come to tell my dad farewell, and I will look like an idiot because I can't figure out one reasonable thing to say about the man who to me was the most awesome guy on the planet. More and more, I wish that I was the one who died.

chapter 12

The morning sun filters through the pines outside the window, as if it has a dimmer switch that someone is slowly turning up. I watch as the dark shadows beyond the glass morph into shapes with meaning. I've only slept about an hour or so, and I lie on the bed, brushing Rocket's fur with my fingers as he snores rhythmically by my side. Sometime in the middle of the night, I gave up trying to write something to say today about Dad, gave up trying to put words to something that I am barely able to understand for myself. I'll just tell Maggie I can't do it. I know she'll understand.

Rocket stretches, his body shuddering as his muscles stretch, then contract, and begin preparing for his day. My hand is covered in his reddish fur that clings to me with static. I try to shake it off, but it flies around briefly and then reattaches to my arm. I chuckle, and Rocket wags his tail, thumping it hard against my leg.

In the kitchen I can hear Maggie moving around and
making coffee. The faucet runs for a moment, then stops. Canisters rattle on the countertop, and I hear the coffee pot clank as she slides it into place. Then I hear her crying, loud sobs that she makes no effort to disguise. I throw my feet over Rocket and to the floor, pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and open the door to my room.

Maggie is braced against the kitchen counter, her shoulders curled and her head lowered. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her faded green bathrobe as I step into the kitchen. She doesn't look up as I wrap my arm around her waist.

“What can I do?” I already know the answer, but the words leave my mouth as the only life preserver I can throw.

Maggie stands still, sobs pouring from her small body. A little puddle of tears is forming on the counter as the coffee drips into the glass pot and fills the room with an earthy aroma. She wipes at her eyes with the other sleeve of her robe but never looks up from the counter, never moves from her braced position. Rocket weaves between our legs, his tail wagging into the cupboard where Maggie stores the plastic wrap and foil.

I keep my arm around her, but I don't pull her. I know she'll let me know when she's ready to move. Rocket sits on her bare feet and looks straight ahead as though he were doing his best to protect her—just like I'm doing.

As the last bit of steam hisses its release from the coffeemaker, Maggie draws a long breath and stands up. She
wipes her face again as she reaches for a mug from the cupboard above her head. She sets it on the counter and then grabs a second mug.

“Cream and sugar?” she asks.

“Just cream,” I say. It's the first time Maggie has ever offered me coffee, but I figure now isn't the best time to make mention of it.

She spoons powdered creamer into each mug and then fills both with the freshly brewed coffee. But she stands firm by the counter, doesn't head for the table, doesn't look at me. She doesn't even push Rocket off her feet or tell him to get out of the way.

I feel disconnected from my skin, like I am moving around and doing things, raising my mug, taking sips of coffee, setting the mug down again, but it's not really me that's doing it. I'm swimming around inside myself, floating in this weird bubble. It's almost like I could close my eyes and everything would just keep happening around me—autopilot Mike.

Maggie finally steps away from the counter and walks to her bedroom like a ghost. The door closes with a soft click. Rocket waits for me to move. I take my cup and walk toward my room. There is a suit hanging in the closet that Chuck helped me pick out in Jacksonville a few days—or years—ago. Time is a confusing, sci-fi kind of thing. My own, personal monkey suit is charcoal gray, with a short-sleeved white shirt. I have a tie, too. It drapes over the shoulder of the jacket, deep blue like the water. Like the day Dad and I took the Robertson charter out.
That feels like months ago, though it's barely a week ago. But so much has changed. The whole world has changed.

I wander down the small hallway to the bathroom and splash a quick shower. I'm not even in there long enough to fog the mirror, so I can see the outer hull of me, searching in the mirror to find the lost part that's swimming inside my skin. I don't make eye contact. I just keep floating on autopilot.

I wrap a towel around my waist and drift down the hallway to my room, plopping onto the edge of the bed. Rocket is sprawled across the middle of it, or I'd stretch out on the blanket myself. There is a hollow place in my solar plexus, like a black hole that threatens to suck me into its darkness. In my mind I hear a voice echoing, “Why? Why? Why?” No answer comes back. The urge to cry swells in my chest, but I fight it down, breathing deep lungfuls of air and sitting straight-backed with the heels of my palms pressed hard into my thighs.

I take the towel from my waist and buff my head with it, running my fingers through to untangle the mess. “The black snarl,” as Dad used to call it.

I put on everything except the jacket and tie, then pick up the brush that's on the small desk by the window. My hair is almost dry, and I decide it's good enough. Nobody is really there because of me, anyway. Except Rachel. The thought of her next to me makes me feel lighter for a second. I imagine her warm skin next to mine, the scent of her hair. But then I remember what the rest of my day involves.

In the kitchen I can hear Rocket pacing back and forth, waiting to be fed. I move from my room, find a can of dog food, and feed him. I wash my hands and then make my way to the sofa and turn on the television, clicking through channels without really looking to see what's on. I settle on some sports show. The noise is a distraction.

The clock reads 8:49
A.M
. I heard Maggie coordinating with Chuck to be here at 9:15 to drive us over to the funeral home. I wander around and find my coffee mug from earlier, think about pouring another cup, change my mind, and rinse my cup instead. I turn off the coffeemaker and walk toward Maggie's room.

“Do you want more coffee?” I ask through the door.

“No thanks.” Her voice is soft and muffled by the barrier.

“I'll turn it off then.”

“Okay.”

I go back to the sofa and sit down. I hear the door to Maggie's room open.

“You look handsome,” Maggie says. She manages a half smile.

She is dressed in a black skirt made of some wrinkly material, a black tank top, and a lacy black sweater. She looks pretty in a sad way.