The Deepest Blue (25 page)

“Mr. McIntyre, do you have anything further for Michael?” The judge taps her pen on her big desk. She reminds me of Mrs. Sanford, my eighth grade English teacher, with her white hair and soft face but a voice as serious as a 911 operator.

“Just a few questions, Your Honor.”

I shift my focus to the bald guy again. Sweat runs down the side of his face, and he rubs at it with his jacket sleeve. I shift my weight in the chair and lean forward.
Bring it,
I think. I stare at him.

“When your father took you away in the car that night . . .”

“He saved my life, and probably his,” I interrupt before he can finish.

Ms. Young gives me a look of warning, but I don't care.

“Is that what he told you?”

“It's what I
know.
He didn't talk about it much, but there was life with Julia, and life after Julia, and the life after was a million times better.”

“Were you aware that your mother hired a private investigator to find you?”

“I knew she tracked down our address a few years ago so she could send me a picture of her new kid.”

“Were you aware that she spent thousands of dollars just to send you that picture?”

“Then why couldn't she spend thousands of dollars to come and see me herself?”

McIntyre looks a little flustered at this, but he keeps going.

“She spent thousands of dollars of her own money to locate you, to try and have a relationship with you.”

I pause for a second. “You mean she spent thousands of her new husband's dollars to try and make up for those lost years.”

“But were you aware that she had spent . . .”

“No, I wasn't, and why does the money even matter? If it was my dad, he would have spent everything he had, and he would have come himself instead of hiring some second-rate rent-a-cop to find me.” The anger that races through my veins makes me clench my hands in fists, and I can feel the muscles across my shoulders pull tight.

“Mr. Wilson . . .” Judge Crowther says, turning to face me.

My skin is hot, and my heart pounds in my brain.

“I have nothing further, Your Honor.” McIntyre stacks the papers in front of him and heads back to the chair next to Julia's.

“Take your seat, Mr. Wilson.” The judge sounds tired. “We will adjourn for lunch and resume at,” she looks at a watch on her wrist, “1:45 this afternoon.”

“All rise,” the bailiff says. We do. “This court is now recessed to reconvene at 1:45
P.M.
”

The judge leaves through the door behind her desk. The blonde woman and the bailiff follow. I make a beeline for Maggie. My heart pounds like a jackhammer, and I feel the urge to bolt down the hall, out the door, and into the gathering storm.

chapter 20

Ms. Young wraps an arm around my shoulder again. She puts her body between me and the aisle that leads to the only other door, out of the courtroom. We stand that way until we see Julia and McIntyre leave.

“Mike,” Ms. Young says, grabbing my shoulders and turning me toward her, “I know this is difficult. I know you're angry.” She grips my shoulders so tight I can feel her thumbs dig into the flesh under my collarbones. “But you have got to get your emotions under control.”

“This guy is a jerk. Julia's fed him a string of bullshit that stretches across the entire country.”

“And he's going to use your emotions against you, tell the judge that you've been lied to, and that your hostility is a result of being raised by an angry, vengeful father.”

An invisible strap tightens around my chest, and I suck in air and try to fill my lungs.

“If you are not careful,” Ms. Young continues, “you'll cost yourself severely, and you'll wind up with the
opposite result from what you want.” Her face is serious, and her eyes are fixed on a spot in the middle of my forehead like she is trying to drill the words into my brain. “Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

I nod. She drops her hands from my shoulders. “Let's wait here while Mr. Marshall pulls up the car, so we can be certain that Mrs. Mayers is not waiting in the hallway.”

Maggie takes my hand in both of hers and turns me toward her. Her hands are like ice. “You did a great job,” she whispers.

“I'm tired,” I say. “I just want to go home and crawl in my bed and sleep until Christmas.”

Maggie squeezes my hand. “It'll be over soon,” she says. Her voice sounds as tired as mine.

Ms. Young backs into the aisle and leads the way to the door. She pushes it open with one hand; her long, polished nails click on the wooden surface, and she peeks outside to see if it's safe for us to leave. She motions for us to follow. The humid air outside wraps around me, sucking the energy from me and making me even more tired.

Chuck pulls up, and Maggie and I climb into the backseat of the VW. We wait while Ms. Young slides into her white Oldsmobile Cutlass, and then we follow her onto the street. My eyelids slam shut and I lean back into the corner, resting my head against the cool glass of the window. Chuck and Maggie talk in hushed voices I pay no attention to. An image of Rachel forms in my head, her thin body next to mine, her soft skin against my fingertips. I can smell her hair, sweet and clean like the air after
a summer storm. I can hear her breathing quietly and feel the warmth of her against my chest. My whole body aches to be there, next to her, the rest of the world fading away into blackness. I want to call her, to hear her voice.

The Volkswagen jolts and bounces over a speedbump, and I open my eyes to see that we've pulled into the parking lot of Smithfield Barbeque. My stomach churns, and I can't tell if I'm nauseated or hungry, or both. I feel like I'm trapped in the bubble again, moving in slow motion, isolated from reality. I follow Maggie and Chuck into the restaurant, where Ms. Young is placing her order at the counter. I'm floating, not really moving under my own power. I'm trying to think about Rachel, but all I can see now is Julia: her face drawn, her lower lip quivering—not because she regrets what she said, but because I remember. I
remember
!

I give my order to the pimple-faced guy behind the counter, take my soda, and follow Chuck to a table where Ms. Young is sitting. They begin talking about what will happen next, but I don't care anymore. I just want to go home and sleep. I want to go home and call Rachel and Jayd. I close my eyes again and prop up my head in my hands. People talk, trays clatter, kids cry—but all the noises sound like they're wrapped in a towel before it reaches me.

“Mike?”

I look up from between my hands.

Maggie looks at me, her face twisted with concern. “You okay, hon?”

I want to scream about how NOT okay I am, but I nod instead because I'm too tired to yell.

“Are you going to eat?” she asks.

I look down at the plate of shredded pork and hush puppies she pushes toward me. I grab a fork and take a bite, but I can't taste anything. I chew because I know I'm supposed to. I swallow because I know I'm supposed to. Dad loved North Carolina barbeque because its tangy vinegar-based sauce appealed to him more than the sweet tomato-sauce type. He once spent hours roasting a pig in Maggie's backyard, telling me in great detail about all the differences between North Carolina barbeque and every other kind of barbeque. I was so bored then, and now I'd give anything to have him explain it to me again. I swallow to fight the ball rising in my throat, but water floods my eyes despite my efforts.
God, I miss my dad.

Chuck puts a firm hand on my shoulder, squeezes, then takes a sip of his iced tea. Ms. Young continues eating as if nothing is more important in the world—or maybe because eating is how she deals with stress. I don't know. I don't care.

Maggie reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “What can I do?” she asks, and she is so sincere and so kind that the tears work their way out of my eyes and spill on my plate.

I shrug. “I'm just so tired, and I miss my dad so much.” My voice is strained, and it doesn't sound like me at all. “I want to go home.”

Maggie moves her hand away and looks at Chuck.
The dark circles under her eyes remind me for a second that I am not the only person who's having a hard time, even though it feels that way most of the time.

Ms. Young slides a notepad toward me. “Flip to the back page for me,” she says. “Draw me a map, a schematic of the home you lived in with Mrs. Mayers and your father.” She tosses a pen to me and goes back to eating coleslaw. I draw a rectangle for the first floor. I think about my ninth grade drafting teacher, Mr. Craighead, and I make the hash marks for doorways, half-circles for chairs, squares for tables and other furniture. I label each item: a small circle for the ugly green lamp, a rectangle with curved ends for the sofa. I draw a separate rectangle for the upper level, with an accordion shape to show where the stairs were. I separate the rooms with double lines, draw in the furniture for my bedroom, Dad and Julia's room, the bathroom. It feels like it's too small, but it seemed so big to me back then. I add a few details, like where the yard was, the garage, the long driveway, and the edge of the street. After a few minutes, I push the pad back across the table.

Thunder rumbles again. Ms. Young finally looks up from her lunch. “The worst is over,” she says. “The rest is up to Mrs. Mayers and Mr. McIntyre.”

Her words seem empty. I still have to sit there and listen to the crazy woman lie about my dad and what happened and whether or not I can remember what a bitch she was. I still have to listen to the sweaty attorney who put my dad on trial when he's not here to defend
himself, and it's been made very clear to me that I'll get in trouble if I try to defend him.

I pick up my soda and take a few swallows of the cool, sugary drink. It tastes gross, and I nearly gag.

There is a flash of white light outside followed by the crack of thunder, and giant drops of rain begin to pelt the windows. The rain turns to hail that sounds like God is throwing marbles against the glass.

Ms. Young wipes her mouth with a paper napkin, balls it up, then tosses it on her cleaned plate. She glances at her shiny, gold wristwatch. “We still have about forty-five minutes before court begins again. We should leave sooner, though, to be sure we get there before Mrs. Mayers and Mr. McIntyre.” She pushes back her chair a little, folds her hands on the table, and looks across at Chuck. “If it were up to me,” she says, “I'd go for the attack on the father and the regretful mother act.”

Chuck nods. “What do you plan for cross?”

“Diagnosis questions, medication questions. I'll ask her why, if she knew where her son was, she didn't come looking sooner.”

“But won't Mr. McIntyre ask her that?” Maggie asks. “Isn't he trying to show that she tried to find her son?”

“He is, but he isn't being specific, so I'll press for answers. I doubt she'll have any details to offer. She'll say something to the effect that she tried many times, or that she tried and was turned away by Mr. Wilson. I'll ask her for specific details about when, how many times, who she hired.” Ms. Young gives a slight grin. “She won't be able
to provide verifiable information, and she'll say she can't remember important details like names and dates.”

“What do I do?” I say from inside my bubble.

“Nothing. And I mean nothing.” Ms. Young turns to me. “You are going to have to sit on your hands and keep your feelings under wraps, or you'll be asked to leave the courtroom.”

Chuck puts a hand on my shoulder again. “McIntyre is going to say that your dad kept you away from your mother. He's going to say that Rich lied to you about her, planted these memories in your head about how bad she was.”

“But that's crap. He never did that. I remember all of that stuff actually happening. I remember her saying all those things.”

“No one here doubts that,” says Chuck.

A desperate sort of feeling begins surging in my chest again: the feeling that I can't get enough air in my lungs, like I'm drowning and the water is pressing on me and pulling me under.

The rain continues to beat on the windows. The greasy smell of barbeque and deep-fried hush puppies is making my stomach fold up like origami. I look at Ms. Young. “If they're going to crucify my dad and say I'm an idiot, can't we just tell the judge she's crazy?”

“We still have a few special tricks up our sleeve,” Ms. Young says. She looks at Chuck, and a faint twitch flickers at the corners of her mouth.

“Like what?” I ask.

“It's best you don't know right now. It makes the information more valuable and more powerful that way.” Ms. Young breaks into a full smile now. “But when the time comes and we use the information, you'll understand why we couldn't tell you.”

Chuck smiles, Maggie smiles—everyone but me is in on this. I am not happy at the concept that they are keeping secrets from me, but it would take more energy than I have to make an issue of it. A blast of thunder causes all of us to jump. Maggie gives a nervous giggle. A spot behind my left eye begins to throb, and I feel my stomach rolling and churning. I fight the urge to puke all over the table.