The Deepest Blue (7 page)

chapter 6

I don't know how long we have been sitting on the sofa, maybe minutes, maybe hours. At some point Maggie's sobbing slows and then subsides into an occasional jagged breath. I find I can take in air now, though each deep inhale creates an ache under my ribs. I loosen my grip around Maggie. She pulls back to look at me, wiping tears from my face, her hands still shaking and her voice soft.

“There are going to be a lot of very difficult moments ahead,” she says, and her voice trembles. “I'm not even sure what we need to do first.”

“Do we need to go to Raleigh?” I ask. “Do we need to pick him up?”

Maggie takes a deep breath. “No, ” she says. “I asked them to transfer him—” her voice breaks on the words, “to transfer the body to the mortuary in Moorehead.”

Questions begin running out of me like blood from a wound. “What do we do now? Do we just sit and wait? Does someone call us? What about the truck? What about this
place? Where will we bury Dad? Where am I going to live?”

Maggie waits with patience, her hand warmly wrapped around mine. When I stop babbling, she takes another deep breath, holds it a moment, lets it go in silence, then speaks. “I don't know all the answers right now, but I'll tell you what I can. When Chuck Marshall left the boat to go to law school, your dad promised to be his first client. When Chuck started his practice, Rich made good on his promise.”

“We need to call Chuck then.”

“I've called him already,” Maggie says. “He's coming over in the morning to help us.”

“Did Dad have a will? I mean, did he specify any of this, like what to do with the boat and the house—or me?” It suddenly dawns on me what I'm asking and what it must sound like. “I don't mean the stuff, Maggie. I don't mean I want his stuff. I just want to know if he made plans.” I blink hard against the pressure welling in my eyes, but it does no good. I can feel the warm, wet trails being drawn on my skin.

Maggie squeezes my hand. “I know, sweetie.” She reaches up and pushes my hair off my forehead. “You're a great kid. And you're scared to death right now because your whole world just changed.”

“Yours did, too.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice cracking, “yeah, it really did.”

“You know why he went to Raleigh, don't you?” I ask. I want her to know. I want her to know how much my dad loved her.

“He went for boat parts and to find a printer for your awesome brochure.” She forces a smile. “He stopped by the aquarium to show me.”

“That's only part of it.” The pain in my chest begins to spread to my solar plexus and into my stomach. “He went to see a jeweler. He went to buy you a ring.”

Her eyes slowly open wider as she begins to figure it out. I manage half a smile, but it quickly falls as I watch Maggie move from understanding to devastation.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I should've kept my big mouth shut.”

Maggie's head drops to her hands.

I can't believe I'm such a moron. My head starts spinning again, and there's a throbbing between my eyes. A wave of nausea builds in my stomach. I bolt from the sofa, race down the hall to the bathroom, and vomit, my body retching and heaving. I sit hard on the tiled floor. I shake and tremble, and I can hear my own voice moaning, though I can't believe that sound is coming from me. I am embarrassed and ashamed at having puked and at the fact I'm sobbing on the floor of the bathroom like a baby.

Maggie comes in and kneels beside me. Her hands are cool on my clammy skin. “It's okay.”

“How can it be okay? How am I going to be okay? My dad is gone. My dad is dead, and I want to be dead, too.” My nose is running, and every inch of my body feels as if I've been stung by bees.

There is a knock at the door, and Maggie makes her way out of the bathroom. I can hear voices, and I try to
pull myself together. I force myself to stand up and look in the mirror of the medicine chest. I look like hell. I blow my nose on a tissue from the sink, dry my face on a towel, then step out into the front room. Maggie is talking with Sheriff Oakes.

“I came when I got word from the mortuary. They want me to escort the body through Jones County and Craven County to Moorehead.”

“That's very kind of you,” Maggie says.

“Can I see him?” I ask.

The sheriff looks at Maggie. “I'll let you know about what time we expect to arrive, but I suspect it will be around six this morning.”

The sheriff tips his hat to Maggie and then extends his hand to me. “I'm so sorry, son. I know what a mighty blow this is for you, but you let us know if we can do anything to help out.”

I take his hand, shake it firmly, and then watch as he descends the stairs.

“Can I see him?” I ask Maggie again.

“Of course you can,” she says. “As soon as he gets to the mortuary, we'll both go to see him.”

I look at the digital clock on the microwave. It reads 12:32
A.M
. “What do we do now?”

“You should try to get some sleep,” Maggie says.

“Yeah, right.”

Maggie smoothes my hair again and then pulls me close. She is warm and smells like rain. “Should we fix some tea?”

I nod.

Maggie heads to the kitchen and starts a pot of water boiling. She gets into the stash of herbal tea she keeps here because Dad only ever buys—bought—black tea. Maggie says black tea makes her jumpy, so she makes flavors like chamomile, or lemon, or peppermint.

My head begins to spin again, and I flop onto the sofa and press my skull between my hands. One thought begins forming at the back of my mind, but soon it starts pounding at the inside of my brain, just behind my left eye.

In the kitchen, the teapot lets out a whistle that builds to a high, shrill cry. I hear a chair scrape on the vinyl floor and footsteps move toward the stove.

“I want to live with you,” I say as Maggie brings in a steaming mug of liquid that smells like lemon and honey.

She sits down beside me with her own mug, takes a cautious sip, then leans back. “Michael, I want that more than anything.” She gives me a soft, barely noticeable smile. “But that may not be up to me.”

I put the mug on the floor and sit up straight. “Why not?” The confusion weaving through me shows up in my voice.

“Because your real mother still has partial custody of you.”

I lean forward. “I haven't seen her since I was five. I haven't heard from her in about four years. She doesn't pay support for me except when she feels like it, and she won't even talk to me. I don't know who she is and she doesn't know me, either, and it can stay that way.”

“All that may be true,” Maggie says. She sets her mug on the floor and leans toward me. “But the fact is that legally she is still your mom. Legally, I'm not anything.”

A sudden urge to move takes hold of my body and makes me want to run out of the house and scream at the sky. I want to race down the street in the dark rain, dive into the waves, and let them drown me. “This can't be real. I can't lose my dad and you, too. I can't. I'd rather die.” I am surprised by how calm my voice sounds.

Maggie scoots across the sofa and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Michael, I promise you will never lose me. No matter what happens, you will never lose me.”

I am empty, hollow, and there are no more tears left in my eyes. The stone I've somehow swallowed is weighing heavy in my belly, threatening to pull me down. I lean against Maggie with all my weight, and she holds me, rubbing my shoulder and touching my face with her smooth hand. I feel like a baby. I should stand up and be a man. I should be comforting Maggie, figuring out what to do next, making whatever arrangements need to be made. I should be calling tourists who've chartered the boat. I should be figuring out their refunds. I should be contacting Jack Sutton to take on the extra charters for us. But right now, all I can do is lean on Maggie and let her love me.

chapter 7

Sunlight streams in through the front door. I am lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket from Dad's bed. My body is way too long for the ratty piece of furniture, and I have to stretch the kinks out of my legs and shoulders.

Then it hits: the lack of sound, the overwhelming emptiness. I sit up straight and my head begins to throb. “Maggie?”

I hear the kitchen chair scrape against the floor. “Right here, Mike.”

I turn and look as Maggie rounds the corner from the kitchen. “Did you sleep?” I ask.

She shakes her head, though I could have seen she hadn't slept just by looking at the bags under her eyes. “Are you hungry? I could make you French toast or some eggs.”

My stomach rolls and churns. “Thanks, but I don't think I could keep it down.” I stand, but I wobble a little, so I sit back down until all my parts decide to work in harmony. “Any word from the sheriff?”

“He pulled up this morning about six thirty to let us know they'd arrived in Moorehead. I didn't want to wake you, so I just went outside to talk to him.”

“So what now? Can we go see Dad?”

Maggie purses her lips, and a nervous look flits across her face. “We need to talk about that.”

I feel off balance again. “What's wrong? Last night you said we could go.”

“I know I did,” she answers, her voice getting softer. “But I'm worried, Mike. Today may not be the best day for this.”

Anger bubbles up in my stomach. “Why not today?” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “He's in Moorehead, waiting, and I want to see him today.”

Maggie lets out a quiet sigh, clasps her hands in front of her, and looks at a spot on the floor. “I want you to really think about this,” she says. “Seeing Rich like this—it won't be easy. It may even be the worst thing we could both do right now.”

“I want to see him today,” I say, my voice firm and steady. I try not to let the anger boil over, because I know Maggie is just looking out for me.

“You're old enough to make the choice,” Maggie says, “but it needs to be an informed choice. You don't have to do this today.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I'll ride my bike over there if I have to.”

Maggie gives me a faltering smile. “You don't have to ride your bike. We can go over anytime you're ready.”

The anger subsides, and my stomach settles. “I need a
shower.” I move down the hall toward the bathroom, stopping in my room to grab fresh clothes.

The hot water pounds against my head and neck, and I brace myself against the wall and let it pummel me. I hear Dad singing in the back of my mind, and I find myself crying again—softly at first, then growing more intense until I have to sit down in the shower with my head in my hands. After a few moments it passes, and I rinse the soap off my body, turn off the water, and grab a towel. I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, like walking in the waves and fighting against the current, my feet being sucked into the sand and making me fight for each step.

I get dressed, throwing yesterday's clothes in the hamper I share—shared—with Dad. Everywhere I look, he's there. I hear his humming as he changed clothes before going to see Maggie. I smell the cheap aftershave I gave him last Christmas. Then I see his Mighty Mike hat hanging on the bedpost in his room. Without thinking, I grab the hat and put it on. It smells like him, like his sweat, but it calms me for some weird reason, so I leave it on.

“Ready when you are,” I tell Maggie.

She is washing out the mugs from last night. She shakes her hands, looks for something to dry them on, then gives up and wipes them on her shorts. “All set,” she says, and I follow her out to her car. It is speckled with dust spots from the rain of the last few days. “I called Chuck and he will meet us there.” We climb into the car and drive in silence.

It takes about thirty minutes to get to the mortuary.
The radio plays country music, which I hate, but I don't say anything. As we pull into the parking lot, Chuck Marshall gets out of his yellow VW. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants and waits for us to park.

“Maggie, I am so, so, sorry,” Chuck says, hugging Maggie and patting her back. “Mike, you too,” he says, and he claps me on the shoulder and then hugs me in a sideways grip. “I'm here for you both. Anything you need.”

“Thanks.” Maggie fights back the tears that are brimming in her eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, because I can't think of anything else to say.

“I've got copies of the paperwork,” Chuck says, pulling a folded stack of papers from his back pocket. “We'll deal with the immediate things today. Then we can set a time to meet later on to talk about all the other issues.”

“Like what?” I ask.

Chuck's lips press tight against his teeth, and then he lets out a puff of air. “Like what to do with the house, the boat, your dad's assets.” He pats my shoulder again. “But that can all be dealt with later.”