The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners (4 page)

The light changed, diffusing the water from aquamarine to cobalt blue. The sky’s color deepened. She walked through the garden, trying to calm down. As she did, she thought of Grosse Pointe, the garden she’d kept at home, the statue of Hermes she’d set in the shady corner of the backyard.

The marble statue of the god had originally come from Capri; Lyra had shipped him home the summer of her Grand Tour after college graduation. The trip, and relics from every city in Europe, had been her mother’s graduation gift.

Edith Nicholson had mapped out Lyra’s life: debut, college, Europe, board membership at the Bellevue Garden Society, marriage. Lyra would be expected to marry someone who would summer in Newport, own an estate near the Nicholsons’ on Bellevue Avenue or on Ocean Drive, have the cabana beside her mother’s at Bailey’s Beach.

Lyra had no doubt that her mother wished that while traveling she’d meet the heir to a British mining fortune, or an Italian manufacturing fortune, a titled-someone with a villa in Tuscany or a château in the Dordogne. But there could be no exotic European love, because there was Taylor Davis. Lyra knew her mother hoped she’d forget him that summer—not because he wasn’t kind, intelligent, or wealthy. Just because, in the eyes of Edith Nicholson, he wasn’t
enough
.

Her mother had arranged for Lyra to be fitted for a Chanel suit in Paris, riding boots in Milan. She’d sent her to a glassblower on Murano, told her to choose the most exquisite chandelier in the studio, for her future home. Lyra had felt she was being trained to buy, to fill her heart with
things
instead of nature, spirit, poetry, ineffable beauty. She felt strangely unmoved by the whole trip—until secretly meeting Taylor in Rome.

She had first met him during their prep school years; it was hard to pinpoint the exact moment they spotted each other. She went to Miss Porter’s, he to Newport Academy. She’d see him when she went home; they had mutual friends, and they would hang out at dances, parties, football games. He always seemed to be around, until the first time she noticed he wasn’t. That was the crazy thing about Taylor; she never really paid attention to him until he wasn’t there.

Taylor. His face filled her mind now: angular features, sharp jaw, deep-set, thoughtful hazel eyes, warm smile. His light brown hair curled when he swam in salt water. He was a serious boy with an easy laugh; everyone said he’d be a lawyer like his father. Lyra liked him a lot, especially the way he seemed so uninterested in her family’s name or money. He talked about his parents as if he really enjoyed them, cared about them. Lyra noticed that.

Midway through Taylor’s senior year of college, his parents died in a car accident. Lyra and several friends from Vassar had headed up to Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, for the Princeton game. Without even admitting it to herself, Lyra was hoping to see Taylor. He was the quarterback, but he didn’t play that day. She heard the news about his parents—driving home late at night, wet leaves, a spinout into oncoming traffic, both killed instantly.

The next day she flew to Detroit. She spent the night in Grosse Pointe, with the parents of a friend from Farmington. On Monday she went to the funeral, at an Anglican church that looked as if it belonged in the English countryside—built of stone, covered with ivy, cool light slanting through blue stained-glass windows.

When Taylor saw her, he seemed surprised, but not half as shocked as Lyra herself was. She had never done anything like that in her life, but something had made her want to be present for him. She knew, deep down, even though they’d never been very close, that he would have done it for her. Seeing Taylor walk down the aisle behind his parents’ coffins, she’d wept and felt his loss as if it were her own.

“Thank you for coming,” he said to her after the blessing at the graveside.

“You’re welcome. I’m so sorry.”

“We were close,” he said, looking over at the grave. “I was so lucky to have them as parents.”

“They must have been wonderful people,” she said.

He nodded, choked up. She saw that he couldn’t speak. He was filled with grief so penetrating it seemed to come from his bones, and the sight of it made her cry.

She and Taylor had never dated, never even taken a walk alone together. But she’d seen something of his goodness already: kindness when a friend of theirs was sick in the hospital, care for a teammate who broke his wrist in a game. She had been drawn to him for his warmth, something she’d never gotten at home. Now, on the worst day of his life, he was tender to her.

“I shouldn’t cry,” she said, taking his handkerchief. “I just wanted to come and be here with you.”

“I’ll never forget it,” he said. “You don’t know what it means to me.”

They began to see each other. On weekends he made her pancakes with raspberry jam instead of maple syrup. She took him into the middle of the football field one night and showed him Capella and the Pleiades. He read the comics on Sunday loved Calvin and Hobbes, wanted her to love it too. She did her best.

Commitment came slowly. Her parents were divorced; she wasn’t sure she believed in marriage, because she’d never seen a way of loving that lasted. Taylor worked as a paralegal, wanting to be sure the law was for him. If so, there’d be law school, then the bar exam. Her mother thought he seemed nice, but she couldn’t comprehend Lyra even contemplating life in Michigan.

On the summer trip after college graduation, Lyra and Taylor planned a rendezvous in Rome. He and his best friends had family money, but they were taking this trip on their own: backpacking, staying in hostels. She didn’t tell her mother and met Taylor in Trastevere, in a romantic old
ostello
overlooking the square. They’d lived on his budget—the hostel, spaghetti, cheap bars, long walks, and lots of espresso—instead of hers: the Hotel Hassler, dinner at La Rosetta, shopping on the Via Veneto.

Her mother’s life felt soulless to Lyra. She swore she’d ditch the fancy ways as soon as she could leave home. Visiting Capri after parting from Taylor, she vowed to have a one-year plan: she’d go home, let Taylor figure out whether the law was right for him or not, then move out of Newport, join him in Michigan.

Her mother wanted one thing, Taylor another. But what about Lyra? On that trip, Capri’s bright sunlight and morning mists surrounded and enchanted her, made her moods swing wildly, made her feel so alive and at home. The Italian island grabbed her, captivated her as no place on earth ever had. The wild beauty, the damp sea haze, the dazzling blue sea, the riotous flowers, and the English and American émigrés both soothed her soul and fed a strange sense of melancholy. This place was hers alone. She could imagine never leaving, avoiding all strife. She’d stood on a cliff not far from where she now lived, and the way she felt outside matched the way she felt inside.

Staring out at the intense blue sea, into the unfathomable depths, she’d felt both sad and peaceful. Pure nature, far from her mother’s expectations. The lonely apartness touched her soul. For the first time in her entire life, Lyra felt as if she belonged, and as if she knew who she was.

She found the statue of Hermes—chipped, darkened with moss and time—at an antiques dealer near the Piazzetta. The piece wasn’t rare or valuable, except to her; she had it shipped home, a souvenir of Italy, and a reminder of the way Capri had made her feel. Time went by. She became more involved with the garden society, and Taylor threw himself into the law.

They broke up. It seemed inevitable. Lyra tried things her mother’s way. Living in Newport, she dated the sons of society mavens. Alexander Baker, a playboy with a year-round tan, a house in Newport and one in Palm Beach, asked her to marry him. In that moment, she realized how crazy it was, living someone else’s life. She’d felt despair closing in.

She shipped Hermes to Taylor with a letter telling him she’d bought the statue during their Italian summer, dreamed of putting it in their garden. She said she knew she’d missed her chance with him but wanted him to have Hermes anyway. Deep inside, she had the sense of taking care of her affairs, tying up loose ends.

Taylor showed up on her doorstep in Newport shortly after he’d received the statue. Sent Alexander packing, looked Lyra in the eye.

“You sent me a statue for the garden,” he said, “but there’s no garden without you. There never was. Please come home with me, Lyra. Marry me.”

And she did, in one of the biggest weddings Newport had ever seen. Taylor might not have been her mother’s first choice, but if Edith’s only daughter was getting married, the wedding would be something the town would never forget. Lyra had felt so bleak with Alexander; she prayed that
he
was the reason, that Newport was the problem, that marrying Taylor would fix everything.

Taylor and Lyra honeymooned in Bermuda, and then they began their life. Lyra had expected love to heal everything, to make her feel as if she was all right. They placed Hermes in their backyard, and Lyra made great plans to cultivate beautiful gardens all around him.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

Vines and dampness and her own demons took over. As time went on, the children were born, and the statue scared Pell. It was as tall as she, covered with moss. The marble god had a distant, yearning look in his eyes. Pell called him “that gone man.” When Lyra asked what she meant, Pell said, “It looks as if he’s gone. He’s not really here.”

Sensitive, prescient child. Did Pell see the same look in her mother’s eyes? Because by that night ten years ago, when she took Pell into the backyard to look through the telescope at the stars, Lyra knew she was leaving the next day.

Leaving home, her husband, her two daughters.

She’d made her choice, and closed the door behind her. More than that: she’d locked and sealed it, thrown away the key. What kind of mother stays in touch with her children only through Christmas and birthday cards, occasional letters? Lyra had tried to save her own skin, thought she could protect everyone from the worst of herself. She had told herself it was better for everyone. What had she done?

Three

T
he next morning, Lyra dressed in a sweater, khakis, and garden clogs and went outside at dawn. She paused for a minute, watching the moon set. Mist hovered over the sea, as if rising from the salt water. She had looked in on Pell a few minutes before and felt shocked to realize her daughter was really here, sleeping in her house. Lyra needed to clear her head, put her hands in the earth, connect with Christina’s good advice.

Dew coated the grass; small cobwebs stretched between green blades. Back in Grosse Pointe, the girls had called them “fairy tablecloths.” Lyra remembered telling Christina about that one day when they were planting rosebushes. Her friend had knelt there in the dirt, listening. This was where Lyra had let herself think about her daughters most: outdoors, in the garden. For some reason, she could bear it here in a way she couldn’t in the house.

Lyra pushed her wheelbarrow through a white gate set between stone posts. She had planted many flower beds on her property.

“That’s how you’ll learn,” Christina once said. “Hibiscus and roses overwhelm each other; larkspur and delphinium are rich and delicate blue; use orange blossoms for scent, lavender for comfort. Finding out what pleases you will help when you start designing gardens for others.”

Her landscape design business had started right here, during conversations with Christina.

Lyra set a small suede cushion on the wet grass; it had been her friend’s, and made her feel close to her now. Kneeling, she used small clippers to cut through a tangle of overgrown coreopsis. She felt cool dew on the tough stems, smelled the freshness of early summer, tasted salt in the morning mist, heard finches singing wildly in the trees. The yellow flowers soothed her spirit. Every color in the garden came with a feeling that touched her soul.

Working intently now, she didn’t hear the footsteps until Pell was standing right beside her.

“Good morning, Mom,” Pell said.

“Hi, Pell,” Lyra said. “You found me.”

“Followed your footsteps in the dew. You’re gardening?”

“Yes,” Lyra said.

“I thought you had a gardener.”

“No, I do it all myself. I garden for others, as well….”

“You mean you work?”

Lyra nodded. She saw the shock in Pell’s face.

“People do work,” Lyra said.

“Well, I know I’m going to,” Pell said. “It’s just that I thought you …”

“Were a spoiled socialite?” Lyra asked.

A slow smile came to Pell’s face. “I didn’t say that,” she said.

“I guess there are a few things we have to learn about each other,” Lyra said.

“Yes, there are,” Pell said.

Lyra pushed herself off her knees, stood beside her daughter.

Christina had been Lyra’s mentor; she’d mothered her in ways her own mother never had. Max was a love, endlessly supportive, but her relationship with him was different. Lyra had gotten pure, hands-on maternal care from her wonderful, beloved neighbor Christina; she missed her friend so much, and felt she needed her right now, to guide her with Pell.

“Who is C.G.?” Pell asked, gesturing at the initials on the worn suede pillow.

“Christina, Max’s wife.”

“She lets you use it?”

“Well, she gave it to me,” Lyra said. “Before she died.”

Pell watched Lyra with solemn eyes, registering the still-present grief.

“I’m sorry,” Pell said. She reached for her mother’s hand, held it warmly. Lyra teared up—she didn’t back away; she let the feeling of closeness grow and knew it was because Christina had taught her how.

“Thank you,” Lyra said. “She was a wonderful friend. I wish you could have known her. She heard a lot about you.”

“You talked about us?” Pell asked.

“I did,” Lyra said.

“When did she die?” Pell asked.

“Two years ago,” Lyra said. “She developed Alzheimer’s … her mind started going, and it was really hard to watch. She was such an amazing woman.”

At that, Pell pulled her hand away. Sharply, and with a sudden, cold look in her eyes. She stared down at the pile of clippings, stems and brown leaves, as if the garden had disappeared and all that was left was detritus, dead flowers.

“What’s the matter?” Lyra asked, reaching for her.

“It was like that with Dad,” Pell said. “After the brain tumor. He’d ask for a glass of sunshine when he meant water. He forgot our names.”

“Oh, Pell …”

“Couldn’t remember my name was Pell, and Lucy’s was Lucy, just couldn’t bring them into his mind. He cried because he’d lost our names.”

Pell’s eyes filled, as if remembering her father’s tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Lyra said.

“You said Lucy was so sweet and bright,” Pell said. “She’s not only that, you know. She’s … a wreck. She lost it after Dad died. We both did. We can’t stand that he’s gone.”

“Oh, Pell,” Lyra said, reaching out.

But Pell didn’t take her hand. She turned fast, strode back through the garden toward the house. Lyra knew Christina would have told her to go after her, but she couldn’t move. She thought of Taylor, the best father in the world, forgetting their daughters’ names. She sank onto the wet grass and covered her eyes.

I couldn’t get away from my mother fast enough. The place is strange, with a crazy, dangerous beauty. Cliffs everywhere. My mother’s house is open but cozy, filled with things I remember from childhood. Comforting, but a reminder of how goodness gets yanked away. And my feelings are out of control.

The grounds are magical, and to find out my mother cares for the gardens herself, instead of hiring someone—an expert, a horticulturist, the Miss Miller of flowers—was the hugest, most wonderful surprise. Then to have her talk about this neighbor Christina, her good friend, an “amazing woman,” with such love and respect, turned me into a snarling beast. I could have ripped out her throat.

I wanted to leave. The island, I mean. True, I’d been there only one full day. Get back to Lucy, my little sister, my other half. Already my emotions had run the gamut. I’d been feeling strong, happy to be with my mother, compassionate about her path in life, the one that had led her away from us and into her expatriate existence. But talking about Christina’s diminished mental capacity made me think of my dad, and I went straight back to being thirteen.

Thirteen, the world’s worst age. Especially when your mother’s gone and your father, whom you loved more than anyone, has just died. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. It’s just that I’d like you to have the whole picture. Our dad had to be both father and mother to me and Lucy. And he did it so well; he never made us feel it was hard on him, or that he’d rather be doing anything else.

My mother left ten years ago, June of the year I turned six. When fathers leave, it’s bad, but society just calls them “deadbeat dads.” When mothers leave, people act as if it’s a crime against nature. There are no words. People don’t talk about it, because it’s so disturbing: not just to the kids, but to anyone who hears about it.

That first year Lucy and I missed her so much. We couldn’t eat or sleep, we developed weird tics. I pulled out my eyelashes and a circle of hair on the top of my head, gave myself a half-dollar-sized bald spot. Lucy sucked her thumb all the time, even at school. She scratched her face. Kids made fun of us both, but we barely noticed. We were too crazed, missing our mother.

Our nanny, Miss Miller, loved our mother, having raised her herself, and must have been brokenhearted in her own way. She told us everything was lovely, our mother was on a wonderful trip. If we cried, she told us to stop, that it would hurt our mother if she could see us. Once I said that was silly, our mother couldn’t see us because she wasn’t there anymore, she’d left us, she didn’t love us. Miss Miller slapped me, then instantly grabbed me in a huge hug, weeping and saying she was sorry but she couldn’t let me say such things about my mother, who loved us more than anything.

Poor Nanny. Talk about a rock and a hard place. The truth was, we knew nothing. My mother never said a definite goodbye. She told my father that she was going to Newport for a week to see my grandmother. I think my father was relieved at first.

See, my mother had had a breakdown that winter. Lying in bed one night, I’d heard her shrieking, “This is killing me!” Death of the soul, don’t you know? A severe depression that had required hospitalization. Months at McLean, in Massachusetts, one of the best places. She finally came out of the hospital, but she wasn’t herself.

That’s what Nanny told us. “Your mother’s not herself.”

Our grandmother pretended it hadn’t happened. She would have preferred to send my mother on a yacht through the Greek Islands than to a locked ward where she might actually get help. I think that’s where the adultery rumor started: it was easier for my grandmother to imagine my mother was in love with another man than to think the marriage was falling apart because of mental problems.

We’d been worried about her all that spring; our father tried to ease our fears, saying it took time, but she was healing. She left for Newport in June; we expected her back by the Fourth of July, but she never came. Panic filled our dreams; Lucy would wake up sobbing for her. And one day at the end of July, my father sat the two of us on his knees.

His eyes: hazel, green, and gold. Filled with more sadness than I’ve ever seen on this earth. Even forgetting our names seemed easier than the day he told us about our mother. How had he decided when to have the talk with us? He must have weighed the benefits of truth against those of letting us continue to hope. Because our anxiety was exploding.

“She loves you both,” he said. “But she has to go away for a while.”

“Go away? She just got home,” I said. She’d been in the hospital for some of the winter and all of the spring. “Is she sick again?”

“No, Pell,” he said. “She’s better. But we want her to stay that way. So she’s going to take care of herself….”

“We’ll take care of her,” I said, feeling stubborn and starting to panic.

“We can’t, not the way she needs,” he said. “She’s going to a special place to live, and we’ll be staying here at home.”

“We live with you, and we live with her,” Lucy said, nervous but still almost-happy the truth not dawning. “We live with you both!”

“That’s how it’s been,” he said.

“How it
is,”
Lucy said stubbornly, wanting him to get it right.

“What special place?” I asked.

“Italy,” he said.

“Who says she has to go there?” I asked.

“The grownups talked about it,” he said. “And decided it was the best idea.”

The grownups! Who
were
these people?

“She’s not coming back,” I said. I shook, quivering uncontrollably. I felt the truth in my fingers, toes, the top of my head, the way I imagine a diviner must sense water. I stared at my father, watching his eyes. All he had to do was contradict me. Just say I was wrong. But he couldn’t. He didn’t have to.

“She has to come home now, right now,” Lucy said, immediately starting to sob. “I want her! I miss her!”

“Lucy, she loves you. She told me—”

“I love her, I need her, get her for me!” Lucy shrieked, a four-year-old with the ferocity of a bobcat.

She tried to squirm off his lap, and I tried to grab her, but my father took care of it. He held us both, so tightly, letting us scream our lungs out, our throats raw and sore. Lucy raked her own face, and I tore at my hair. Our father held us, rocked us, tried to keep us from hurting ourselves more. When he set us down, much later, his shirt was streaked with our blood.

He gave us baths, washed us off. We sat on the back porch and felt a cool breeze coming through the screens. Lucy cried softly, sucking her thumb. The sound of crickets was loud in the trees. That night he tucked us in and slept on the floor of our room, between our twin beds.

He didn’t give us any more details that night. They trickled in, over time, with her letters. By September, she was in Italy. She lived in a place that reminded her of Newport. She could see the ocean from her house. There were gray mists on the shore. We were shocked, beside ourselves in a whole new way. Our mother had moved to Europe, a different continent. An ocean separated us from her. Our longing made us sick. We had fevers, we threw up.