The Deep End of the Sea (29 page)

“How much money do I have?”

Bernie looks up from the stew she’s cooking. “Hasn’t anybody ever told you it’s gauche to talk about money?”

I’ve just finished an hour of yoga out in the living room; during downward dog position, I had an epiphany. Or rather, I remembered something that used to be important but seemed to fall by the wayside over the last few months. It’s time I brought it back. I gather my sweaty hair and clip it up before I lean against the counter next to her. “Isn’t that more applicable to talking about other people’s money? I’m asking about my own. How much do I have?”

“Am I your banker?” Her milky eyes narrow. “Why are you asking about your funds? Planning on spending a bunch?”

“Actually,” I tell her, sneaking a carrot off the cutting board, “yes. I am.”

She swats at my hand. “What do you need now?

To balance my karmic scales
. Nearly seventy people died because of me. I can’t bring them back—oh, sweet heavens, how wonderful would it be if I could. I even asked Jocko about it recently, but he was firm in his response: nobody escapes death to return to the living, not if it was his or her time to leave. So I have red in my ledger, and I’m ready to literally pay my debts. “I want to make some donations.”

She taps the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and lays it down on the counter. “Hmph. It’s about time you got your head out of your ass, missy.”

I’m not insulted. Rather, something warm stirs inside me as I soak in her backhanded compliment. “I have a list of favorites that I haven’t given to in several months. Think we can go to the bank and make some transfers tomorrow?”

She shuffles over to the cabinet where the plates and bowls are. I earn a well-placed insult by snatching them out of her hand. “I suppose we can.”

I turn toward the table to find Jocko sitting at it. I start, but at least I no longer drop the plates like I did the first dozen times he’s surprised me like this. “You are looking well, Maddy.”

Bernie hands me another set of dishes. His sudden appearances and disappearances never bother her. “Thanks. Any word from our mutual friends?”

It’s the same question I ask him every day when I see him. And each time, the answer is the same—an enigmatic smile that tells me absolutely nothing. “It was a busy day. I had little time for meetings.”

Of course he didn’t. I bite back my frustration and set his plate in front of him. Nearly two months into my exile in Wyoming, and I’m still in limbo. I can control my body, I can control my money, but I cannot control the outcome of a petition in front of the Assembly—if, of course, it hasn’t already been decided.

If it has ...

Then this is no longer temporary exile. This is it. This is my life.

“I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy, Maddy. I must admit, I was a bit worried early on when Bernadette informed me you spent much time lamenting your situation, but it appears you’ve turned a corner.” Jocko drapes the napkin on his lap, his flat eyes challenging me to contradict his assessment.

Which I won’t. Complaining does me no good. It never has, especially to Death.

Bernie passes me his bowl of stew so I can set it in front of him. “I am worried that you have isolated yourself, though. You ought to be out making friends. Exploring your options.”

Friends. All of my friends have been taken from me. My best friend ... I took a chance, a leap of faith, and I allowed myself to fall in love with him. And now he’s back in Olympus, and I’m here, and the distance between us is greater than any sea Poseidon could create. “I’m doing great!” I force myself to sound happy. “Granny and I get out of the house everyday, I’ll have you know.”

“You go grocery shopping,” he says dryly. “That is hardly what I mean.”

I pour him a glass of wine. “I go to the dojo, too.” I snap my fingers. “We also go to lunch with friends several times a week!”

He gives Bernadette a rueful smile. She shrugs. To me, he says, “What about friends your own age?”

I pour Bernie a glass, then one for myself. “Well, if you point me in the vicinity of the multiple millennials, I will be more than happy to introduce myself.”

He sighs. “Maddy ...”

It’s my turn to give him a look that serves as a challenge.

“I am simply saying that it might be healthy for you to go out and meet like-minded people. Join some clubs. Volunteer. Perhaps seek out some support groups. Go out to dinner, the movies—”

“Like a date?” I hate that I’ve snapped at him, but
really
. “Are you saying you want me to go find ...” I’m furious. “Some
person
and go on a stereotypical
date
?”

He merely stares at me with that mild look that could either be supportive or disapproving. I glare back. And then I glare at Bernie. She’s radically unapologetic, like always.

My fingers clench around the wine glass stem. “Do you know something I don’t know?”

Bernie reaches out her hand toward me, but I jerk out of her reach. “Maddy—”

“Do you guys know something? Was there a ruling?”

Silence.

My breath catches in my throat. “There was, wasn’t there?”

More silence.

Is the room spinning? “Did ... did he win?”

Bernie says in an uncharacteristically soft voice, “Maddy, we—”

I stand up; wine sloshes out of my glass. “I’m going for a run.” I’m at the door when Bernie unhelpfully points out it’s dark outside.

I let the door slam behind me. Neither follows for once.

Bernadette is sitting on my bed when I come back an hour and a half later. It’s my second run of the day, so my muscles are burning. All I want to do is soak in the shower, but here she is, clearly wanting to have a discussion. I bypass her to head straight to my closet. “Save it.”

Her cane thumps against the bed.

It isn’t like I haven’t thought about what Poseidon’s victory would mean a thousand times already. During tonight’s run, it was no different. As much as I tried to push the thoughts out and onto the tarmac below me, I couldn’t.
I’ll never see Hermes again
became the ultimate in earworms.

It became hard to breathe. It’s still hard to breathe.

“Child ...”

I yank my pajamas off a hook. “I don’t want to talk about this with you right now.”

“Then shut your mouth and listen. I should not be saying this to you right now, but ...” She stands up and shuffles over to where I am. “I do not believe Jocko has heard one way or another about any kind of verdict.”

Right.

“I don’t know how much you know about Jocko and what he does. He is, how can I put this ... a free agent amongst the different ...” She waves her hands around, motioning to the sky. “He owes no allegiance to any group, which is why he was selected to be your guardian. That said, it is my understanding that once he accepted the deal certain,”—she waves her hand upwards again—“
people
made with him, he took those terms seriously. A breech of contract on either side could lead to serious consequences.”

My anger fades into curiosity. This is the most I’ve heard about Jocko and what he does since ... well, ever. “What does that mean?”

“That I cannot tell you. The deal concerning you was struck between Jocko and a certain two ... friends. The terms were not made common knowledge. Now, child—if he is silent, if he does not answer your questions, it is because he is unable to. You should not make assumptions one way or another.” She stands up and stretches her back. “You overreacted tonight, missy. Plus, Jocko does not understand a girl’s angst. He left completely baffled as to why you were upset. He thought it might be indigestion, although he thought the stew delicious.”

I sigh and slump back against my dresser. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just ...”

She waits patiently, her cane tapping on the hardwood floors.

“I’m trying.” I laugh quietly. Stars above, I am a mess. I’ve tried so hard in the last few months to mold myself into something strong, but here I am, emotionally weak. “I lived by myself for thousands of years. I had all of one friend until the last fifty years. Then I made another—just one more, mind you. When I was changed back ...” I shake my head. “I was like a fish out of water. I still am. I’m trying, Granny. But right now, I’ve lost not only the only two friends I’ve ever had, but also the love of my life.”

One of her hands comes up to gently pat my shoulder.

“It’s stupid, right?” Tears blur my vision. “I have more important things to think about than just how much I miss him, right?”

“Love is never stupid.”

I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m trying so hard to be in control. I just need ... I need to be in control of something in my life.”

“You are, child.” Her voice is surprisingly kind. “Do you not see this gift you were given? You could have had all your choices stripped away from you. But you are here instead. You have been given a second chance to do what you will with your life.”

What must she think of me right now, falling apart after two month’s worth of progress? “I know. I know. I’m being silly. I’m totally aware that I have an opportunity rarely afforded to others. It’s ... it’s just ...”

She surprises me for a second time tonight by stepping forward and wrapping her arms around me. I lean into her embrace—she smells strongly of floral perfume and to a lesser extent stew, but rather than be off-putting, it’s reassuring. Maybe this is what a true grandmother might feel like: warm, accepting, and understanding.

My starved heart soaks in every second of being in her arms.

“It’s just,” she says, rubbing my back, “you know what true love feels like.”

And that’s the problem. Because I’m greedy—I want control, I want my second chance, and I want my love.

There’s a flyer on the dining room table—sherbet orange and rectangular, with black lettering.
Support Group
, it says.
Survivors of Rape and Sexual Assault
. An address is given along with dates and times already circled with blue ink; a building dedicated toward community safety located in Jackson proper houses the meeting. I stare at the single sheet of paper for a long time, at the picture below the capitalized words declaring a person’s greatest shame: there are women there, and men, and they are looking up at me with flat mouths and expectant eyes.

It shakes me to my core. Did Bernie leave this here while I slept? Jocko?

I go running without Bernie, who, from what I can tell, is still slumbering. I had trouble sleeping last night and need my head cleared. But the more my feet pound the pavement, the less I’m able to ease into the lulling zone that running has afforded me these last couple months. I want silence in my head, but all I can hear is
survivors of rape and sexual assault
. Familiar yet unwanted frustration builds up in me—not only for my own situation, in which I was raped and then nearly kidnapped during a second assault that would have, no doubt, ended in yet another rape, but for the countless others who have also suffered similar fates. Women, men, children, old, young, straight, gay ... violence is not picky when it comes to its victims. And it’s distressing, thinking of these other people, faceless yet dear to me. We are part of a group no sane person wants to join, and yet we are members anyway. We come from every walk of life, of every race and religion. There is no way to exit the group once we’ve joined; all we can do is try not to let it define us. I’ve tried to put two thousand years between me and what happened, yet it’s still here. I lied to myself for ages, desperate to believe the lies, insisting I’ve moved on, and yet each time I remember that bastard’s hands on me, his hand across my mouth as he pushed himself in me, my stomach turns to knots. I told myself it no longer mattered. I told myself, even as I fell in love and learned that sex could be wonderful and not painful, that if I just ignored it long enough, it would go away. Yet, time, the great official healer of ails, wasn’t enough.

Hermes was right after all.

I need to be strong enough to finally confront what Poseidon did to me. Truly confront it and own that it happened to me. And then I have to be strong enough to finally move past it.