The Deepest Blue (16 page)

“You look really nice.” I hope it's the right thing to say.

Car tires crunch on the gravel drive. Maggie moves to the door. Rocket starts barking. “Hush, dog,” she says. He stands by her side, tail sweeping back and forth. Maggie opens the door. I stand, because I think I'm supposed to.

“Ms. Delaney, I'm so sorry for your loss.” An elderly
woman stands in the doorway, a casserole dish in her hands.

“Thank you so kindly, Mrs. Palmer. Please, come in,” Maggie says.

The lady squeezes in past Rocket and heads directly to the kitchen where she deposits the dish on the counter. “I can't stay long, but I wanted to bring you some supper for later. I know you won't feel much like fixing things on your own.”

She moves back to the door and pauses to give Maggie a big hug.

“I appreciate this very much,” Maggie says.

The old lady looks at me. “Young man, your daddy was a fine gentleman, and I know he is right proud of you. I'll be keeping you both in my prayers.”

“Thanks,” I say, nodding. It's an autopilot move.

As quickly as she came, the lady leaves.

“Volunteer at the aquarium,” Maggie says by way of explanation. She shuts the door, and the phone begins to ring.

“I'll get it.” I head to the small table near the hallway. “Hello.”

Chuck's voice comes over the line. “Hey, Mike, how you holdin' up?”

“Uh, well, you know . . .”

“I'm almost there but wanted to give you guys a call before I just showed up at the door, make sure you were awake and all.”

“We got up early.” It sounds completely stupid. Why
would Chuck care what time we got up?

Maggie has moved to the kitchen and is rinsing her coffee mug.

“Tell Maggie I'll be there in fifteen.”

“Okay.” I hang up the phone. “Chuck's on his way,” I say.

Maggie is drying the two mugs and returning them to the cabinet. She nods but doesn't say a word. I hear her take a deep breath and let it out in a long rush of air. A tightness cinches my chest because I know she is fighting tears—and now I am, too.

Dad would have known what to say to her. He would have had the words to make her believe everything would work out okay. I can't even make myself believe it. I'm pretty much worthless to her right now.

“You need help with that tie?” Maggie asks. “I know it's not a usual part of your wardrobe.”

I head to the bedroom and return with the deep blue tie. It's silk and shimmers like the water on a calm afternoon. I know how to tie it, but I let Maggie do it for me because I think she needs to feel useful.

“There,” she says, patting the knot she just slid to my throat. “You look like a right presentable young gentleman.”

“Maybe I'll fool a few people,” I say.

Maggie smiles a genuine smile. “Not me.” She looks up at me, gives me a wink, then wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes me. I hug her just as hard.

We stand in the center of the room like that, hugging each other and not wanting Chuck to show up, not wanting the phone to ring, not wanting any of this to be true.
But the sound of shell-gravel being chewed by tires distracts us from the moment. Maggie pulls away, and I wander to my room to get my jacket.

We ride in silence to the funeral home in Moorehead. Maggie leans her head against the car door and occasionally lets out a sigh. Chuck has his country music station dialed on the radio. I watch the scenery go past the window, marking memories of Dad as we pass. The Food Lion where we did our shopping. The beach turn-off where he taught me to surf. The street to our house. The bridge we drove over nearly every day to get to the docks. All of it I shared with him, and none of it will I ever share with him again. The empty ache flooding my body makes it hard for me to think straight. My brain swims in memories and voices. I try to organize my thoughts, quiet my head. A shooting pain strikes above my left eye, sending a searing shock down my neck.

Chuck pulls the car into the parking lot of the funeral home, and I leap out of the tiny backseat of the VW and run. This morning's coffee leaps out of my stomach, and I spray it across an empty parking space. I try to push the tie out of the way to avoid splash damage. Maggie is by my side in a flash.

“It's okay,” she whispers to me, rubbing my shoulders with one hand while she grips my arm firmly with the other.

The air is still and thick. Cicadas buzz in the trees. My head throbs, and I'm afraid I may hurl again.

“Here,” says Chuck. He hands me a bottle of water and a yellow paper napkin from Wendy's.

“Take your time. Catch your breath,” Maggie says, still holding my arm.

The shade from the trees is minimal, and the sun is pounding down on us. I feel the heat pressing on my skin like a wetsuit. “I can't—” I start to say, but I don't finish.

Sobs boil up from somewhere in my gut, and I can feel the tears rolling down my face. I'm hunched over, staring at asphalt between my feet, crying and sweating and feeling like I want to die. I can hear Maggie trying to comfort me, telling Chuck to get a cool towel from inside, but the noise in my head tries to drown her voice. All I want is to take off running again, get to the boat, and take it out to the water where it is the deepest blue. I want to dive in and let the water wrap around me, let it pull me under. I want to sink into the darkest part where it's cold, silent.

“Let it out,” Maggie says. Her voice sneaks into the cracks of my thoughts.

I cry and yell and cry some more. Finally, the wave passes, the pain in my head begins to ease. I wipe my face and my mouth with the napkin. Chuck emerges from the building with a white towel that he hands to Maggie. She wipes my face with it. It's cool, damp.

“Try some water,” she says.

I crack the seal on the lid of the bottle and sip. It's lukewarm but better than the bitter taste of bile and acrid coffee.

“You okay?” Chuck asks with genuine concern on his face.

I nod.

“Go ahead, Chuck,” Maggie says. “We'll be right behind you.”

Chuck heads back into the funeral home. He pauses in the shaded entrance and looks toward us. Maggie waves him in.

“We'll get through this,” she says with confidence. “We can both get through this.”

“I know.” My voice isn't quite as confident as hers. I'm not really sure I believe what either one of us is saying.

chapter 13

The room is already filling with people. I recognize most of them. Jack Sutton from the
Lolly Gag
is sitting about five rows from the front, and Frank, his first mate, is a row behind him. I look around for Rachel, but she isn't here yet. A large table has been centered at the front of the room. It's draped with a white cloth and surrounded by flower arrangements. There are pictures of Dad on the table in frames of all different sizes. Some of them are from Maggie's house that I didn't notice had gone missing. Some are pictures of Dad with people from the community. There is an old photo of me and him on the
Mighty Mike
when I was about eight; Dad used to keep that in his bedroom. Maggie must have gotten it or sent Chuck for it. There is the brass vase that we picked out what feels like a hundred years ago in the middle of the table, big and more heavy looking than I remember.

“I'm so sorry, Mike,” says Mrs. Clark. She is an elderly lady that Dad did handyman stuff for. She takes my hand
in her soft grip and squeezes. “If I can do anything, just anything, you let me know.”

I nod. She releases my hand and starts walking toward Maggie.

“Mike,” says a voice behind me. I turn.

“Jayden, man, I'm glad to see you.”

He reaches out to shake my hand, but I grab him around the shoulders. He doesn't back off but gives me a firm pat on my back. His hair is slicked back and looks darker than its usual light brown. He is dressed in a black suit with a purple tie that I think I recognize from prom.

“I'm really sorry, man.”

I start to say something, but I'm not sure how to respond. “This totally sucks,” I finally say. “There are no other words for this.” The tears begin to well up in my eyes. “I can't believe he's really gone. I can't believe he's not here.” My voice cracks a little.

Jayden looks at his feet. “I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything. I'm just really glad you got here.”

Jayden looks up at me. “Rachel here?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But she said she's coming.” I take a quick look around the room to make sure she hasn't walked in.

Chuck comes up beside me. “We're going to have a little family gathering before the service,” he says. “In about five minutes you need to head over that way.” He points to a small curtained area just off the main room.

I nod, but I don't know what we could be gathering for.

“So what happens after this?” Jayden asks.

“I think some of the ladies that work with Maggie are fixing lunch at St. John's.”

Jayden grimaces. “No, I mean
after
after. Where're you gonna live?”

“Oh,” I say.
“That
after.” I take a long breath. “I'm gonna live with Maggie in my dad's house.” The words sort of hit me as I realize we haven't really made any firm plans, we sort of talked about it over pizza. That would probably be the next step—after today, that is.

Jayden nods. “I guess that makes sense.” He looks around. “What about the boat?”

“I have no idea. It hasn't even been a week. We haven't figured everything out yet.” My voice comes out a little more harshly than I mean it to. Jayden backs up a step.

“Sorry,” he says. He isn't mad. I think he just doesn't know what to say or how to act.
Welcome to my world.

“No, dude, it's okay. It's just kind of overwhelming to think about it all.”

“For sure.”

I see Chuck waving me over to the side room. “I guess I have to go do the ‘family gathering' thing.”

“Yeah. I'll catch up to you after everything, okay?” Jayden grabs hold of my arm. “I'm just really sorry. I'm here for you, okay?” Jayden gives me a smile like I just biffed on my surfboard and I should get up and try again. I try to smile back, but only half my face cooperates. I take a few steps away, then turn and give him a sort of weak wave as I head toward Chuck and Maggie.

“I guess we're all here now,” Maggie says to a tall man in a black suit. His thin, gray hair is combed over his mostly bald head. He is skinny, but his face is warm and sincere.

“We'll start with a brief prayer,” says the man. I notice he's wearing a name tag from the funeral home: M
R.
S
TROUD
.

He says a very quick prayer to which we all say “Amen.”

“Did you get a copy of the program?” Maggie asks, holding a folded piece of paper out to me. I take the paper. On the front is a picture of a large tree near a river. Inside is a schedule of the service: someone is playing the organ, Chuck is speaking, everyone is supposed to sing a hymn. Then I'm supposed to speak.

“If you'll follow me,” says Mr. Stroud. The organ is playing something slow and sedate. We all follow him and take seats in the front row. Mr. Stroud stands at a podium. The microphone squeals as he adjusts it.

I look around for Rachel, but I can't turn all the way around, so I don't know if she made it or not. The room feels chilly, fans spinning overhead and cool air spilling from vents near the floor. My jacket feels hot and binding, and the tie around my neck threatens to choke me. I reach up and hook a finger under the knot to loosen it just a little, and then I undo the top button of my shirt.

“Friends and family of Richard Wilson, we thank you for joining us today to honor and remember Richard and to celebrate his life.” Mr. Stroud shuffles some papers on
the podium. “Richard Leland Wilson, age forty-five, was called from this life on Wednesday, June 18. He was born and raised in Moorehead, North Carolina, lived briefly in Seattle, Washington, and most recently resided in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. He was married to Julia Hanson, but later divorced. He is survived by his son Michael and his fiancé Margaret Delaney.”

I look at Maggie. Margaret doesn't fit her. The word “fiancée” hits me. She wasn't—isn't—really, but she would have been. She should have been. She has her hands clasped in her lap, her knuckles showing white against the dark fabric of her skirt. Her eyes are glued to Mr. Stroud, her lips pressed together as though she is afraid of saying something inappropriate.

The organ begins playing some song that sounds like it belongs in a church. The organist is a thin woman with silver hair. She gently presses the organ keys. I notice there is no sheet music in front of her, and she plays with her eyes closed as though she can see the music on the inside of her eyelids. When she finishes, Chuck stands and heads to the podium.