The Deepest Blue (8 page)

The early morning sun is heating the pavement, and a bead of sweat is gliding down my spine. “I won't go live with Julia. She's not my mom. I want to live with Maggie.”

Chuck rocks back on his heels, looks at Maggie, bounces on the balls of his feet, then looks at me. “Okay, well, we don't have to deal with that today. Let's just take care of today, and then we can work the rest of this out later.”

I sigh and blow at the hair that has wilted onto my face from under the hat. “Can we just get this over then?”

“Mike, this is going to be hard. If you're not ready to go in here yet, that's okay.” Maggie looks at me with warm eyes, but her knuckles are white where she grips her pocketbook.

I don't know what I'm going to see. I've never had anyone close to me die, so I don't have any idea what to expect. I've never seen a real dead body before. Trying to imagine my dad this way—lifeless—I don't know if I can handle this, even with Maggie there. I don't know if I want this to be the last picture of my dad I have in my head. But I want to see him, and that feels more important than anything right now. I stare at the worn, leather sandals on my feet. After a moment, I tense the muscles in my solar plexus, relax them, and take a deep breath. “I'm ready,” I say.

The mortuary is a low building that is dimly lit inside. The carpet is thick, and the whole place smells musty, like a library or a historical building you visit on school field trips. We are met inside the door by a balding man in a pressed, navy blue suit. He talks in soft tones. His name badge reads M
R
. S
MOOT
.

“We are so sorry for your loss. Of course, our purpose is to make this difficult time of transition just a bit easier for you all.” He leads us to a small room with a large table made of dark wood. It is surrounded by lots of heavy, wooden chairs. There is a big, silver pitcher on the table and a stack of plastic cups. The pitcher sweats beads of cool water, leaving a puddle on the plastic tray it's on.

The word “easier” sounds like a joke to me. None of this is going to be easy.

Chuck says that Dad wanted to be cremated. That's news to me, but then why would Dad ever talk to me about dying? “He stated in his will that he wanted a small, private service. Family and friends.”

Mr. Smoot nods, checks something off on a notepad, and scribbles some notes. He says something about facilities and transportation. My head is swimming again.

Chuck says something about the obituary, and Maggie gives him an answer. Blood is pounding in my ears. My eyes want to roll back into my head to see the underside of my skull.

The bald guy looks at me and Maggie. “Would you like to select an urn for the remains?”

My eyes refocus. I look at the man.

Maggie puts her hand on my arm. “After he's cremated, we keep the ashes, or we can bury them, but we need to find a jar or a box that they'll be safe in until we decide what to do.”

That's a strange concept to me. I've heard of people doing this, but it's just weird having to face this kind of choice.

“You don't have to do this if you don't feel up to it,” Chuck says.

I look at Maggie, and it seems like she doesn't want to do this alone. “I'll go,” I say, and I follow everyone into a larger room filled with different types of caskets and containers that look like vases or jars with lids or even jewelry boxes. Some are wooden boxes with pictures of trees or fish or roses laser-etched into them. Some are metal
and shaped like antiques you'd see at a museum. We wander around looking at each of them. I imagine Dad being burned to ash and poured into a jar, and the thought makes my heart race. I just want to leave now, but I tell myself to suck it up and be strong.

It is so quiet that I can hear my own heart beating, and I realize how fast it's going. I take a deep breath and then another, until my heart rate slows a little.

Maggie says something to Chuck in a voice so soft I can't hear her. Chuck nods his head.

“I like this one,” I say, pointing to a vase and lid that are polished brass, shaped like something from China. I put my hand on it and touch the cool surface. It's a simple design, but it's nice.

“I like this one, too,” Maggie says. “I think Rich would like it.”

We head back to the smaller room. The bald guy pours water for us and then produces a pile of papers. He gives Maggie a pen and shows her where she needs to initial for this, sign for that.

“Chuck,” Maggie says, “I think you have to do this.”

The bald guy looks surprised. “Aren't you his wife?”

“No.” Maggie looks at him with a sad smile.

“She was supposed to be,” I say. “I mean, he went to buy her a ring, they just didn't have time to do it. Get married, I mean.” I sound like a little kid, so I sit back in the chair with my mouth shut.

Maggie looks at me, and her smile wilts a little at the corners. “But I don't have any legal standing here. I can't
sign anything because I wasn't added to the will.”

I look at Chuck. He nods.

Mr. Smoot looks toward me.

“I can't sign anything. I'm only sixteen. Well, almost sixteen.”

“That's why your father's attorney is here,” Maggie says. “Chuck's the executor. He's responsible for signing any legal documents.”

“Don't worry, Mike. I'm not going to do anything without talking to you and Maggie first.” He nods at the stack of papers the bald guy is pushing toward him. “So if you say no, I don't sign anything.”

We go through the paperwork one page at a time. Chuck reads it, waits for Maggie and me to agree, then initials it. He signs the last page and hands the stack back to Mr. Smoot. We pick a date and time for the service: Monday, 11:00
A.M
., five days from now. Maggie asks me some more questions, but I've stopped listening, so I just nod to the question mark at the end of her sentences.

After what seems like forever, the bald guy leaves and then comes back with a folder he gives to Maggie.

“You may find some of this information helpful. And of course, we are always here to help in any way we can.”

“Can we see Dad now?” I ask, thinking I'm ready to face this. The stone in my stomach is pulling me back, but I want to see him. I want to see him, but I'm scared. I'm really scared.

Maggie and Chuck exchange a glance. “Mike, you might not want to do this right now,” she says. “This may
not be how you want to remember your dad.”

Anger hits me like someone elbowed me in the ribs. “I want to,” I say, but my words don't sound as strong as I'd hoped they would.

Chuck watches me closely. “We can come back later,” he says.

I look at Mr. Smoot. “Can I see him? Now?” I say before I lose my nerve.

“You may,” says Mr. Smoot, “but please remember that we haven't performed any restorative work on him.” He looks at the ground for a moment and then looks right at me. “I understand it was a car accident. You need to know that he is very bruised, and he won't look exactly like the man you knew.”

Maggie draws a very shaky breath and takes my hand. Chuck follows behind us. The bald guy leads us down the hallway and through a swinging door. The room is as cold as the walk-in cooler at the fish market, and the light is almost blue, lending to a creepy feeling that causes my heart rate to speed up. Lying on what looks like a hospital bed is a body, wrapped like a mummy in a white sheet and blanket. I want to turn around, I want to run out into the heat of the morning, but I stay close to Maggie.

Maggie steps closer to me. We are still holding tight to each other's hands. In the middle of the blanket is a face, Dad's face. It is pale, a grayish color. There is a large gash that angles from the bridge of his nose, across his forehead, and back across his scalp. His eyes are closed, but the lid of his right eye is dark blue and purple. His nose
takes a sharp turn about halfway down the bridge. His lips are closed, and at one corner of his mouth are a few dried specks of blood.

Maggie begins crying, making quiet noises. Chuck moves up beside her. She drops my hand and buries her face in his chest. But I can't stop staring at this body. It resembles my dad: the dark hair with flecks of gray, the strong chin, but that is not my dad. I take another step closer. I reach out and put my hand against his cheek. It is ice cold and feels firm to my touch, not soft and warm like my dad's face should feel.

“Mike . . .” Maggie says in a hushed voice.

I don't move, my hand still resting on his cheek. “Can I be alone?” I ask.

Maggie hesitates a minute beside me, then I hear footsteps and the door swinging open and shut.

I look at the bruises and the huge slash across his face.
Somebody did this to you,
I think.
I'm so pissed off that they did this, and I don't even know who I'm pissed at. I want the idiot who caused this. I want him in jail for this. I want him dead.
I see my dad, but he isn't my dad anymore, and while I don't feel scared by how he looks, I feel scared anyway.

This is a nightmare,
I think.
A real one. Only I'm awake, and there is nobody who can tell me it will be all right.
My own voice echoes in my head. I'm shaking from the cold, from the emptiness. I have to get out of this room, but I can't pull myself away. My hands are balled into fists. I want to pound the walls and scream.

Warm fingers touch my arms. “Let it out,” Maggie whispers. “Be mad as hell that he's gone. Be mad as hell that this happened. You have the right.”

A groan forms in the pit of my stomach. It forces its way up, crawling out of my gut and emerging as a cry that doesn't sound like it comes from me. I drop to my knees, my head level with the edge of the bed and the white blanket. Maggie kneels beside me. I wail. I pound the floor with my fists until they ache and ask over and over, “Why?” Maggie rubs my back with a thin hand. I imagine my dad's hand, big and strong, patting my back or squeezing my knee. I hear his voice in my head telling me “I'm impressed, son,” or “I got it under control,” and I hear his deep laugh. It echoes in my head and then fades.

Maggie presses close to me. She sobs silently against my shoulder. We wait until the hurt subsides enough to move.

We walk outside into the bright sun. Chuck waits by the VW. “You okay, pal?”

I nod, squinting my tired eyes against the shocking light.

“Give me a call tomorrow, and we'll go from there.”

Maggie hugs him. “I'll get you that list of names and numbers.”

Chuck climbs into his car and pulls away. We get into Maggie's car.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Not really.”

“How about we stop for shrimp burgers and fries, take
it back to my place, and let Rocket eat anything we don't.”

“Yeah, okay.” I'm really not hungry, but I guess I should probably eat, and seeing Rocket sounds good.

We get our order at the Rusty Bucket: two shrimp burgers, two large fries, two large sodas, and a small burger for Rocket.

Maggie opens the door, and Rocket waits patiently for us to come in. He doesn't bark his greeting, but his tail sweeps the floor with a low-key enthusiasm.

“What's with him?” I ask, confused by the dog's silence.

“He knows something's wrong.”

Maggie sets the paper bags with our food on the table. I put the drinks down and then scratch the dog behind his ears. He nuzzles my hand.

“Hey, boy.” I lean down, and he licks my cheeks, jumps up, and puts his paws on my chest. I move away, and he follows on my heels. Inside the bag, I locate the small burger. “Want a treat?” I ask, unwrapping the yellow paper and holding out the burger. He wolfs it down in three bites and then looks at me as if I might have another one for him.

“Rocket, leave Mike alone.” Maggie sits at the table and pulls out our lunch.

I check the time on the clock hanging above her sink. 1:45
P.M
. “It's late.”

“Time flies . . .” Maggie doesn't finish the sentence.

I unwrap my burger and take a huge bite. Hunger takes over, and I chow down my lunch almost as fast as Rocket did.

“If you're still hungry, there's chicken in the fridge,” Maggie says.

“I'm good.” Rocket rests his chin on my knee. Suddenly I realize I'm feeling sick—too much food on an empty stomach. I hope I don't have to throw up again. I've done enough of that for a while. I take a small sip of my drink, hoping it will help to settle the upset.

Maggie takes a drink of her soda. “Do you want to stay here tonight, or would you like me to come and stay with you?”

I think about being alone at home, and the idea weirds me out a little. “Can I stay here?”

“Sure,” she says. “We'll run to the house later and grab a few things, make sure everything is safe.”

I don't want to upset Maggie, but curiosity—or maybe vengeance—is driving a question through my brain. “Do they know who hit him?” I ask. As soon as the words are out, I realize I may not really want the answer.