The Deep End of the Sea, page 20
“I disagree.”
I bark out a laugh. “How is that possible? As Madeline, I’m apt to know my own mind.”
Her cane whips out and strikes my upper arm. I yelp and jump back, clutching my bicep. “You are most certainly not in the right frame of mind right now to know much of anything. You are scared and confused, and I will be patient with you to an extent, but know I will not coddle you simply because you want to feel sorry for the hand dealt to you. You think you are the only one to have life go in ways not imagined?”
Stars above, does my arm ache from where she struck me. “And you have?”
“I wouldn’t be here had it not, would I?”
The numbness is finally thawing. “So you’ve been screwed over by the go—them, too?”
“Listen to the mouth you have on you.” She sits on my lilac colored bed. “I’d heard you’ve been good at languages and slang. Personally, I find such talk disgraceful.”
I stare at her until I finally bark out a laugh. “Do you know who I am?”
“Are you addled in the brain? Obviously I know who you are. I found a statue of you, didn’t I?”
Anger seeps through the ice. “Do you know what they did to me?”
“I know that you’re here with me right now,” she snaps, “and not back where it was you were, possibly facing a worse future. So shut your mouth, missy, and be grateful for the gifts you’ve been given today.”
I bite back my frustration. This isn’t her fault; I shouldn’t be taking out my anger on her. “I’m sorry. The room is lovely; I thank you for it.”
Her cane swings out and clips me again. “Not those gifts, you daft girl!” She stands up and shakes her head. And with that, she exits the room far more gracefully than I would have suspected an elderly, plump woman reliant on a cane would be able to.
Dear H,
Bernie brought me this journal this morning, saying she thought it would be therapeutic for me to write in. When I asked her why she would think that, she said that’s what she heard girls do, which seems like a lousy reason to me. But who am I to disagree with the cane (more on that later)—so here I am, writing in this damn journal at the kitchen table while she makes me lunch and watches me like a hawk. If you ever get to meet Bernadette, do not be fooled by her eyes. She may appear blinder than my cat, but she’s got better vision than anyone else I’ve ever met.
In all the years I fantasized about travelling, I never imagined Wyoming would be one of those places. I’ll grudgingly admit it’s beautiful here, and the people so far kind. It’s not crowded, which makes it easier to breathe when Bernie takes me to town. She’s been trying to teach me to drive—I’m hopeless, I’ll admit it—and she’s got me helping with grocery shopping, trips to the post office, library, and out to lunch with friends of hers. In between her numerous lectures about how spoiled I am (AS IF, but arguing with her is pointless), she seems to think me diving into NORMAL life is exactly what I need right now. And NORMAL means shopping, doing chores around the house (which I tried to point out I always did anyway, but that made no difference here or there), and cooking (another thing I already know how to do). Nevertheless, the point is, Bernie is not letting me hole up in my bedroom 24-7 like I want so I can drown in how lost I feel lately. She’s forcing me with that wicked cane of hers to get out and learn how to, and I quote, LIVE.
The only thing is, I’m not sure what I want to LIVE for. She says this is my chance to decide for myself—says that back at the villa, all I thought about was how I felt sorry for myself. I disagree with her, by the way. That at my old home (pre-villa) all I thought about was how I wished I were something different. But now, without any influences from your kind, she thinks I ought to focus on me.
I got mad at her for saying these things. Who does she think she is, telling me what I’ve thought and done? But then I got to considering it (while I was at lunch with her network of elderly friends—sorry, even though I am far older than they are, I just felt like I couldn’t relate to tooth problems, brittle bones, and adult diapers yet), and maybe she does have a point. For a long time, I hated what I was, what I did, and what I allowed to happen to me. So here I am, fourteen days in, and I’ve decided that maybe I do need to find out WHO I AM and WHAT I WANT. And it’s probably the scariest thing I’ve ever decided to do.
After Bernie demanded I get my butt off the couch and do something other than eat ice cream out of the carton and watch sappy movies that left me ugly crying while alternating between anger, depression, and helplessness, the first thing I decided to do was sign up for a self-defense class. It was ridiculous; I knew it was ridiculous. Even Hermes told me he was no physical match for Poseidon, but there was no way I was ever going to be left in a position again where somebody could grab me and leave me dangling and flailing. I was going to follow Aphrodite’s lead and learn a proper roundhouse kick. At the very least, I could stand my ground with Athena (although, that was questionable, too, considering she is a goddess and I am ... well, whatever an ex-monster is). But the point was, Bernie was right. I’m done with being the gods’ toy. It was past time to take control of my own destiny.
Bernie seemed to approve of this choice, despite a well-placed comment over how it shouldn’t have taken me two weeks to arrive at a decision a four-year-old could’ve made in minutes. Fourteen days into our new relationship, I already knew better than to let such words get to me. The day Bernadette heaps praise on a person without a pointed comment first is the day the apocalypse is upon us. Snappy comments aside, all that mattered was that she helped me pick a martial arts studio in town and faithfully drove me to it for the private lessons I signed up for. Initially, I considered joining a class, but even ten people seemed overwhelming. One-on-one was much more doable.
“Baby steps,” I tried to rationalize to Bernie.
“Hmph,” alongside a slight sneer was her answer. Yet, she sat in the back of the dojo, watching my instructor (a woman of about forty named SanDee, who I came to realize doesn’t know how to frown or lower her voice below a chipper shout) carefully mold my body for sixty minutes a day. And then Bernie watched me practice at home for hours afterwards and on the days in between. I’d call her my cheerleader except I know that would earn me a whack on the thigh with her cane.
A week after I begin lessons, she orders me a punching bag, gloves, and mats. I continue to journal, writing letter after letter to Hermes that he may never see. A week after that, she helps me strip one of the spare bedrooms so I can create a mini-gym. Three days after my gym takes shape and I tell her I need to build up my endurance, she orders me a treadmill. “I’m not going to be running after you, missy,” she tells me one afternoon as she knits in the rocking chair installed in the corner of the gym. I’m practicing my kicks and am going on my second hour. I’m achy but determined. I may not be able to control a lot in my life, but I can control my body. She adds, “Best to do it in here where I can watch you.”
I let loose another kick, one that knocks the bag back several feet. Satisfied, I turn to face her, wiping my sweaty hair back off my face. “Maybe we can order you one of those scooters. You could scooter after me.”
This does not amuse her, but before bed, she does it because I tell her I need to get outside and let the cool morning air sting my lungs. The sheer fact that I’m finally admitting I need to get out of the house and go somewhere other than the dojo and our normal stretch of errands seems to please her. We pay for rush shipping, and two days after we order it, her scooter arrives.
I start slow, jogging an hour the first day. My lungs burn, my sides sting, but Telesphoros would be proud. I breathe in and out, in and out, until all I hear while wearing my noise cancelling headphones are the sounds of my breath and of my heartbeat. My body slides into automatic: feet pounding the pavement, one in front of another, arms swinging, ponytail flying in a comforting rhythm. Each day after, I add five minutes to my time. I run, I kick, I punch, I practice. Every motion, every mile helps clear my head, helps me focus on being in the moment. Helps me maintain some kind of control over my life. Helps me not dwell on how I still haven’t heard one word from Hermes. I try my best not to focus on how much I miss him during these times, even though I now write to him daily in my journal. But I can’t stop the thoughts when I lay in bed at night, or the dreams I have of him each time I sleep. During the day, though, I’m able to force my body and mind to conform to the reassuring regulations of discipline.
Nearly a month and a half after my first martial arts class, I turn my body into a lean, clean fighting machine.
“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.”
