The Deep End of the Sea, page 21
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.
Bernie drops me off ten minutes early before the first meeting I’m not too cowardly to attend. I’ve missed two so far: two I swore to myself I’d go to, only to find myself in possession of a thousand and one excuses as to why I needed to do something else, instead. So here I am, in front of a nondescript house in the middle of a residential neighborhood, knots which would make sailors proud twisting in my stomach. I tighten my wrap-around sweater a bit more snugly, take a few deep breaths, and go inside.
About a dozen people are milling about in a room that features a ring of chairs and a table filled with donuts and coffee. Some people are talking quietly with one another; others are standing by themselves, playing on their phones. A few are even laughing, and I marvel at this simple yet powerful emotion in a room such as this.
These women—they were raped. They are here to talk about rape. And yet ... they are laughing.
It’s not like I haven’t laughed since Poseidon’s attack. I’ve laughed plenty of times. And the weird thing is, I don’t begrudge these women their precious laughter in this moment. I envy them it.
A slightly overweight, pretty woman comes in and claps her hands. She’s got long brown hair and soft brown eyes and twin dimples on her cheeks that wink even when she isn’t smiling. “Good morning, friends! Could everyone find a chair?”
I hover in the background until most the chairs are filled before selecting my own. The woman, a counselor named June, starts off by telling us, “When I was seventeen, I was date raped at a party at my best friend’s house. The person who did this to me was my boyfriend at the time. We’d been fighting, and he put something in my drink. I woke up the next morning with blood in my underwear and no knowledge of what happened. I’d thought I just passed out. But a video went around school showing what he did to me while his friends taped it.” She lifts up her arms, wrists out. Sharp white lines crisscross the inner skin. “Two weeks later, after a lot of teasing and finding the word whore painted on my locker and my car, I tried to commit suicide. Thank God I failed.”
There is a smattering of murmuring, alongside heads bobbing in understanding. I can’t help but stare at her in wonder. So much pain, and yet ... here she is. Strong. Owning what happened to her. Refusing to let it define her.
One by one, people in the room open up with their stories. Some have been here before, some many times. Some are new like me. Every story is different but end in the same—they were raped: by friends, by boyfriends or girlfriends, by people they trusted. A few even mention strangers assaulting them. My heart cracks and breaks for every single brave person in here, but also swells at the signs of their strength. Some have attempted suicide. Some became outcasts either by choice or forced by a skewed society. Some have tried, like me, to pretend it didn’t happen. Every person has a different story, a different path they’ve walked. But it happened all the same, and now they’re here, taking the steps to move on.
I debate the entire time whether or not to share my story. It isn’t required—June makes it quite clear we are free to speak when we are comfortable. Part of me wants to run and hide, but when the hour closes in on us, I decide I can’t be merely treading water in the deep end any longer.
I begin the long journey of swimming toward shore.
“My name is Maddy.” My palms are sweaty, my voice hoarse. My story is known, yes—but never from me. I don’t talk about the details, but ... I think I finally need to. They can serve as my life jacket as I make my way home. “I was raped by someone I thought was my friend. After it happened, people ... they thought I was a monster. I became isolated. I stopped trusting others. A few months back, he ... the asshole who did this to me, he tried to do it again. And ... I’m tired of him having this power over my life.”
Supportive murmuring breaks out, alongside the same understanding head bobbing I’d seen earlier.
I twist my hair back behind my ears. I take another deep breath and then I let the air out slowly. The constriction on my lungs has eased a fraction.
“You need to keep some money,” Bernie says, peering down at me as I type in an amount to donate to another charity. “Gotta live and all, child.”
“From what I can tell,” I say, squinting at the screen on my laptop, “I have enough money to run a small country.” I click send and lean back. “Unless you expect us to build ourselves a mansion here in Jackson and hire the entire town to work as our staff, I hardly think we’ll miss it.”
She grumbles and sits down next to me. Bernie has no problem with me giving money to charity. I’ve even wheedled out of her several causes she found worthy of our funds. But the one I just wrote seven figures to is an important one, because it’s the foundation June mentioned to us in the last group meeting. It’s the one that helped her when she didn’t think she had any other choices, the one that so many other people sought out in cries of desperation, looking for ways to understand what happened to them.
Seven figures seems like a lowball number, but for today, it’ll do.
I’ve been going to the group now for over a month. We meet twice a week. There are plenty of days I say nothing. There have been a few in which I’ve broken down and cried while listening to others, cried when I unfolded more of my own story. But each day loosens those screws around my lungs.
I run. I kick. I punch. I listen. I write. I give.
I live.
Stars above, I live.
You’d think that my first trip out of Jackson since arriving four months ago would be a welcome event, but having recently exited private martial arts lessons to join a regular class that meets four days a week, plus picking up a few weekly volunteer shifts at the local animal shelter (stars, I miss Mátia, and this is the closest I can get to him), I find my days are starting to fill up. I’ve gotten to know some of the girls from the support group; we’ve gone out for coffee a few times. While I wouldn’t classify them as friends yet, I’m enjoying the time we do spend together. I appreciate the people who work at the shelter—there’s one guy, Frank, who always has the ability to make me laugh. SanDee teaches my new brown belt class at the dojo, and she’s forcing me to break out of my shell and get to know some of the other students. I even got asked out on a date few times by a very persistent yet nice guy who I spar with. I told him no, naturally.
Bernie says this is progress.
There’s been no news from Jocko one way or another about what’s going on in Olympus. Outside of him regularly appearing and disappearing in front of me (and being, of course, Death), my life is now free of anything supernatural. No gods, no goddesses, no monsters except people whose hearts and actions deem them so. I have gotten used to the silence, even though a thread of unease still stitches itself throughout each day.
What I still haven’t gotten used to is letting Hermes go. I’ve tried. The heavens above know I’ve tried. I keep telling myself, now that four months have passed, the chances of me seeing him again are slim to none. I was warned about this, after all. They told me that if the Assembly ruled in Poseidon’s favor, they would ensure I was never seen again. Each day I wake up and remind myself of this, attempt to let the reality sink into my bones, but it’s hard.
I miss him.
He is—was—my lover, yes. But for over two thousand years, he was also my best friend. And, in many ways, he is still my best friend. And I would give every single dime I have in the massive bank account he set up for me for just one more day together.
But, with all the change I am slowly unfolding in my life, this is the one I cannot alter, no matter how much I wish differently. So I try to let him go, only to fail completely each time. Bernie tries talking to me about it, in her roundabout cryptic ways, but it doesn’t help. Keeping myself busy does. Confronting and changing the things I can does.
So when Jocko insists I come with him on one of his assignments, I shock everyone by not being overly thrilled. We’ll be heading down into Salt Lake City, which is nearly a five-hour drive. This in itself isn’t so bad; it’s that I’ll be doing it with just Jocko, the least chatty person I have ever met. Getting him to shoot the breeze is like yanking teeth out of a Velociraptor. It just ain’t gonna happen without a fight. Plus, I’ll admit I balked at the whole concept of the trip in general. Having been intimately acquainted with death in the past, I want as little to do with it now. But here I am, sitting next to Jocko as we pull into a dimly lit parking garage.
A glance at the clock shows it is nearly two in the morning. Airplanes roar over our heads. I peer out the window, but I can see nothing other than cars and concrete.
“I’m glad to hear you’ve picked up an extra shift at the animal shelter,” he tells me with that bland smile of his. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
The idea of Jocko with a dog makes me laugh out loud. “Seriously?”
“They seem like stellar companions. I suppose I am surprised you have not brought one home yet.”
I twist my bottom lip to the side so I can bite the corner as I study him. Then I sigh. “I have a cat, you know.” I look away. “Or had, I guess. He was blind and very sweet.”
Jocko is silent as we wind up to the next level. When we pass the sign for Level 2, he says, “While I know you are thriving in your new environment, and it pleases me that you are making friends, Bernie tells me you are ... how shall I put it. Depressed at times?”
Oh, now he wants to address this? Months after he dumped me in the middle of Wyoming? “I’m fine,” I tell him, but I refuse to meet his seeking eyes.
“I understand this has been hard in many ways for you—”
That’s rich. “Oh, you do, do you?”
He’s silent for a good ten seconds. “It could be worse and you and I both know it.”
I sigh. Could it? Sometimes I’m not so sure. Wait, that’s not true. He’s right. I’m making friends. I’m keeping myself busy. I’m finding ways to make myself and my money useful—and I like being useful. I like knowing I’m putting good into the world.
“You should know that a certain individual has remained ... quite focused on procuring that which he sees is rightfully his.”
My head whips around so quickly it’s a surprise it doesn’t snap right off. Jocko is finally telling me something?
“This has caused a great deal of dissension, naturally,” he continues, as if this is a common enough conversation. “As your friend and protector, I cannot fail to tell you it is more important than ever to remain vigilant in our quest to assure your safety if you disagree with this person’s assessments.”
I sputter out something that sounds suspiciously close to gibberish.
“Steps are constantly being taken to assure your well-being. It is not like you are the only to make sacrifices. If you were to know the words said, the deeds done in your name.”
My heart skips in my chest. “Then tell me,” I plead. “Tell me anything about—”
Jocko lays a hand on my arm moments before he pulls into a parking space. “I cannot. As much as I have grown fond of you, I am beholden to the vows I took when I agreed to be your protector. However, as Bernadette has been right to point out on numerous occasions, I have been negligent toward your feelings in this matter. For that, I apologize. I am ... not good at understanding such matters, Maddy. It is not in my nature. I have been solely focused on your safety. Bernie informs me that, while this has been well and good, perhaps I need to look after your emotional well-being, too. Thus, after much consideration, I have decided that I will present a peace offering to you tonight as long as you agree to a few rules beforehand.”
He offers me something in the parking garage of the Salt Lake City airport? I’m immediately dubious. “What kind of peace offering?”
“One to help answer questions, and hopefully soothe heart. But only you will be able to decide if those are the outcomes. Will you agree to my terms?”
I must admit, I’m intrigued. “Name them.”
“You will be allowed to witness a series of events that normally go unnoticed,” he tells me, his dark eyes flat yet probing. “It will be crucial for me to cloak you and place you at a distance where there is no chance of your discovery. Furthermore, by my hand, you will be silenced. It is imperative that you remain hidden to any and all sets of eyes here tonight, Maddy. All except mine.”
The parking lot is dim and quiet. From my vantage point, the only eyes around are those within this car. “What are the terms?”
“There may come a point when you might try to find your voice or move from your location. It will only be natural for you to do so, even in multiple moments. If you were to do so, you would be uncovered. And I cannot have that, Maddy. You must give me your word that if I allow you to witness tonight’s events, you will become one of the statues you used to create. There will be no movement, no sound, no anything that could give you away.”
Something to soothe my heart ... in a garage, no less. From Death. Huh. I’ll admit it. I’m intrigued enough to agree to his terms. Death binds me to my oath by cutting my hand with a scythe he pulls out of the back seat (It’s embarrassing, but I jumped when I saw it) and smearing my blood to the blade. Within seconds, the blade cleans itself and is spotless once more. He passes me an old-fashioned handkerchief to wrap my hand in.
Too bad my hand doesn’t heal as fast as Hermes’ did.
Minutes later, we’re out of the car and across the level. Jocko positions me into a sitting position on the ground next to a beige minivan. “This may sting,” he tells me, and it does when he lays the flat edge of the scythe over my head. A veil of darkness drapes over me, heavy and sticky. It makes me tired, and my eyes fight to stay open. But open they remain, because if Jocko went to all this trouble to get me here, I know I have to see whatever it is he wants me to.
It feels like forever, but a man and a woman appear at the end of the row, suitcases in hand. They are talking softly to one another—arguing, by the looks of it, and completely oblivious to Jocko. The words grow progressively louder until they reach a small red compact; there, the words escalate until they become shouts. They are so wrapped up in these hateful, angry barbs that they do not notice another man quietly step out from behind a white van. I watch in perverse horror from behind the black veil as he approaches them, gun tucked in the back of his black jeans. A tattoo covers the side of his neck, one of a phoenix. Other than that, he is clean cut in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and nice shoes.
“Excuse me,” he says, and it has to be repeated until the couple ceases their argument. “Just got back from Chicago and found my tire flat. Can you believe it? Just my luck. Any chance you have a tire changing kit in your trunk?”
The woman tut-tuts sympathetically, glancing over at the van, which, sure enough, has a flat tire. Her companion is more leery until she encourages him to help. He digs a rolled, black package out of the back of his car and the three of them head back towards the van.
