Beyond the Blue, page 10
“Cutting the onions.”
“Okay.” Mei inspected the carnage. “Why don’t you let me help you? This all looks salvageable.”
Dropping her eyes to the ground, Morgan shifted from foot to foot. “Because you’re my guest.”
Mei tugged on the string of Morgan’s apron. “Please, I’d love to help. Do you have another of these?”
“Aprons? No, I bought this one today.” Morgan untied it and pulled it over her head. Underneath, she wore a beige button-down tank top tucked into a pair of black linen pants. Decidedly less casual than what she normally wore outside of work. She held out the apron to Mei in defeat. “All yours.”
Mei put the apron on and tied it around her waist. She, too, had worn a nicer outfit than usual and didn’t want to risk ruining it. A silk, lavender blouse that cut off mid-biceps, as well as one of her black trousers she didn’t wear to work. She didn’t like to wear the same thing in the morgue and out of it. Seemed a bit morbid, even for her.
“All right. Let’s get started.”
Easing into the cooking over their natural banter, Mei relaxed as she walked Morgan through the steps of cooking. It brought back memories of cooking side by side with her mother in their tiny kitchen during Mei’s childhood, dutifully learning the ancient technique to perfect the twist on dim sum. Ages since Mei talked about her childhood and adolescence, she almost forgot how much she enjoyed the nostalgia. Cooking with her mother was some of the only bonding they’d ever done, and neither Grace nor Lara shared her affinity for working in the kitchen. It helped that Morgan was excellent at following directions, and within only thirty minutes they’d salvaged her meal into two presentable burritos. They sat in front of two place settings waiting atop a tiny kitchen table next to a window overlooking the neighbor’s neat garden packed with flowers.
“So, did you do much of the cooking with Allan?” Morgan asked, biting into her burrito. Mei didn’t talk about Allan much with Morgan, only sometimes at group and if the subject matter was relevant. Not on purpose; it felt like a door that needed to stay closed.
“No, actually.” Collecting her thoughts, Mei sipped her wine. “Allan was an excellent cook. I like to think we split the cooking equally, but he was home a lot more than me.”
“Oh, that’s right. You said he worked from home most of the time. It must’ve been great for your girls to get to know their father so well,” Morgan stated, tearing into her burrito again. After she swallowed and washed her food down with wine, Morgan leaned on her hand. “Grace is a pilot, right?” Mei nodded. “What does Lara do?”
Mei sighed, taking a forkful of the burrito she’d deconstructed and giving herself a moment to enjoy it. “Lara is a bartender. She’s in graduate school currently, working on her Master’s.”
“Good for her. What’s the Master’s in?”
“Arts in Literature, specializing in British literature.” Mei held back a wince. Lara didn’t lack a work ethic and Mei was proud of her, just—
“You don’t sound pleased.”
Cringing at Morgan catching her casual condescension, Mei exhaled softly. “I am not displeased. Lara works hard and she’s incredibly smart. I worry about her future.” Mei knew she sounded like an overbearing mother, but she was an overbearing mother. The daughter of another overbearing mother. “I don’t want her to waste her time being in school forever.”
While Morgan chewed in contemplation, Mei did not feel judged in the silence. Mei admired her thoughtfulness. “Maybe she will be in school forever. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To be a lifelong academic?”
Shrugging, Mei managed a casual, “I suppose not,” but it came out as disingenuous as she thought. However, as she gazed across the table, it was clear Morgan did not hold it against her. Her eyes were wide, pensive, and sympathetic.
“She could become a scholar, write papers and theses. Maybe she’ll write the next great critique on Elizabeth Gaskell. I’d read that.”
“Perhaps.”
Morgan pressed on. “From how you’ve described her, Lara seems capable and intelligent. Openhearted and kind. I’m sure whatever she puts her mind to she will succeed in. Plus, she’s got a great mom on her side. I can’t imagine her future being anything but wide open.”
Mei pointed her fork at Morgan. “Your indefatigable optimism is both exhausting and charming.”
“‘Exhausting and charming’ is my Tinder profile bio.” Off the displeased look on Mei’s face, Morgan chuckled and waved her off. “I’m kidding, I don’t have a Tinder. I find the chemistry algorithm creepy.”
“One could argue all of attraction is a creepy chemistry algorithm,” Mei posed, carefully cutting into her burrito. “One is organic, one is binary, but they produce similar results.”
“The binary version doesn’t allow for random chance.” A wistful but serious look crossed Morgan’s face. “I find the most meaningful connections are ones I never intended to make at all.”
After Morgan insisted upon cleaning up alone, Mei perused her living room. She traced the spines of Blu-ray discs, though most titles she did not recognize. Off to the side was a record player—because of course a woman who owned a vehicle from the early 1970s would also own a vinyl record player—along with a neat stack of albums. Tasteful but minimal décor led her into the living room proper. The small space held a single midcentury modern sofa and matching chair, a rug, and the bare minimum of shelves to keep electronics off the ground. It had the look of a newly moved-in tenant, with a couple of broken-down cardboard boxes leaned against a wall in the corner. Next to a far wall, Mei found a short side table shoved into a corner with one case file box sitting on top of it. Above it was a lone shelf, only a few feet across, holding three pictures frames.
“I thought you weren’t allowed to take case files home,” Mei called, bending down to inspect the name written in short black marker on the side. Gray with a wide blue stripe, the box did not have the same color scheme as the ones stuffed floor to ceiling in Morgan’s office.
“Not my case,” Morgan called back. Mei squinted, and finally saw the name printed on the side: KELLY, CHARLOTTE.
Morgan’s mother’s case box. Mei snapped backward as if she’d uncovered a secret, though Morgan kept it out in plain view. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” Mei murmured as Morgan neared her from behind.
“You didn’t,” Morgan replied. “I’ll give you the abridged version. After my mom died, I was put into foster care because I was still a minor—”
“But what about your biological father?” Mei tilted her head, unsure whether to continue. Based on the fragility in Morgan’s voice, it was a sensitive subject. “Or your mother’s boyfriend? Nobody could take you in?”
Morgan’s face turned hard. All her cheerfulness evaporated in an instant. “My biological father was in jail at the time on drug charges. My mother’s ex-boyfriend fled the state. It was—it was ruled a suicide.”
Both inside and outside their group grief meetings, Morgan spoke at length about her mother and their relationship. She sang a melody Mei knew well—exalting her but purposely avoiding the notes she couldn’t quite hit. While Mei didn’t know the full breadth of what Morgan’s childhood was like, she knew there were pieces missing, just as she pushed aside segments of her own marriage in favor of the easier memories.
“Were you there when…?”
“No. I discovered the body.”
“Holy shit.” If Mei’s language surprised her, she didn’t say anything. She merely stood staring at the box, bunching the dishtowel in her hands.
“Yeah. I showed up at the station every day telling them to open her case, that there was no way she killed herself,” Morgan said, her tone fragile. “Eventually, one detective listened to me and took down my statement. It never went anywhere—the chief thought it was a waste of resources—but the detective kept in touch with me, Detective Carol Kowalski. The foster home I got placed in was bad, but as an older minor I didn’t have a lot of options. Luckily I was smart, so Carol helped me graduate early and got me legally emancipated. She helped me enroll in college, get scholarships, way above and beyond the call of duty. I think she—she saw I was lost and didn’t want me to fall through the cracks of the system.”
“So, naturally, you became a cop,” Mei supplied with a warm smile.
“Naturally. Carol showed me all the good that can come from being a public servant. When she retired and moved to Florida, the lazy bum, she pulled some strings and got me the file. I keep it to remind me of why I do what I do. It isn’t always rewarding, but if I can help one person the way Carol helped me, then it’s worth it.”
Her eyes tracked upward to the shelf above the box, to the only photos Mei saw anywhere in the home. A four-by-nine of Morgan and Ruiz in their dress uniforms graduating the academy. The second a candid shot of a college-aged Morgan stuffed into a pub booth with about five other co-eds, faces painted in the colors of an English soccer team. The final photo, weathered and bent on the corners, featured a grade-school-aged Morgan in a baseball cap, an oversized hockey jersey and wrinkled jeans, gazing up adoringly at the woman holding her hand. The woman stood model-height, gorgeous, with waist-length brown hair and the dimpled, infectious grin Morgan clearly inherited aimed directly at the camera.
“Is that her?”
“Yeah, that’s my mom. That was a good year. We didn’t have a lot of those, but she was the best.” All at once the need to comfort Morgan consumed Mei, but she lacked the language to express such a desire. Instead, she took Morgan’s hand in her own and squeezed it. Catching Morgan’s gaze as she looked down at their connected hands, the glossiness in Morgan’s eyes startled her. She squeezed Mei’s hand back. “Ah, well. That was a depressing interlude. Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure, whatever you’re having is fine.”
As Morgan departed for the kitchen, Mei entered the living room proper and noted the half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. Going off the pieces already together, she gathered the whole image was an old-fashioned popcorn machine. Much of the machine was constructed, but the main part of the image—the repeating images of popcorn—remained in the box. Morgan handed her a bottle of beer and took a long swig from her own. “You puzzle?”
“I have been known to put a puzzle or two together on occasion. You?”
“I love them.” Morgan sat down cross-legged on the floor with her back to her couch. “It was one of the only things I had to do as a kid, so I got good at it. Well, do puzzles and watch a lot of Law and Order.”
Mei slid down, bringing her knees to her chest as Morgan started putting the pieces together. “Shanvi has told me on more than one occasion that putting puzzles together is ‘for recluses.’”
“Good thing she’s not here,” Morgan replied with a cheerful grin. “If you want, I’ll put on music and we can finish this puzzle. These popcorn pieces are killing me, but with you? It’s gonna be a breeze.”
“Sounds like fun.” Standing on her knees, Mei peered into the box of leftover pieces.
Morgan paused in her step. “Does it? We can do something else? Watch TV, or go out. Or, you can go home if you want. I don’t want you to think you’re a prisoner here with me and my puzzle addiction and my murder boxes.”
Mei smiled. “Morgan, put the music on.”
Two hours and several beers later they’d finished the puzzle. Gentle indie folk music poured from speakers set up on either side of Morgan’s generously sized television, stationed against a lovely exposed brick wall. The whole apartment radiated coziness and warmth, the night’s summer air blowing in from three bay windows off to the side. The good alcohol and good company gave Mei a pleasant buzz.
“All right, all right, that’s enough stories about Morgan Kelly, Pre-Pubescent PI. What about you?”
Not at all to avoid talking about herself, Mei took a long pull from her beer, nearly finishing it. “What about me? What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Morgan scoffed. “I feel like all I do is talk about me.”
“That’s not true, I tell you a lot.” Mei looked away. “I tell you more than I tell most people.”
“Okay, then. Tell me something about you nobody else knows.”
Mei paused thoughtfully. She had Morgan’s full attention, with the younger woman resting her elbow on the couch cushion, her head in her hand. Lit by the glow of a nearby lamp, Morgan enchanted her with her button-down shirt now a few buttons open, exposing a well-defined collarbone and cleavage Mei definitely wasn’t thinking about. Like how she wasn’t thinking about Morgan’s visible biceps, the curve and shape of the muscle gleaming in the light. Nor did she think about the warm curiosity in Morgan’s eyes causing her heart to flutter. Suddenly at a loss for words, Mei shook her head.
“I—I don’t know. You go first.”
“Fair enough.” She peered off in thought, finishing her beer and placing it on top of the finished puzzle. Mei had the brief thought she would leave a stained ring on their masterpiece, but she swallowed it. Either the heat or Morgan’s relentless baby blue eyes, but something made the moment feel heavier than before. Bloated with emotion. “I was married.”
Her dark eyes widened so much it almost hurt, looking back and forth between Morgan’s face and her hand, upon which no ring sat. Not even a tan line. “What? When? To whom? What?”
Using her blunt nails to scrape the label on her beer, Morgan shifted in her seat and averted her gaze. “When I was in the UK for school, I met a DCI named Gemma Thomas, fell madly in love with her, and we were married less than a month later.”
“A month?” Hiding her shock proved impossible. She took more than a month to pick out furniture, never mind a spouse. Allan spent weeks courting her for a single date. Another emotion edged in after the shock, easily recognizable as jealousy. “That sounds intense.”
“It was a whirlwind. Passionate and consuming. I was totally and completely enamored with her. I think she was in love with me too.” Morgan’s voice trailed off, and the shock to Mei’s system abated a bit. A deep pain crossed Morgan’s face, not unlike the faraway sadness she got in her eyes talking about her mother. It made Mei want to reach out and comfort her again. “It was a messy, messy relationship, but we were crazy about each other. Then she…left.”
“Oh, Morgan.” Mei put down her beer and covered Morgan’s hand with her own, shuffling to her on the floor. How could anyone look into those guileless blue eyes and cause her pain? Who could break the heart she wore so readily on her sleeve? “What happened?”
“About a month before I finished my degree she got hired for some high-profile secret espionage stuff and had to cut off contact. I let her annul the marriage or dissolve the union, whatever. It was complicated and legally ambiguous then. I never saw or heard from her again. She didn’t even say goodbye.”
“How painful,” Mei murmured, running her thumb over the knuckles of Morgan’s fist. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
“Thanks. And you know, I never would’ve stopped her from taking a dream job like that. So, it’s not so much the leaving that fucked me up, it’s knowing no matter how much I loved her, she never would have stayed.” Clearing her throat, Morgan managed a smile. “So, what’s yours?”
“Oh, right.” So incensed at this woman for breaking Morgan’s large, generous heart, Mei forgot about the reciprocal nature of the question. She did not possess a dark past romance—she and Allan were college sweethearts, and he was Mei’s first and only serious romance. No skeletons in her closet, so to speak. “Well, I…I was accepted into the Royal Ballet School when I was eleven, but my mother would not let me attend. She let me get all the way through the audition, get accepted, and then denied it.”
Morgan’s features drew together in deep sorrow. “Jesus. Why do you think she did that?”
This memory exposed the ugly parts of Mei’s relationship with her mother, the complicated sense of pride and possession that tainted their bond. The resentment she bottled inside and swore never to release on her own children, but enough unintentionally leaked out that Mei knew Grace and Lara probably resented her, too. Luckily, they had Allan to counterbalance Mei’s tiger parenting tendencies. Mei was not as fortunate. “I think she wanted to know I had enough talent to get in. Or, I don’t know, that she achieved enough to get me in. We moved to America when I was little; I barely remember anything about living in Taiwan at all. But I know my mother had a lot of pride in creating the opportunity to live here. Bàba died not long after we immigrated, so we lived alone together for quite a while.”
“That’s an incredible feat for anyone, not to mention a single mother,” Morgan replied, eyes wide in amazement. “You must have faced enormous pressure.”
“Yes. Without any siblings it was on me to bear the fruits of her labor,” Mei said, harshness in her tone. “I have a lot of successful cousins, so when my grandparents chose to move here to be closer to us, the expectations they brought with them buried my mother. And, in turn, she buried me in them.”
“The expectation for what?”
“To be successful. To have tangible proof of success. To be the American Dream. An advanced degree, an impressive job, a good husband. Achievements they could hold on to and tell people back home. Being a dancer, it was…That’s a dream, not a reality. Not to them, at least.”
“But that’s extraordinary. The Royal Ballet School! You must’ve been so good.” Genuine heartbreak squeezed Morgan’s voice, and Mei loved her a little bit for it.
“I was great. But ballet dancers have short careers, and what do they do after?” Mei closed her eyes, faded memories of opera houses and cramped audition rooms bloomed in full Technicolor after years of lying dormant in her mind. “We never spoke about it again, but I—I don’t think I ever forgave her for taking that chance away from me.”
