The Deepest Blue Read online

  I head back to my room and click on the television. I scan through a few channels and finally settle on some sports show. I try just sitting down, but I need to move. I pick up dirty clothes off my floor, make the bed, straighten books and magazines that are lying around. I grab the dirty clothes I threw in the hall, take the ones from my room, and then head through the kitchen to the laundry closet. It’s not a laundry room, it is literally a closet with a sliding door. There’s nothing in the washer, so I start a big load of my stuff. I’ve been doing laundry since I was seven or eight, so I’m pretty good at it; I just don’t like doing it.

  I pull open the dryer and find two pairs of my dad’s jeans, a few dark T-shirts, and one pair of white boxers that accidentally found their way in with the other stuff. I laugh. “Nice goin’, Dad,” I say. The boxers look bluish gray now, and there is a blue splotch from the jeans on the left butt cheek of the shorts. Then I freeze. The color reminds me of Dad’s skin at the funeral home: cold, empty, lifeless. I drop the shorts on the floor.

  A car horn honks out front, and I run to my room to turn off the television. Then I head out the door to Chuck’s car and climb in.

  “Hey, Mike,” he says in a serious tone as he claps me on the shoulder. “How you holding up?”

  I buckle the seatbelt and look out the front windshield. “I don’t know. I’m okay, I guess.”

  Chuck puts the car in gear and heads toward the highway. “I understand, man. I really do.”

  We drive in silence for a while, and then Chuck says, “You know, your dad was like a father to me, too.” He signals a lane change and then looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “My dad left when I was about three, and I’ve never heard a word out of him since.”

  I think about what Maggie said last night, about how a lot of people loved my dad and lost someone important to them, not just me. I try not to be bothered by what Chuck is saying.

  “When your dad hired me to work on the boat, it felt like I was working for family.” He pauses and then continues. “He took good care of me, helped me get through college and law school. He was really a great guy.”

  “A lot of people thought so,” I say.

  “I expect a lot of the island will show up on Monday for the service. Have you thought about what you’re going to say?”

  “What I’m going to say?” I’m not sure what Chuck is talking about.

  “For the service. I assumed you were going to want to get up as one of the speakers. Is that wrong?”

  I scan my memory. Did I agree to do that? “I don’t know. I haven’t even thought about it. I don’t remember saying I would do that.”

  “Yesterday at the funeral home. Maggie asked, and you said yes.” Chuck shifts the car into a lower gear, and we come to a stop at an intersection. “You don’t remember saying you’d speak?”

  “I don’t remember much of anything from yesterday. But if I said I’d do that, then I guess I will. I’ll think on it tonight and figure it out, write something down.”

  “You’ll need something to wear, too.”

  “A monkey suit,” I say, which is what Dad always called anything requiring a tie or a jacket.

  Chuck smiles. I know he got the joke. “We’ll stop somewhere in Jacksonville after your appointment. It won’t take long—and I promise we’ll get something you’ll be okay with.”

  “I’d be okay with surf shorts and flip flops, but I bet more than a few people wouldn’t appreciate my sense of style so much.”

  “Maggie asked if I’d find you something comfortable. She didn’t specify what.”

  “I only have about sixty bucks.”

  “Not to worry,” Chuck says. “Maggie sent enough to get you appropriately decked out.”

  “I’ll buy my shoes.” I’m not sure why it’s so important to me, but it is.

  “Your call,” says Chuck.

  I don’t say anything else. Chuck turns on the radio to fill the silence in the car. He taps his hands on the steering wheel in time with some country tune I’ve never heard. It takes a little less than an hour to get to the office in Jacksonville, but it feels like half the day is gone when we get there.

  Sylvia Young is a heavyset woman who looks like she’s about Maggie’s age, maybe in her midthirties. She has short, light brown hair that is super curly like a poodle’s. She is dressed in a denim skirt, a white-and-blue blouse, and a pair of white sandals that makes me wonder why I worried so much about shoes this morning. She has white, plastic, hoop earrings that match a white, plastic, beaded necklace and white, plastic bracelet.

  “You must be Michael,” she says, extending a pudgy hand with pink frosted nails.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, shaking her hand. Her skin feels doughy and warm.

  “Come on inside, and let’s you and I have a little conversation.”

  “I’ll be back in about an hour,” Chuck says as he heads back toward the car.

  “Best make it two, just to be sure,” Ms. Young says. “We’ve got a lot of work to get done today if we have to be in court Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday?” I ask. “This coming Tuesday? Why so soon?”

  “Because your mother has filed a motion to have custody transferred to her immediately, so we had to file a motion for immediate adjudication with the court to get an emergency hearing on your case.”

  How did all this happen, and I don’t even know about it? And why didn’t anyone bother to talk to me about it or ask what I think?

  Ms. Young pulls open the glass door that leads into the building. I follow her down a hallway to a wooden door on the left marked GUARDIAN AD LITEM. We step into a dimly lit office with a large desk piled to eye level with papers. There are no windows, and the room feels a little claustrophobic.

  “So young man, sit down in one of the chairs here and tell me what brings you to Jacksonville this morning.”

  She has a funny voice, like she’s really a funny person when she doesn’t have to do all this legal stuff.

  “Well . . .” I say, dragging the word out as I collect my thoughts, “my dad got hit by a drunk driver just two days ago. He was about to propose to Maggie . . . um, Margaret Delaney.” It sounds weird, but I feel like I need to be sure I make everything clear. “So Maggie would have been my stepmom, because they would have gotten married pretty soon, I think. And that’s what I want, for her to be my mom.” My heart is beating hard, but I can feel the strength of how much I believe what I’m saying. “I want her to be my mom.”

  Ms. Young sits in a black office chair. She has picked up a yellow notepad and started writing. “What about your biological mother?”

  “She’s not really my mom. She hasn’t been my mom since I was five. She just decided to try to creep back into my life now, even though I haven’t seen her for, like, ten years. She thinks I’m moving with her to Washington, but I’m not. I won’t go with her. She isn’t my mom anymore.”

  Ms. Young looks up from her notepad at me. “You get to the point, don’t you?”

  “I understood there was a bit of a hurry to this,” I say. I’m not trying to be a smart aleck, I just want to make sure she knows that I know how serious this stuff is.

  “You’re right, there is. I like your attitude. You’re direct.” She smiles at me, her bright pink lips framing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “You and I are going to get along swimmingly.”

  My heart has slowed a little, and I take a deep breath. There is a musty smell to the room, like an old house filled with antiques and shadows. The smell reminds me of the mortuary in Moorehead, only not as sad and final.

  “The court is going to ask you some tough questions. We have to be prepared to answer them.” She looks back to her notes and starts writing again. “So let’s spend a little time discussing this situation you’re in.”

  I look at Ms. Young. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Why haven’t you had any contact with your biological mother? Did your father keep you away on purpose? Did he speak ill of her
or tell you things about her that made you want to avoid having any interaction with her?”

  I feel my body tense and want to defend my dad, but I know she’s only asking to help me. I take another deep breath, let it out slowly, then I start. “Dad and Julia divorced when I was about five. Julia decided she didn’t want to be a mom. She told my dad that the whole thing—being married, having a family, all of it—had been a huge mistake, and she didn’t want to do it anymore.” I picture Julia’s face, red and screaming, her finger pointed at my dad’s chest as she yelled and cried.

  Ms. Young scribbles on her notepad. “Did your father tell you this?”

  “He didn’t really talk about her,” I say. “Most of it I remember from when I was little.”

  “Tell me what else you remember,” she says, not looking up from the notepad.

  “I remember them fighting a lot. It seemed like every day. It would wake me up at night sometimes. After awhile, my dad would come in to check on me and tell me that everything was going to be okay.” I sink back into the overstuffed leather chair and rest my elbows on the padded arms. The cushion sort of squeaks as I shift my weight. “Julia never came in to check on me. In the mornings, my dad would look like he hadn’t slept, and I’d see blankets and pillows on the sofa in the front room. Sometimes I’d find him there during the night, and I’d climb up on the sofa and sleep with him because I thought he was scared or had bad dreams like I did.”

  “Why did you go with your father instead of your mother after the divorce?”

  “Duh,” I say, not meaning to sound as obnoxious as I know I do.

  Ms. Young looks up at me in surprise, but she smiles. “I know, Michael, but the court will probably ask about it.”

  “Dad and I left first. The divorce happened later. It wasn’t really much of a choice. Julia made it pretty clear that she didn’t want to be a mom. She told my dad that after she carried me for nine months, it was his job to make up for her sacrifice.”

  Ms. Young continues writing. “Did your father tell you this, or is this something that you heard?”

  “Both. I remember her saying things like she lived with a parasite inside her, and now it was his turn to have it attached to him. Stuff like that. Dad told me one time that Julia resented him for the way her life was because she wasn’t a happy person.” I try to remember what Julia looked like when she wasn’t angry: long, dark hair; almond-shaped eyes. I get a faint picture, but it is interrupted by the memory of Dad scooping me up and taking me out of her way so she couldn’t hit me. I shudder, remembering how afraid I felt around her sometimes.

  “What was that?” Ms. Young asks.

  “I was trying to remember what she looked like, and then I recalled my dad having to pick me up and move me out of the way because Julia was going to hit me.”

  Ms. Young scribbles a lot, and I wait for her to finish. “Was she abusive? Was she ever reported for abuse?”

  That’s a word I had never applied to my situation before. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I mean, I didn’t suffer a lot of broken bones or things like that.” I think on the words for a moment.

  Abuse.

  Abusive.

  Abused.

  They don’t seem to fit. They don’t feel like my life.

  “If we could prove she was abusive, the court would have to consider alternatives to sending you back to her.” Ms. Young flips the page of her notepad and continues writing quickly. “Do you recall going to the hospital or the doctor for sprains or injuries she told you to lie about?”

  I’m beginning to feel a little resentful about these questions. “I don’t want to live with the woman, but I don’t think she ever hurt me. I don’t remember that. I just remember the one time.”

  “All it takes is one time,” she says.

  “But it wasn’t like that. It was just . . . it was a lot of yelling. Both of them were yelling. It was shouting and name calling, but that’s it. I can’t remember anything else.”

  Ms. Young puts down the notepad and looks at me. “I’m not trying to upset you, Michael, I’m just trying to get all the facts I can so I can be better prepared.”

  I nod and sink a little deeper into the chair.

  “When was the last time you heard from your biological mother?”

  “About four years ago,” I say. “She sent me a picture of her new son from her new marriage.” I pause for a moment and then add, “And no, he didn’t look abused.”

  “Good,” she says without missing a beat. “What about holidays, birthdays, things like that?”

  I think through the last ten years. “I got the picture. She never sent presents for any reason—not a Christmas card or anything. Dad told me when she got remarried, but he didn’t tell me how he found out. I think I was about ten.” I search my memory for any other meaningful contact, but nothing comes to mind.

  “What about child support?”

  “She was supposed to send a check every month. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes she’d send $25 and sometimes $250. Dad used to stick it in my college savings account unless we were having a bad month. Then he’d ask me if it was okay to use Julia’s money for groceries or something.”

  “Your father would ask you if he could use the child support money?” Ms. Young looks at me with wide, blue eyes. “You realize that the money was his per court order to use for your needs while in his care. It wasn’t up to you to choose.”

  I blink. “He said Julia owed me, not him. He didn’t think of it as his money. I don’t think he wanted to feel like he might owe her something for it.”

  “So why do you want to live with Miss Delaney instead of your biological mother?”

  This is easy. I sit up a little in the squishy chair. “Because Maggie is my mom already. She’s been like my mom since I was about ten, and she’s the only mom I’ve ever really had.” I think for a moment, then I add, “Besides, she puts up with me when I’m being a jerk.” Which is happening a lot recently, I think, but I don’t say it aloud.

  “And how do you know your biological mother wouldn’t do this for you?”

  “Yeah, right.” The words snap out of my mouth before I can stop them. “She doesn’t even know me. She didn’t even want to know me until my dad died. She’s just taking advantage of a bad situation to try to make up for something. Maybe for the guilt she has for ignoring me so long.”

  “But if she is claiming you as her legal offspring, wanting to be your parent full time, surely that means she must care about you.”

  “I don’t know what her motivation is, but I doubt it has anything to do with love.” I sink into the chair again. “Maybe she’s trying to impress her new husband or something.”

  “Why do you think living with Miss Delaney would be better than living with your biological mother?”

  That’s a big list. “Because this is my home. Atlantic Beach is my home. My friends are here. My girlfriend is here. My school is here. My life is here. Maggie is here. I don’t remember too much about Washington. I don’t have anything there.” I can feel my shoulders riding up, the stiffness in my neck. “I don’t want to lose my whole life after I just lost my dad by having to move all the way across the country to live with people I don’t love and I don’t know.” My mouth is sticky and dry. “If she really loves me, she’ll understand this and let me stay.” I’ve moved to the front of the chair, and I’m leaning forward.

  “That, Mr. Bryant, may be the most profound thing you’ve said today.” She underlines on the notepad, and I can hear the paper tear from the force of the pen.

  “Maggie has been around me forever, or at least for like the last five years or so. She loved my dad, and I know she loves me. She likes scuba diving and deep-sea fishing. She works at the aquarium. She’s good with people, and she knows me better than my girlfriend knows me.” I stop and realize what I just said. “Not like that. I mean, she understands me.” I can see an amused smile on Ms. Young’s face, but she doesn’t laugh out loud. �
��Julia doesn’t know anything about me, and I don’t know anything about her except she has a little boy who is about four or five.”

  “All of this will be taken into consideration,” Ms. Young says. “I think you’re a very bright young man who has been put into a very terrible set of circumstances at a time when he needs all the love and support that a parent can give him.” She rolls in the chair and moves behind the large, cluttered desk. She sets the yellow notepad on the top of a stack of papers and then stands and steps from behind the desk and comes toward me. “You make a strong case for yourself. I can see what Mr. Marshall meant when he called me.”

  “What did Chuck say about me?” I’m curious and a little worried.

  “That you have a good head on your shoulders, which is clear from the way you present yourself and your interests.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, not sure if I should or not.

  “He meant it as one, certainly.”

  We talk a little more about things like working on the boat, school, Rachel, and what I want to do when I graduate.

  “I’d just like to get my driver’s license first,” I say, and Ms. Young chuckles at me.

  “Good first step,” she says.

  She stops taking notes, but we continue talking. She fills out some paperwork that says I really am asking to have Maggie as my mom, and then she has me sign it. She guides me back into the hallway and outside into the bright light. I can see Chuck’s VW coming up the road.

  “Ms. Young, they can’t really make me live with Julia, can they?” I ask as Chuck pulls into a parking spot.

  “I don’t see how that would be in your best interest, but sometimes judges make odd decisions for odd reasons. And the courts have traditionally sided with biological parents in many cases.”

  My heart misses a beat and drops three inches in my chest.

  “However,” she continues as we move toward the car, “you make a strong case for yourself. You’re well spoken, bright, and aware of the decision you’re making. I think you stand a darn good chance of getting what you want.”