In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

  Click, click, click.

  The couple entered the apartment complex doors and disappeared from sight.

  The Watcher counted up floors. Waited.

  Several minutes later lights clicked on in a unit on the twelfth floor. The couple came into view, kissing, shucking coats, pulling at shirts. The watcher zoomed in with the telephoto lens, clicked. And again. Click. The couple disappeared from view. Lights dimmed. The Watcher waited. Cold crept into the vehicle.

  The apartment lights went out.

  Game on.

  The Watcher reached forward and started the car.

  THEN

  ELLIE

  Almost two years ago, March. Cook Islands.

  The wind blew hot against my face as I gripped my handlebars and sped after Martin’s scooter through a plantation in the Cook Islands, clinging to every last drop of our travels before we had to fly back to the cold, wet Pacific Northwest and my old life.

  It had been glorious. Skiing in Austria and visits to the spa while Martin met with businesspeople. A side trip to Croatia. A week in a villa in Marbella on Spain’s Costa del Sol while Martin took meetings on his friend’s yacht and I sketched with windows open to the sea breeze. Two weeks in Nice, where we enjoyed the famous bouillabaisse at the restaurant Martin had told me about over dinner in Deep Cove. There had been shopping and visits to art galleries and museums. And Martin had bought me some exquisitely beautiful Venetian beads. He hadn’t allowed me to pay for a thing, and I loved him for it. I was ready to be with a man again, especially one who treated me like a princess. One who was not after my trust fund. I’d paid dearly in losing Chloe. I’d worked hard to pull myself back up. It was time for me to be in a good place. I had a right to be happy, didn’t I? Didn’t everyone?

  We navigated a series of bends on our rented scooters and came upon a lagoon with a sugar-white beach. Not another soul in sight. We parked the bikes and laid out our mats along with the small picnic provided by our resort.

  Heat radiated off the sand as we ate and drank wine.

  When Martin kissed me, a powerful swell of emotion ballooned up inside my chest and pushed into my throat, shaping words in my mouth.

  I love you.

  They almost slipped out of my lips, but like secret, pleasureful things, I held them back, cautious. I was generally cautious, and this thought suddenly reminded me of my father.

  “Ellie is passive . . . It’s the quiet ones people forget to worry about. Snakes in the grass.”

  Martin moved hair back off my face and looked down into my eyes. I believed I saw in his gaze those same words. I love you. My heart squeezed with happiness. On some level I knew it was a drug—endorphins. The neurological chemical cocktail of fresh love. Addictive. I wanted more.

  Martin stood and dropped his shorts. “Coming for a swim?”

  I hesitated. Suddenly the music in my mind turned discordant, like wrong piano notes. Fear, cold and black, snaked through me.

  He saw it in my face. “Ellie?”

  “I . . .” I suddenly couldn’t talk.

  He reseated himself. A look of concern creased his features as he squinted against the bright sunlight. “You know, I don’t even know if you like to swim?”

  So much you don’t truly know about me yet, Martin. And when you do know . . . will you still want to spend time with me?

  “Do you?” he said. “Like to swim, I mean?”

  I laughed uneasily. But the world had tilted sideways, and my own laugh sounded like an ugly little noise in my brain. A memory reared a demon head. It crashed in a salty wave through my being. I felt Chloe’s hand in mine. I felt her slipping. I cleared my throat. “I don’t feel like going in. But you go. I’ll watch.”

  “It’s cooking hot,” he said. “Look at you. You’re glowing with sweat. Pink in the face. Tell me you don’t need to cool off?”

  Conflict tangled with anxiety and a desire to please him. On the back of it rode a desperation to rid myself of these black thoughts that always came when I considered going back into the sea. I craved the freedom of swimming in the ocean again, yet I was terrified of the feelings and triggers that came with the notion.

  “Come.” He reached for my hand and drew me to my feet, this solid, golden, naked man. “No waves. No currents. No sharks or anything. It’s a lagoon, El. It’s only waist-deep—shoulder deep at max. I’ll hold you if you’re scared.”

  No waves. No waves, no waves, no strong currents.

  “I . . . I used to swim,” I said. “A lot. I was a good swimmer. I was on a team at school . . .” My voice faded as I stared at the expanse of saltwater lagoon. I heard waves booming, but they were in the distance, way out at the reef. They were also in my memory, thundering away. He tried to lead me to the water, but I resisted. Couldn’t help it.

  He frowned, hesitated, then said, “Okay. Sit. Talk to me, El.” He seated himself on the mat and drew me down next to him.

  Thighs touching, we sat in silence for a long while. The sun rose higher, into its zenith. I sweated. He was patient. If I wanted to be with him—and I believed I did—I needed to tell him, because he’d find out eventually.

  “I know, Ellie,” he said gently. “I know about Waimea Bay and what happened there.”

  I closed my eyes. Emotion burned. Of course he fucking knew. I’d googled him after I’d met him. And after I told him I was a Hartley—who wouldn’t have pulled up some of the old news stories? He’d probably been waiting for me to tell him myself. On my own terms. Once more, I felt like a total stupid asshole of an idiot.

  “There are no waves here,” he said again. “But I understand if you don’t want to go in.” He moved hair behind my ear because I’d allowed it to fall forward to hide my shame. “It’s the ocean that brings it back, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “Grief is a funny thing, you know.”

  “I know. Except some people just seem to get over it and move on.”

  “Sometimes it just appears that way on the outside.”

  “Yeah. But . . . I . . . maybe it’s because I feel guilt. About not having been a better mother. My old therapist figured unresolved guilt sets us up for poor bereavement prognosis. So maybe that’s what happened.”

  “Do you want to tell me in your words what happened?”

  I looked out over the sun-sparkled water. So peaceful. Tranquil. “Her name was Chloe,” I said softly. I flicked him a glance. “But you know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you know she was just three.” I paused. It was actually easier saying the words to Martin than I’d thought it would be. He had a way about him that made me want to give, to tell, to be open. He was a good listener and exuded no sense of judgment. “We—Doug, my ex-husband, Chloe’s father—went on a holiday to Hawaii. It was supposed to be one of those wonderful family times. My father and his then-new girlfriend were to join us, and Doug’s parents were already there. We—Doug and I and his parents—rented cars and drove around to the north side of Oahu, where we stopped at Waimea Bay, which is well known for surfing.”

  He nodded. But let me work through it, word by word.

  “The sea was this incredible indigo, flecked with white foam. Like scallops of lace on water.” I stared at the lagoon and listened to the distant boom of surf on the reef. Sweat pooled under my breasts, trickled down my sides. “Utterly cloudless sky. Hot. So hot. We’d bought a pineapple, and stopped at the beach to eat it. There was a fair-sized group on the beach. Lifeguards. People swimming between the flags. Swells big, but rounded and smooth. A small shore break.” I paused, gathering myself.

  “Doug went in, bodysurfing. But someone needed to watch Chloe, so I stayed on the beach with her. It was nearing noon. Fierce sun. Too hot for Doug’s mom, so she and Doug’s dad drove on to find a place for lunch. Doug stayed out in the water forever. Chloe was getting irritable and I wanted to swim, too. It was always Doug who . . .” My words faded. I cleared my throat.

  “I
decided to take her in. There were others with children in the water. There were lifeguards. We stayed in the shallows. It was fun, floating, laughing, bouncing over the small waves. We went in a bit deeper. Then I suddenly lost my footing. There was a dip in the ocean floor, and I found myself treading water, out of my depth. I held Chloe afloat and began to scissor kick back to the beach, but I realized I was in the grip of a current. Powerful. It seemed to come out of nowhere. I kicked my legs harder while holding Chloe up. She was giggling but I’d begun to panic. And suddenly a set of swells barreled in. The first swell was huge. It sucked us up but we sailed smoothly down the back, but it also took us more solidly into the rip. The next wave broke over us, pummeled us right in and down and around and around like a washing machine. I . . .” My hands began to tremble. Memories started blurring, folding, darkening. Hiding. Peeking. Dragging me back into shadows again. I saw Chloe’s face in the milky underwater churn. I saw her eyes. Wide. Her mouth open as if calling me. Her hair floating around her face. I felt her hand in mine. Slipping away as the sea tore her from me.

  “I tried to hold on to her. Tried so hard. Didn’t know which way was up or down and had no breath left. Her little body was slippery from sun lotion. Little slippery fish. She was ripped right out of my hands. And I came up, foam everywhere, salt water and hair in my eyes and I was choking and—” A ball of pain hiccuped through me and strangled my words. I sat silent, breathing hard.

  Martin covered my hand and sat silent, too. Giving me time, space. No judgment that I could feel. I sucked in a shaky breath. “I screamed and screamed, and dove down, and searched and I . . . the lifeguards pulled me out. I was hysterical, still screaming for Chloe. Jet Skis and paddleboards went out. Doug came in. He ran up the beach. He . . . he was yelling at me, asking how in the hell I could have done that—gone out so far. Hadn’t I seen the signs about rip currents. Why hadn’t I stayed in the flag zone. Didn’t I realize conditions could change on a dime.” I swiped sweat from my brow and heaved out a shuddering breath. “Boats went out looking. A helicopter in the air. Everyone helped. A full-scale search-and-rescue operation was launched. But the surf got really high. You can’t believe how big it can get there. From flat to thunderous, murderous, in a heartbeat. They found nothing. That night we waited on the beach while they kept searching with spotlights. And then the next morning, she . . . she . . . my Chloe, my little Chloe, my little three-year-old, my baby, my toddler—her body. All broken and bloodied. On the rocks . . .” Tears slid down my face, turning my sunblock into a horrible soapy chemical taste on my lips. I smeared it away. “It was my fault, Martin. Doug let me know it. He couldn’t love me after that. He never touched me after that. He’d adored Chloe. Losing her cost us our marriage. Doug came to hate me and I turned into this awful specter that just begged to be hated. I became this ugly, fat shell that housed bitterness and grief, and I got to a point where I just wanted to curl up and die.”

  He nodded, looking far off into the distance. “Is this what precipitated the . . . pill thing? The self-medication and subsequent psychological spiral?”

  “So you read about that—of course you did.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “After Deep Cove. After you told me that Sterling was your dad. I confess, I looked you up.”

  “Yes,” I said softly. “And I hate that everyone pays sanctimonious lip service to being more open about mental illness in an effort to destigmatize psychological illness, yet a person with mental illness is judged nevertheless. People whisper and gossip behind your back. You become the laughable or embarrassing drunk, or the drug-addled neurotic paranoid with addiction issues who can’t keep her looks and who can’t hold on to her husband and could you blame him for leaving her anyway. You become this freak who can’t move on from a tragedy because all the collateral damage just compounds the thing. You become the salacious tabloid headline. It’s so much easier to get pneumonia, or heart disease, or to break a leg. People are comfortable with that sort of brokenness. They understand that.” I sucked in a deep breath. “It’s like you’ve got to kill yourself before everyone can say: ‘See? We need to talk about mental health.’”

  He said nothing.

  I watched his profile, waiting for judgment.

  “Do you hate me now?” I said quietly.

  “Come here, El.”

  He gathered me into his arms and held. Just held. Our bodies hot and warm and damp and sticky from sweat and sun lotion. But the smell and solidity of him was so comforting. He stroked my hair, kissed my mouth. “I love you, Ellie Tyler,” he whispered. “I freaking love you and I am so sorry you had to go through that. You are a good person. A dear and wonderful and kind and sensitive and creative person, and this should never have happened to you and I have no idea how Chloe’s father could ever have abandoned you after this, after what you’d both gone through.”

  I sobbed as he held me—big, jerking, palsied shudders taking hold of my body. I let it come. Like a purge, like a bloodletting, a lancing of some terrible boil trapped inside my soul. Telling Martin, and having him still hold me, still say he loved me—no therapy had come close to achieving this. It was like I was home. Safe with him. He understood, and he accepted me.

  When I had finally quieted, he said, “This is why you won’t come and swim with me?”

  I nodded.

  “But it’s about surf, really, isn’t it? It’s about forceful water, moving water, strong currents, big waves that could render you powerless and snatch things away?”

  I sniffed, wiped my nose, and nodded.

  “So we can deal with that. Look. The lagoon is basically walled off by sand. It’s calm as a bath. No currents here. No sharks. It’s shallow. Not even a ripple of wind on the surface. Perhaps if we go in together, and you survive, and perhaps if it doesn’t feel so bad, it would be a big step. Would you try it? With me?”

  I bit my lip and nodded. It was time. Time to step back into the sea. I wanted to conquer this—make it go away. And maybe I could do this as long as there were no waves or strong currents. He was right. As long as he was there with me. And it would be a first step. It would be empowering if I managed it.

  With Martin holding my hand, we entered the lagoon. The water was silky and warm. We went knee-deep, then waist-deep. We lolled and rolled about, and floated, him naked, me in my bikini. He kissed me, and I smiled, then laughed. He hugged me tight, undid my bikini top. Slid off my bikini bottom.

  We made love in the water. In the shallows. In defiance of my bad memories.

  We swam some more, never going out of my depth—I could stand anytime I wanted. My limbs eased. My heart and soul lightened. It was pure bliss.

  We exited the water together and ran hand in hand back to our beach mats. We lay on our backs, drying in the sun, fingers laced.

  “Thank you,” I whispered as I stared up at the impossibly blue and clear sky. “For being you. For hearing me.” I rolled onto my side and trailed my finger down his tummy toward his belly button. “I think I really do love you, Martin Cresswell-Smith.”

  Later that evening, as I was seated in front of a mirror doing my makeup for dinner, Martin brought me a drink. He kissed me on the forehead.

  “It must have been so awful when they found her little body all battered along the reef like that. The police questioning you on top of it all, as if they thought you could be guilty. As if you could have let her go on purpose. I am so sorry, El.”

  I went cold.

  I watched him go into the bathroom to have a shower. The palm fronds outside rustled and whispered against the roof of our hut as an evening wind stirred.

  Later that evening over dinner, I said, “I didn’t tell you about any police questioning me, did I?” I didn’t think that part had made the papers. It had been kept pretty quiet, and the cops had dropped it.

  “Yes, you did.” He looked puzzled.

  I held his gaze. Unblinking, he continued to look directly at me.

  “What’s troubling you, Ellie?”


  “I . . . I guess . . . I . . .” My voice faded. “Memory lapse, that’s all.” I reached for my wineglass.

  His expression changed from puzzlement to concern as I sipped. I felt a bolt of panic. Was it a mini blackout? That’s how they’d started. Followed by longer, more serious memory lapses. In the depths of my darkness, I had not even remembered stabbing Doug when I’d found him in the restaurant with that woman. I only knew for certain that I’d done it because it had been caught on a security camera and the establishment was full of witnesses, more than one of whom had filmed or snapped bits on a cell phone.

  “You okay, El?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. Can you pass the salt?”

  That night I lay unable to sleep while a hot wind bent the palms outside and the muslin drapes sucked in and billowed out onto the balcony. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A memory filled my mind. The police station in Hawaii. The detective’s voice . . . “Did you purposefully let her arm go . . . Why did you take her into the water?”

  I sat up sharply, heart thumping. I glanced at Martin. Bluish in the pale moonlight shining through the skylight, he lay sleeping. Big, steady breaths. Peaceful. Worry clamped a cold hand around my throat.

  I never would have told Martin about the cops . . . surely?

  THEN

  ELLIE

  Almost two years ago, April. Vancouver, BC.

  Dana and I sat on the sofa in my apartment, our socked feet up on the coffee table.

  “Like old times,” she said as we toasted each other. She’d brought snacks, we’d made popcorn, and I’d provided the wine. We were watching a tacky horror movie at my place because the view was stunning and Dana’s place by her own admission was a bit of a dive.

  I’d been home over three weeks and had been feeling really out of sorts since our trip—couldn’t seem to get over the jet lag, having trouble sleeping and focusing on work, and remembering things. Perhaps I’d picked up a bug. Martin had stayed over a few times but was back in Toronto. He called every night, though—said he was worried about me. I told him I was suffering from Martin withdrawal, missing the adrenaline rush of being with him. Deep down it was more—I had a niggling fear it was over with him, that he’d had his fill, was tired of me, and would move on to a new fling. Like my father always did.