The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I return my gaze to the menu. This is the kind of place she likes. Fancy salads ruined by things like beets and quail eggs. So neither the food nor the conversation will be enjoyable.

  “I was working all day,” she says, breaking the silence, “going to law school at night, trying to get us into a better neighborhood and you into a better school and then I’d come home to your father resenting me for it. I spent the last year of our marriage trying to study and work and take care of you while your father went out and got drunk. I know I made mistakes, but back then, Steven was the only one telling me I was doing okay, who was impressed at how I did it all.”

  Of course he was, I think sullenly. He thought you’d wind up fucking him, and he was right.

  But then I think of Josh. Josh, the only person who’s impressed with what I take on. Josh, telling me I deserve more. It’s seductive, having someone on your side for once. “We don’t have to rehash it all.”

  She stares straight ahead, as if I haven’t spoken. “I will never try to tell anyone I handled it the right way. Steven won’t either. I just wish you’d try to understand that even if I’m the villain in this story you’ve created, I’m not the only one.”

  So I guess we’re doing this here, over our gross lunch of water and quail egg salad.

  “You could have sent Dad to rehab or something,” I say.

  She gives a short, unhappy laugh. “You have forgotten some significant parts of your father’s personality if you think he was going to let anyone force him into rehab. Where do you think you got that stubborn streak of yours?”

  I have over a decade of accusations inside me, the same ones I’ve been making all along, but there’s not the same vigor behind them. Something has changed in me these past few weeks. Maybe I just have some empathy now for moral gray areas, given how I’ve ventured into one. “Maybe you’re right. I guess I just wish things had been different.”

  She presses her palms flat to the table and stares at her lap, swallowing hard. “I’ll never forgive myself for that day,” she says. I stiffen. This is something we do not discuss, ever, and I want to stop her but I can’t. “I was in court when the school called to say you hadn’t shown up and I let it go to voicemail. If I’d just checked, maybe—”

  Her voice cracks and she stops talking.

  I feel an ache in my chest, as if my lungs are squeezing tight. I didn’t know she was blaming herself for what happened all this time. Of all the things she did wrong, this isn’t one of them.

  “That wasn’t your fault,” I tell her. I know in my rare honest moment that my father was no saint. He broke my nose, for God’s sake. It’s all the years afterward I blame her for. “But you took me from my home, Mom, and from my school, and from my father, and you just—” My throat clogs. “Left. You were never there. Everyone in that household treated me like I wasn’t welcome and wasn’t even human and you just looked the other way.”

  I wait for her denials, her arguments. She’s a lawyer, after all. It’s what she does best. But when I look up at her, her eyes are damp. “I know,” she says, staring at her hands, her voice raspy. “And that’s harder for me to live with than anything else, because I can’t get those years back and I don’t know where we go now.”

  It’s more than she’s ever said before. I swallow hard and then force a smile. “Hopefully someplace with burgers. You know I hate salad.”

  Her eyes finally find mine and we both laugh. Something feels like it’s shifting. Things aren’t perfect and they never will be, but maybe I can learn to live in the gray area just a little.

  41

  DREW

  Ben, after much prodding and a few threats, finally receives the requested documents. They arrive so woefully incomplete he thinks I need a forensic accountant to figure out what’s gone on.

  I’m back in Europe finishing the last few dates of the tour when he calls to discuss it. I have to go shut myself in the bathroom to talk. “If they’re being this cagey about a routine document request, there’s almost no chance they’re not hiding something major,” he says.

  I perch on the counter as my stomach tightens into a knot. “Davis will go ballistic.”

  “He will,” Ben says, “and wouldn’t Davis going ballistic over something that in no way involves him set off some alarm bells for you? Because they were buzzing for me the moment you said he’d hired everyone in your circle and that you don’t even have copies of all this stuff. And when he tried to cut me out of this by handling your bank loan himself…that was all the alarms at once, right there. What exactly do you think he can do to you?”

  “He knows stuff, Ben,” I whisper. “Stuff I’d rather not have made public. I want out of everything, but if I come after him, he’ll come after me too.” Davis knows I have panic attacks and he knows how my father died. None of it is such a big deal, but I don’t want to discuss it in every interview and I don’t want to read about it every time I see my name online. Mostly, I just don’t want to make an enemy of Davis because he’s already terrible when he’s on my side.

  There is disapproval in the half-second of silence before Ben speaks. But he likes to fight, and it’s not his life we’re discussing. “Then you need to decide how much you want to keep it all to yourself,” he finally says. “Just know that the way you’re living now—where you’re answering to him for everything and miserable—that situation is permanent until you do something about it.”

  And if this situation is permanent, it means Davis shoves another three-record contract with the label under my face, full of stipulations about world tours and promo. Am I really willing to sign away the next ten years the way I have the last five?

  I tell him I’ll let him know, but there’s a weight on my chest when I hang up the phone. There’s only one person I want to discuss this with and before I think too much about the fact that maybe I’m leaning on Josh and what a bad sign it is, I video call him.

  He answers on the third ring. “Drew?” he asks, looking concerned. He’s in a massive tent, the kind you might hold a wedding in, and it’s the middle of the day because I’ve messed up the time. There aren’t even curtains dividing most of the people. There are just bodies lying on gurneys and it looks like chaos.

  "I'm sorry," I tell him. "I didn't realize you’d still be at work. With the time change my hours are all messed up. I can call back."

  He smiles and the thing in my chest eases. "I've got a second," he says. "Where are you?"

  Before I can answer, a woman approaches him, also in scrubs. She’s pretty—high cheekbones, jet black hair. She speaks to him in French and I have no clue what she’s said but she sounds elegant and smart, the kind of woman he should be with, probably.

  He replies to her in French and it makes me ache. First, because it's so goddamn hot, him and his perfect French accent, and second, because he is just so much. So smart, so accomplished, so much more of everything than I am.

  "Who was that?” I ask. Does he hear this tiny bite of worry in my voice?

  He looks over his shoulder for a moment as if he cannot even remember who he just spoke to. "That was Sabine. One of the nurses. I have to go in a minute, but tell me why you were calling.”

  I can't. Now that I see a room full of people behind him, I cannot possibly sit here in the comfort of the Canalejas suite at the Four Seasons Madrid and tell him how trapped I feel by my terrible life of travel and designer clothes and adulation, how I’m scared to have Ben help me get out of it. "It was nothing," I reply. “I just wanted to talk.”

  He looks at me hard, that assessing look of his, the one I used to misinterpret. I know he's trying to find the truth in my lies, but this isn't the time to let him succeed because I feel like I'm about to cry. "Someone's at the door," I lie, "I'd better go."

  "I miss you, Drew," he says and then the line goes dead before I even have a chance to say it back.

  "I miss you too," I reply to no one at all.

  And maybe it’s he
aring him say he misses me or maybe it’s just straight-up jealousy of pretty French nurses, but I decide it’s time to pull the trigger.

  That night after the show I tell Davis I need a week off. We are supposed to be returning to California in two days. I’m sure there are things planned but I’m just done. I need a break.

  A break I plan to enjoy in Somalia.

  His face barely moves as he shakes his head no, like a father ignoring an unreasonable toddler. “You’ve got interviews.”

  “I really need some time off,” I reply.

  “Yeah,” he says, “so do we all. That’s life. And I’ve booked the studio to start work on the next album after the interviews, so deal with it.”

  “The next album? We don’t have a single decent song.”

  “That’s part of what you’ll do in the studio. Play with those demos I sent you. Make them your own.”

  “So let me get this straight,” I reply, channeling Josh. “You’ve got me booked for interviews I never agreed to, followed by studio time on demos I didn’t agree to.”

  He rolls his eyes. “If I was going to wait for you to lead the way, you’d still be serving burgers to tourists at Planet Hollywood, Drew. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take for you to realize a little hustle is necessary to stay afloat in this industry. And a few hard decisions, also.”

  “Well, here’s a hard decision for you, Davis,” I reply, “figure out what happens when I don’t show up, because I’m not showing up.”

  He’s still yelling about breach of contract when I walk out the door.

  42

  DREW

  Two days later, I leave Dubai for Mogadishu, the capital of Somalia. I have the best armed guards money can buy, a tourist visa that required a small fortune in bribes, and a backpack that holds a few changes of clothes—and lingerie.

  I know Josh won’t have a ton of time for me, but I’ve already allowed my imagination to run wild. He’ll perform dramatic surgeries all day and I’ll find some way to make myself useful. Given my stunning lack of skills—I doubt they need a great deal of singing or posing—I have no idea what I’ll do, but there must be something. I can hold babies. I can play with children. I can apply a Band-Aid over a scrape, as long as the scrape is small and not super gross. I’ll find a way to stay out of his hair, but the nights will be ours, and we will, I’m sure, make the most of them. Especially once he sees the La Perla bustier I bought in NYC.

  It’s nearly an eight-hour flight but the airport is surprisingly nice, and I’m starting to think Jonathan’s warnings were overly dramatic when I see a line of guys with machine guns against the wall.

  My tour guide, Simon, also carries a machine gun. He is ostensibly the best money can buy. “Welcome to Somalia,” he says. “I hope you’re wearing a bulletproof vest.”

  I stare at him and then he laughs. “Just a joke,” he says. “But also not. Make no mistake. Nothing about Mogadishu is like the United States. Remember that, please. It might save your life.”

  I dismiss my nerves. I don’t care what I have to endure today as long as it ends in Josh’s tent when it’s all said and done.

  I’m led to a series of armored SUVs. He nods toward the one in the center where four guards with AK-47s stand waiting. “All this is for me?” I ask.

  He gives me a small nod. “Anything is possible in Somalia,” he says. “You have to be prepared for all circumstances.” I take a deep breath, pop a Dramamine in my mouth since I’m not allowed to ride up front, and climb aboard.

  For twenty minutes, we bounce over the streets of Mogadishu, which doesn’t seem that different from other African cities aside from the stunning number of buildings that are missing half their facades. “Bombs,” says Simon.

  At a checkpoint, we stop. Money is exchanged and I see the guards looking back toward the vehicle. “It’s okay,” Simon assures me. “They won’t do anything. They just want to see who’s here.”

  I’m relieved when we finally leave the city behind, whether or not I should be. The rubble turns into dirt and shrubbery, desolate under the rapidly dimming sky.

  We’re driving fast it seems to me, given the state of the roads. When we hit a pot hole the entire truck bounces so hard my head hits the roof. “We don’t like to be out this late,” Simon explains. “If you think this is fast, you should see us on the way back.”

  There is only one moment when I am truly scared: another roadblock, but this time there is a great deal of yelling between the first car and the guards. Slowly, the men in the first car climb out and each has his finger on the trigger of a gun. “Get down, lady,” says the guard behind me and I do.

  I remain on the floor until well after we’ve passed the checkpoint. Maybe Jonathan wasn’t being dramatic after all.

  After another thirty minutes, we reach Dooha. I know we’re nearing something when I see people shuffling along the sides of the road, looking up through the haze of dust at our cars’ approach.

  There are guards at the gates who let us pass after a moment’s conversation, and inside it becomes another world entirely. A small city of tents and people staring as we drive past.

  Simon tells me to stay put while he checks things out. He and one of the guards descend and no one seems at all surprised by the sudden arrival of two men carrying machine guns.

  After a moment, he opens my door. “The staff is in the canteen,” he says. “This is your stop.”

  I’m both thrilled and terrified. It now seems like I should have asked Josh first. What if he isn’t even here? But I think of the way he surprised me in Paris. How thrilled I was, how busy I was, and how nothing but him mattered once he arrived. Is this really so different? I take my backpack from one of the guards, thank Simon, and descend to find a woman standing there in a sarong with a shawl over her head. She looks me over from head to toe and seems to find me lacking. “This way,” she says with a frown.

  The canteen is in a large tent, just as the hospital was—one room with long tables. She points to a group in the corner in scrubs and walks away with a shrug. I’m nervous, feeling awkward, but then I spy Josh and it all falls away. He’s in scrubs, listening intently to the woman across from him and nodding. My heart swells until I notice Sabine, the pretty nurse, sits beside him. I try not to let it bother me.

  One of them turns. And then they all turn. They are blinking, staring, astonished. And Josh looks the most astonished of them all.

  “Surprise,” I say weakly, hoisting my backpack further onto my shoulder.

  For all the low moments we’ve had since we met, I’ve never seen him look less happy to see me than he does now. He does not smile as he rises and moves to stand in front of me, as if he wants to block me from view. For the first time I wonder if he might be ashamed to have his colleagues know about me. It was one thing in New York, or in Paris, among strangers. But these are people he likes and respects…and I’m me.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, his jaw tight, his voice low enough not to be overheard. Behind us his companions return to their conversation, but they keep sneaking peeks at us.

  I feel little and stupid. Like a teenage girl with a crush. The horrifying realization that he doesn’t want me here hits hard. The possibility that he’s been lying—or I’ve been lying to myself—follows right on its heels. I look back over at the table and see Sabine watching us with a level of interest that is hardly impartial. Is he as interested in her as she clearly is in him? The mere suggestion of it is enough to make my stomach tighten painfully. “I thought it was obvious when I said ‘surprise’,” I reply, trying to sound casual and in control when I’m anything but. I try to step backward but he’s holding me in place, his hands on my biceps.

  His eyes fall closed and his tongue darts out to tap his upper lip. He’s either thinking or he’s praying for patience, perhaps both.

  He glances over his shoulder at his colleagues and then starts pulling me toward the exit. “Come on,” he snaps.

  His gra
sp on my arm is iron-tight and I allow myself to be pulled, but my heart is shattering. It’s obvious he wants me out of here as quickly and quietly as possible and it really fucking hurts. I thought he was different. I thought there was something between us, and of course I was wrong because I’m always wrong.

  We get outside the canteen and I try to pull away from him. “Let me go,” I choke out. “I get it. I’m leaving. You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

  “Leaving?” he asks with an angry laugh. “You’re in one of the most dangerous places in the world, at nightfall. Where the fuck are you going to go?”

  It doesn’t matter. It feels as if nothing matters. I can only remember one other time in my life when I’ve felt this empty, this lost, this broken. The last time it happened, I grew from the experience and came out stronger at the other end. But I don’t want to learn and grow again. I don’t want to have to rebound from another loss.

  Reluctantly, I recall Simon’s haste to be off the road and admit to myself Josh is probably right, which means I’m stuck here until daylight with someone who wishes I hadn’t come.

  He pulls me past armed guards to a long line of tents and then unzips one of them and tugs me inside. It’s tall enough for us both to stand in, but there’s not much to it: a cot on the right, a small desk at the back with some kind of hanging rack with shelves for his clothes.

  If I weren’t so upset at the moment, I’d marvel that anyone manages to live like this. No wonder he was so horrified by the excesses of Hawaii.

  “Please tell me what the hell you were thinking,” he says, his voice tight with anger.

  I stare at his chest, unable to face him. I want to be mad but what I am, most of all, is heartbroken and humiliated.

  “It’s my fault for taking you at your word,” I say, my voice hoarse with tears. “I thought you actually meant it when you said you wanted to see me.”