Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  But the holiday and Lamb’s news are like acid in my stomach, slowly eating me from the inside out. By the time the last activity of the day ends, I’m desperate for some fresh air, a small break from the façade. I still need to contact Ned, but I have a little time before I reach the twenty-four mark—the designated time frame before Ned is supposed to call the police.

  I head outside, toward the beach. The sun is setting, a red lantern hanging low in the sky, cloaking the world in a bloody veil. Christina is outside too, talking to one of the participants near the patio doors. She has changed into an off-white dress. In normal light, she would have looked—not quite beautiful—but elegant, and certainly bridal. But in the sunset, the dress is on fire.

  It’s more peaceful near the ocean. I need something peaceful. I plop down on the sand and let the waves massage my feet. I put my head between my knees and squeeze my eyes shut.

  I don’t know what to make of Lamb’s disappearance.

  Does that mean that he and Reese are both dead? It seems like too big of a coincidence that they are both missing. Did they go off, after the retreat, and run into trouble? Or did they die here? Perhaps by accident? Or maybe they’re both hiding. Together? Separately? I’ve never considered, not really, the possibility that Reese voluntarily went missing, but perhaps if the situation were dire enough, she might think that was her only option.

  Reese has always wanted to leave Nashville. She brought up the topic numerous times over the years, but one memory in particular is seared into my brain. We had just finished a hike at Percy Warner Park—that was my go-to when the cravings were bad in the early stage of my recovery—and we sat on the steps overlooking Belle Meade Boulevard. From that vantage point, you can only see two parallel roads in a carpet of trees. The foliage fades into the horizon, and it’s as if you’re sitting on the throne of nature, the gatekeeper to the end of the world.

  “If you could,” Reese asked, head in hands, “would you give up a year of your life to sail around the world?”

  I don’t like to travel much. Spending hours packing and getting from point A to point B, sleeping in a foreign bed, being stripped of your belongings—the experience exhausts me. Plus, I get terrible motion sickness. The last time I was on a boat, I spent my time leaning over the railing, retching. Every time I thought I was finished, the boat would rock, my footing would become unsteady, I would catch a whiff of fish or sulfide, and I would be right back where I started.

  “That sounds fucking terrible,” I replied.

  Reese threw her head back and laughed. She couldn’t contain herself—tears streaked her cheeks, and she had to grab hold of my wrist to steady herself. When she could speak again, she nudged my shoulder with hers.

  “Oh come on,” she pleaded. “The experience would be so amazing. I’d see every wonder of the world: the Egyptian pyramids, the Great Wall of China, the palace of Versailles. Yellowstone. There’s so much beauty out there, and I’ve only seen a sliver of it. I’ve never even left Tennessee, you know?”

  “Really?” I asked. “Not even when you were a kid?”

  “No. We couldn’t afford it. Even if we could, we weren’t the family-vacation type. I always thought I would leave when I got older, but then I had to work on getting sober. And now I’m with the Nashville Dance Company. It’s funny—before you know it, life can slip through your fingers.”

  “Wouldn’t you get lonely, though? Not seeing your friends for a whole year?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I make friends pretty easily. I could meet people along the way. And besides, some of my loneliest times were in a crowd of people.”

  I stared out at the road ahead of me, mulling over her words. It was autumn, and the surrounding trees were butter yellow. It was like standing on a pot of gold. How could Reese want to leave this?

  “I would miss you, though,” Reese said, as if she were inside my brain. “I’d land every few days so I could send you a postcard. That way, it’d be like you were traveling with me.”

  “You’d better,” I said. “I’d be worried sick if you didn’t.”

  48

  Reese

  “How ya doin’, sailor?” Lamb asked as I leaned over the side of the boat, watching the island disappear into the horizon. He grazed my face with his thumb and index finger, brushing away a stray lock of hair that was stuck to my forehead. I flinched at his touch and pushed him away. I was still fuming that he was here.

  “I told Christina I didn’t want to spend the day with you,” I said.

  Lamb’s shoulders fell. “I begged her. You kept avoiding me last night, and this was the only way I could think to spend time with you.”

  I went to the other side of the boat, where Henry and the scuba instructor were whispering. Lamb gripped my arm, a little too tightly.

  “Let go,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “No, you can’t keep walking away,” he shouted. I saw Henry and the scuba diver glance in our direction. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

  He had been prodding all morning, ever since he’d sauntered onto the boat. Once he had boarded, my jaw on the floor at the sight of him, the scuba instructor immediately motored away. I was trapped, and I didn’t even see it coming.

  Lamb had been pleading with me ever since, for the past thirty minutes or so, and I was at my wit’s end. The boat was only so big, and there were only so many ways to say no. I finally snapped.

  “Because there’s nothing to say,” I yelled. I could feel three sets of eyes on me, but I was too livid to care anymore. “You lied to me. You told me you weren’t seeing Trixie, and then I caught you fucking her in the crew’s room.”

  Lamb looked taken aback. I didn’t usually curse. Or shout.

  “How do you think that made me feel?” I continued. “If you had been honest about seeing other people from the beginning, I might have understood, but you didn’t. You lied right to my face, over and over again.” I started laughing. I felt like a maniac, lost at sea. “And you know what the worst part is? I actually thought you were different from all the other guys I’ve dated. You seemed responsible, mature, considerate. You fed me all this bullshit about wanting a long-term relationship and feeling something special between us, and it turns out, you’re just like all the other losers I’ve slept with.”

  Lamb’s Adam’s apple quivered as he swallowed.

  “Well,” I shouted with open arms. “Say something. You wanted to talk, so go ahead.”

  “You’re right,” he finally said. “I should have been honest about seeing Trixie. I wasn’t ready to commit after that first night, but now I am. Please, please give me another chance.”

  He got down on his knees, put his arms around my waist, and buried his head in my stomach.

  “Get up.” He didn’t move. “Lamb, get up right now before I really lose my temper.”

  The resolution in my voice must have been convincing, because Lamb slowly got to his feet. He peered at me, desperation in his eyes. I told myself it wasn’t going to work. Although I’ll admit, it did feel nice to still be wanted.

  I could still feel the scuba instructor’s eyes on us. After an awkward minute of silence, he cleared his throat.

  “Should we get a move on then? We’re ready.”

  During all my yelling, I hadn’t realized the boat had stopped.

  “I think that would be wise,” I said. I walked over to where he was standing. Eventually, Lamb followed, his shoulders hunched in defeat. The tension between us was still palpable, but the scuba instructor continued an attempt to neutralize the situation.

  “Okay, just remember: Follow my lead, don’t come up too fast, and always, always breathe.”

  I tried to set aside my feelings about Lamb and recall the scuba diving rules hammered into my brain this morning as I practiced descending, ascending, and keeping a neutral buoyancy in the shallow waters of the lagoon near the mansion. At the time, I had thought it was odd that I was practicing alone, but Henry and the s
cuba instructor had assured me that my date had already been prepped. Now, I knew the real reason my date had been missing.

  Just breathe, I thought. Now was not the time to be angry; I needed calm. I needed to focus on what the scuba instructor was saying.

  “Do you remember what happens if you rise too quickly or don’t breathe?” The scuba instructor asked.

  “You rupture your lungs or ears. Or both,” I answered. Again, I tried to recall his exact words to keep my mind occupied. He had told me that I had to lower and raise myself slowly so my body could adjust to the pressure differences, or my organs would pop like balloons. It made me nervous then, and I was still nervous. Those were some serious repercussions.

  The scuba instructor proceeded to demonstrate, again, how to clear our masks and read our gauges, which let us know how much air remained in our tanks. He showed us his scuba-dive computer, which he kept on his wrist, that tracked our time and our depth. He said we wouldn’t go deeper than eighteen meters, which meant absolutely nothing to me.

  “And don’t touch anything,” the scuba instructor added.

  “There aren’t, uh . . . sharks, are there?” Lamb asked. It seemed as if the instructions, the warnings, and the imminent risk had distracted him from our earlier fight as well.

  “No dangerous sharks, no. Just blacktips,” the instructor responded.

  “How do I know if it’s a blacktip and not a . . . dangerous one?”

  “The blacktip shark has a black tip on its fin.” The scuba was kind enough to say this last bit without much condescension.

  “And what does a dangerous shark look like?”

  “Well . . . there are tiger sharks. Those have stripes on the side, like a tiger,” the instructor said as he brushed three fingers in a horizontal position across his left rib cage. “But, the stripes do go away with age.”

  Oh, great. So no identifying marks for the adult man-eating sharks. The instructor must have sensed our increasing fear. He softened, tried to placate us.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.

  “And you’re sure we don’t need, like, a suit?” Lamb asked as he pointed to his bare body, clad only in swimming trunks.

  “No,” the instructor said. “That’s only for cold water.”

  As the instructor exchanged a few words with Henry, Lamb and I strapped on our flippers in silence. When we finished, we got into position, our legs dangling over the side into the ocean. Lamb cleared his throat and straightened his posture.

  “It’ll be great,” Lamb said. “People do this all the time, and we have a pro with us. One of my buddies did it for the first time about a year ago, and he said it was one of the greatest experiences of his life. We’ll see some seahorses, coral reef, schools of fish . . .”

  “You’re right,” I replied, with about as much conviction as he had. I was still angry with him, but right then, I needed encouragement more than I needed my pride. “It’ll be awesome. People do this all the time.”

  “They wouldn’t let anything happen to us out here,” Lamb continued. Despite his words, there was uncertainty in his voice. I had a bad feeling about the date, and I wondered if it was too late to call the whole thing off.

  Before that thought could muster speed or strength, the instructor came up behind us and gave us the “go” signal. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the remainder of my nerves, put on my mouthpiece, and went under.

  49

  Ann

  On the beach, eyes still firmly shut, I’m still reminiscing about Reese. Reliving a better time in my life when she was by my side. I contemplate how things could have gone so wrong. And then, the present catches up to me like a slap in the face: An ear-piercing scream pulsates across the beach.

  It’s so out of the blue, I almost think I imagined it. But the sound is too shrill, too alarming. I jump up and glance toward the cry. I see Sally—Small Sally—in the distance, running toward me. She’s in a life vest; it dwarfs her small frame. She’s barefoot.

  I take off to meet her.

  I run faster than I’ve ever run before. I don’t feel my legs or the sand beneath my feet. I just focus on her face—her panicked, wild-eyed face, with tendrils of wet hair flopping in the wind—and I close the distance between us.

  “Sally,” I cry when I’m within earshot. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “It’s Dermot,” she screams. Ocean water drips from her hair, her life jacket. Her bathing suit is like a wet rag. “He fell. He said the harness was too loose. He said it, he said it.”

  “Okay, slow down,” I say as I put the pieces together. Dermot is one of the participants—Doctor Dermot. He and Sally went on a one-on-one date together today. “Where did he fall? From parasailing?”

  “Yes, yes.” She nods. “He hit the water. It was so loud. Like a brick. He won’t wake up. He said it was too loose, he said it.”

  I glance behind her to evaluate the scene. With my eyes closed and my mind occupied, I hadn’t noticed the speedboat approaching. I see that it’s on the shore now, the lime-green parasail floating lazily in the water. There are several handlers surrounding a stretch of beach near the boat, huddled around something. Dermot, most likely. In their black uniforms, they look like officers at a crime scene. Two handlers are running toward us. I don’t have a lot of time.

  “They were trying to calm me down,” Sally continues. “They said he was going to be fine, but he’s not moving, Ann. He’s not moving.”

  “How did you get away?” I ask.

  “I told them I just needed some air. They weren’t listening. I need someone to listen to me. To believe me.” She gazes at me with full-moon eyes.

  “I believe you,” I say as the handlers approach. “I believe you.”

  50

  Reese

  We descended slowly into the water, just like we had practiced that morning. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but once they did, I was enveloped by the velvet blue of the ocean. A few fish darted around us, but for the most part, the sea was still and unmoving, creating a soundless void that was eerily peaceful.

  I watched our instructor carefully as he studied his wrist computer, and I waited for the hand signals that told us to descend or pause. We continued to lower methodically, but it felt unnatural. I was used to diving into the water headfirst, unbothered by depth or speed, so this snail’s pace of a descent felt like a trap—a suspension in time and space.

  Once we reached about ten feet below the surface, Lamb touched my wrist and nodded toward the ocean floor, careful not to make any sudden movements. I was nervous to take my eyes off the instructor, but something about Lamb’s demeanor told me it was worth it.

  It was. Vibrant coral skeletons carpeted the floor. The reef extended as far as the eye could see, no two square inches alike. Finger-like trees of soft pink. Tubes of violet. Shrubs of baby blue. Ribbons of burnt orange. And fish—of every shape, size, and color—slipped in and out of the ocean’s garden. There were angelfish with black-and-white zebra stripes. Arrowhead fish the color of daisies. Puffer fish that ballooned to the size of my head. I had never seen so much color; every shade of the rainbow was highlighted in the ecosystem. It didn’t even appear real.

  I grinned behind my regulator mouthpiece. I forgot about my worries, just like that. The uneasiness I had felt was pushed to a corner of my mind. This was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, the most beautiful moment I had ever experienced. This was why I had come to the retreat: to witness magic. Beautiful, breathtaking magic.

  Closer to the ocean floor, I spotted an enormous sea turtle swimming through the reef. She was my size, between five and six feet. She didn’t have a hard shell—more like a leather jacket. Canary-yellow fish nibbled at her head, her shell, her arms, but she didn’t seem to mind. She kept sucking on the reef. There were several other turtles nearby; they looked more like the animals I recognized: greenish, hard shell, smaller than my torso. But the life-size turtle was my favorite. I thought I even detected
a grin, but that was likely wishful thinking.

  At one point, I was engulfed by a school of fish—hundreds and hundreds of cherry-red fish the size of my palm. An underwater poppy field. I was drunk with happiness. I giggled as the fish tickled my arms, legs, cheeks. Bubbles rose above my head. I wasn’t supposed to laugh—it used more compressed oxygen than necessary—but I couldn’t help it. Lamb seized my hand to pull me out of the field. If he hadn’t, I think I would have stayed in that position until my dying day.

  We needed to keep up with the instructor, who was approaching a murky object in the distance. The water grew thicker and more turbulent. I had to strain my eyes to see. Eventually, I realized the object was a ship on its side. It was rife with holes, covered in silt and various marine life. It was a sad picture. I imagined the sailors on board, separated from their home, their families, their friends. Forever lost at sea.

  And then I stopped.

  I realized why the water was unsettled.

  Sharks. Dozens of sharks, circling above the wreck. Taunting us. Taunting me. I held my breath before I remembered that I had to breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

  There were so many of them. Their massive bodies glided weightlessly in the water. I tried to inspect their fins, to check if they were blacktip sharks, but it was impossible from that angle. The instructor gave us the “okay” hand signal, although his body language didn’t convey the same message. He pointed away from the animals, and we backed away slowly, our eyes never leaving the wreck. The sharks didn’t seem to notice us, which helped me stay calm. I reminded myself most shark attacks were accidents; they confused humans with other types of prey.