The Deepest Blue

  “Did you think your mother might hurt you?”

  My heart speeds up, and the words have to fight their way out of my mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I cast a quick look at Julia. Her eyes are wide, as if I’ve betrayed her or accused her of being a witch. I look at Maggie. She gives me a soft smile, like she knows how hard this is for me.

  “Why were you afraid that she would hurt you?” the judge continues.

  “Because she had almost hit me before. And she hit my dad,” I say, and a knot slips around my voice and tightens. I swallow and breathe out, trying to force my throat to relax.

  The judge raises her eyebrows, but she keeps writing, keeps her eyes on the notepad.

  “What did your father tell you about the reason you were leaving?”

  “The thing is,” I remember him saying, “the thing is your mom doesn’t want me around anymore. She doesn’t want to be married to me anymore.”

  “Dad said Julia didn’t want to be married to him anymore, that she didn’t want him around.”

  “Did you ever hear her say anything like that?”

  “A lot,” I say, and the words leap out of my mouth. “She blamed me and my dad for ruining her life. I even heard her say that she never wanted me.”

  “Your Honor, please.” Julia stands up. McIntyre wraps a pudgy set of fingers around her wrist and pulls on her, but Julia holds firm.

  “Mrs. Mayers,” the judge looks up from her notes, takes off her glasses, and stares at Julia. “I don’t want to have to remove you from the courtroom, but I will if you can’t control your outbursts. This is a court of law, not a TV talk show. We have rules.”

  “But Your Honor, it’s not fair,” Julia says, her voice a pathetic whine. McIntyre stands, putting his ample body between Julia and the judge. He whispers to her, and eventually she sits back down, propping her head in her hands.

  Part of me feels triumphant, like finally I get to confront her after all these years. Another part of me is confused.

  “Mr. Wilson,” Judge Crowther pulls my attention back to her. “Do you actually remember these things, or did your father tell you about them?”

  I guess I knew she would ask questions like this one, but I still feel anger burning in my solar plexus. “I remember them,” I say. “And Dad never liked to talk about any of it, so he didn’t have a chance to brainwash me.” I add emphasis to the world brainwash so that I make it clear to McIntyre and Julia that I’m not playing their game.

  “Did you ever ask about your mother? Ask to see her?”

  “When we first left, I asked if I could call home and make sure Julia was okay,” I say. “Dad never turned me down. In fact, one time he pulled off the freeway near Indianapolis so I could use a pay phone. He gave me about five bucks in quarters.” I laugh remembering how I struggled to hold all the change. “Then when he realized I was too short to put the money in the pay phone, he held me up so I could drop the coins in the slot.”

  I picture the pay phone at the rest stop, the big trucks pulling in, the greasy smell of the diner mixed with the pungent smell of diesel. I hear Julia’s voice as she answers the phone. And I remember her hanging up the second she realized it was me on the other end.

  “Did you ask to see her once you settled into your new home?” Judge Crowther asks, leaning toward me on the big desktop.

  “I asked once.”

  “And what did Mr. Wilson have to say?”

  “He dialed the phone for me and said that it was okay with him, but that I’d better ask Julia if it was okay.”

  “And?” The judge looks at me expectantly.

  The memory spills out. “When Julia answered the phone, I told her it was me, Mikey. She said, ‘Mikey who? I don’t know anyone bad enough to be named Mikey.’ I tried to explain to her who I was, because I thought maybe she had forgotten me. I was only six or so. So I said, ‘It’s me Mikey, your little boy who was in your tummy.’ Her answer,” I pause as the memory floods back to my heart and the tears flood into my eyes, “was ‘Oh, you must be that flu bug, that disease I got rid of. Quit calling me.’ And then she hung up on me.”

  Maggie’s hands cover her mouth, and I can see the red flesh surrounding her eyes. Julia’s head is buried in her hands. I look at the judge. “After that, I stopped asking to see her or even talk to her. One time she asked if I would fly out to see her, but I was only about ten years old, and she wanted me to fly by myself because she said she couldn’t afford two tickets. My dad couldn’t afford to buy a ticket and take time off work, so Julia told him just to forget it.”

  The judge finishes writing and sits quietly for a moment, then she looks at me. “I think we should all take a short recess right now.”

  “All rise,” says the lady officer. I head back to my chair.

  A few moments later, I stand in the hallway outside the courtroom. Chuck and Ms. Young are talking quietly in a corner. Their faces and gestures are firm and serious. Maggie is standing by a window, looking outside at the gathering clouds. I stand beside her, watching as the sky shifts from a pale blue to a dark, menacing blue-black that is spreading like an ink spill.

  “Mike,” Maggie says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, “I’m so very proud of how strong you are.”

  I lean into her, like Rocket leans on me in the morning. “I’m okay,” I say, because I know she is worried. “I’m sure it’s gonna get worse.”

  “Why do you think so?” Maggie asks. She doesn’t disagree with me, so it’s like she is just comparing notes with me on something inevitable.

  “That McIntyre guy is gonna say all kinds of stupid stuff. Julia is gonna say I made it all up. But I didn’t. I don’t need to make stuff up. She was the crazy one. She wrote all the best material herself.”

  Maggie sighs. “I feel so sad for her.”

  “What for?” I ask. I pull away from Maggie to see if she is joking. She isn’t.

  “What a terrible position to be in, knowing that your own child would rather be raised by anyone else but you.”

  “It’s her own fault,” I say. “She’s the one who didn’t want me to call. She’s the one who told me I was a disease.” The muscles in the backs of my arms and my shoulders begin to tense, like I want to draw back my arm and punch my fist through a wall. I resist the anger, resist the rage. Those are Julia’s qualities, and I don’t want anything to do with her.

  We stand in silence as the sky outside trembles with distant thunder. Chuck hands an envelope to Ms. Young and then walks toward us. “You’re doing great,” he says. “Sylvia said she thought you handled everything just right.”

  I don’t feel any relief at hearing this. “It’s not her I’m worried about. It’s the judge.” Every inch of my body prickles like sunburn. I ache, I’m tired, I just want this over with.

  “The judge has to keep an open mind until all the evidence is presented.” Ms. Young has moved next to Chuck. “She has to play devil’s advocate, if you will.”

  “It feels like she’s already made up her mind,” I say. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  Ms. Young smiles kindly at me. “It isn’t about if she likes you or not. She just has to accept that what you want is what’s truly in your best interest. You’ve done a fine job of showing her that you know your mind and that what you’re asking for is not unreasonable.”

  “But what about that McIntyre guy?” I say. “He’s going to try to make me look like I’m an idiot.”

  “But you’re not,” Ms. Young says. “So he can try, but if you stay true to what your heart says, as clichéd as that sounds, you’ll be just fine.”

  The bailiff signals us to return to the courtroom. I practically run to my chair to avoid being close to Julia. Ms. Young takes her place next to me.

  “All rise,” the bailiff says.

  The judge enters from the secret room behind the big desk. “You may be seated,” she says as she takes her place. “Mr. Wilson, will you please resume your place on the stand.” She motions t
o the chair I had been sitting in before.

  I move toward the desk again.

  “Let me remind you,” the judge says in a serious voice, “that you are still under oath.”

  I nod to her as I sit. “Ms. Young, are you ready to proceed?”

  Ms. Young steps up to the podium and nods at the judge. “Your Honor, I’d like to address the issue of custodial care.”

  “Proceed,” the judge says. She picks up her pen, and I can see it has the pale blue of the University of North Carolina Tar Heels on it.

  “Mike,” Ms. Young says, “tell me about your dad. How did you two get along?”

  I turn to look at her. “He was sort of like my best friend. Except he made me go to bed on time and stuff like that.”

  She flashes her broad, warm smile at me. “You were close to your dad, weren’t you?”

  “He was everything to me,” I say. The ache in my heart forces a lump to move up my throat. I swallow against it and fight back the tears that threaten in the corners of my eyes again. “He took care of me, he gave up everything for me because he wanted me to be happy and safe.”

  “And you worked for him, too?”

  “I worked with him,” I said. “He taught me how to run the charters, taught me everything about the boat. He always said I was his partner.”

  “Did he pay you?” Ms. Young looks at her notes, like I haven’t already told her all about this.

  “Yeah, he paid me, but he also put a lot of my earnings into my savings account for college.”

  “How long did your dad and Miss Delaney know each other?”

  I think back to when they first met, when I was about nine or ten years old. “Dad used to do a lot of handiwork around Indian Beach, Atlantic Beach, and Salter Path when the tourist season was over. Maggie called him to fix a hole in her roof. He asked her did she mind if he brought his boy and she said no.” I look up at Maggie. She looks into my eyes like we are sharing the moment all over again.

  “She had this cute puppy,” I say, recalling when Rocket and I were both a lot smaller. “I played with the puppy and ate tuna sandwiches this nice lady made while my dad fixed her roof.” The lump in my throat is choking the words from me, and I have to swallow hard several times so I can finish. “Maggie gave me crayons to play with and talked to me while Dad finished the work. When he was done, she tried to pay him, but Dad said he owed her more for babysitting than she owed for the roof.”

  Tears sparkle on Maggie’s cheeks, but she keeps looking at me. Thunder grumbles low outside.

  “How long did your father and Miss Delaney see each other for?”

  “Five years, maybe a little more,” I say. “He had gone to buy her an engagement ring when he got in his accident.” The empty feeling that surges through my core is cold and draining. I want to put my head down and sleep for just a moment, but I keep my eyes glued to Maggie’s.

  “Your father intended to marry Miss Delaney?”

  “He hadn’t picked a date, but knowing Dad, it would have been soon. Once he made up his mind about something, he went to work getting things done.”

  “How did you feel about his decision?”

  An inadvertent chuckle escapes like a cough. “I thought it was about time.” I smile at Maggie. “I thought he should have asked her a long time before.”

  “And why do you think he took so long in asking?” Ms. Young asks. She thumbs through more papers in front of her.

  “Because he wanted to be sure,” I say. I slow down, unsure if I should add the rest or not. Ms. Young looks up at me and nods. I keep going. “He didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. Julia really hurt him, and he didn’t want to put me in danger again.”

  “Michael, how do you feel about Miss Delaney?”

  The cold, empty feeling gives way to a spreading warmth. “She’s totally the coolest. She’s been like a mom to me for almost five years, watching out for me and my dad, taking care of me when I got sick, helping me with homework, talking to me about girls and stuff.”

  Chuck puts a hand on Maggie. Her head drops, and I can tell she doesn’t want me to see her cry.

  “Maggie is probably more strict than my dad, too, but I know she loves me—and she loved my dad.”

  “How did Miss Delaney react when you asked her to be your guardian?”

  “I asked her to be my mom,” I say, then I look at Julia. “Anybody can be a guardian, but not just anybody can be a mom.”

  “So how did she react to your asking her to be your mom?” Ms. Young looks up from her notes. Her broad smile hasn’t faded a bit.

  “She was scared, and she said we would both have to learn a lot about how to be a family, but she said she loved me. She said she would love to be my mom.”

  The thunder pounds against the window like angry fists. It startles everyone in the room, jolting us to attention.

  “Michael,” Ms. Young says in a firm voice, “why are you so resistant to seeing your real mother and to living with her?”

  I knew this one was coming, but still it causes me to flinch. I take in a deep breath while the words organize themselves in my head. “Because this is where I live, this is my home here in North Carolina with the Wolf Pack and the Tar Heels, the beach, the boat. My friends are here,” I say, “my life is here. This is where I’ve grown up and where I want to finish growing up.” I look straight at Julia as I finish. “And just because she gave birth to me doesn’t make her my ‘real’ mother. A real mother doesn’t call you a disease and tell you to leave her alone.”

  Julia looks me in the eye, but her lower lip quivers, and I can tell she is afraid of what I’m saying because it’s true.

  “I believe that’s all I have for Mr. Wilson,” Ms. Young says.

  The judge drops her pen on the desk. “Mr. McIntyre?”

  The slime-ball attorney stands and makes his way to the podium as Ms. Young returns to the desk. My stomach folds back on itself and threatens to push what little is down there out onto the desk.

  “Michael,” Mr. McIntyre begins. He flips to a page on his white notepad. “I’m so sorry about the loss of your father.”

  I want to remind him that he never knew my dad so how could he be sorry, but I hold my tongue.

  “Do you remember much about living in Seattle?”

  “Some,” I say. “I remember our house. I remember my bedroom and my friends. I remember driving to the San Juan Islands for vacation and going to see my grandparents once.”

  “But you were very young when you lived there,” he says. “You probably don’t remember much about being so young.”

  “I remember my room had wallpaper with trains on it. I had a lamp with a little red, yellow, and blue train that ran around the bottom. And the drawers of my dresser were painted red, yellow, and blue.” I know what he’s trying to do, so I want to show him how much detail I do remember. “My friend Jeffy lived two doors down from us. He had red hair and freckles on his nose that his mom called fairy kisses. One time Julia told me I couldn’t play with him anymore because Jeffy’s mom had said something mean to her, so he couldn’t be my friend.”

  Mr. McIntyre looks at his papers, takes a quick glance at Julia like maybe she forgot to tell him some things, then he flips through the notebook again.

  “You say you remember hearing your parents fight, but do you ever remember seeing them have an argument?”

  “Lots of times,” I say. “When Julia wouldn’t take her medication and they fought, I was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, but the table blocked them from seeing me. When Julia spent all the money they needed for bills buying clothes and shoes, I was standing at the top of the stairs looking down into the front room.”

  Mr. McIntyre looks straight at me. “Do you remember this, or is this what Mr. Wilson, your father, told you?”

  “I watched them. I remember seeing them.” I can hear the slight quiver in my voice, like I’m suddenly four again and I am sitting behind the sofa, hiding from my parents as they fight
. I remember Julia throwing something breakable at my dad, and I flinch as I hear it shatter again in my head.

  “Your father didn’t really want you to have a relationship with your mother, did he?”

  McIntyre makes this a statement, like everyone in the room knows this to be gospel truth.

  “He just didn’t want me being hurt over and over,” I say. My knee begins bouncing up and down, and I’m trying not to blow up at this guy. “He let me call whenever I wanted, but it didn’t take long before I didn’t want to call anymore.”

  “But if your father had continued to encourage you, then it stands to reason that your mother would have gotten over her anger and been able to have a close relationship with you.”

  “So why didn’t she call me, then?”

  The judge sits up a little straighter, and McIntyre snaps his balding head to look at Ms. Young. She frowns at me, but it seems like if I don’t ask a few tough questions myself, no one is ever going to know the truth, how it really happened.

  “Mr. Wilson, you will limit your responses to answering the questions posed.” The judge has put on her glasses again and is looking over the top of them at me. I half expect her to shake her finger at me and click her tongue in a tsk, tsk sound.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, and I try to fake politeness even though I’m so pissed off I could start throwing fists.

  McIntyre has moved over to the table next to Julia and is having a whispered conversation with her. He nods his head and waddles back to the podium. Lightning rips past the only window and shoots a flash of light into the far corner of the room. Almost immediately, the window rattles again with thunder that seems to explode inside the courthouse.

  “Mr. Wilson,” the heavy guy in beige says, then “Mike,” in a voice like he thinks the two of us are real buddies, “tell me about the trip you took to the San Juan Islands.”

  He catches me off guard with this request, so I have to take a minute to search through my memories and find the right ones. “It was summer,” I say. I can feel the heat and humidity pressing on me as we loaded suitcases into the car. “We packed everything into the silver car we had and drove to the ferry. I know it wasn’t all that far, but I wanted to see the boat, so it felt like it took forever. I remember thinking it was weird that you could drive your car on the boat.”