The Deepest Blue

  “I don’t recall their names right now.”

  Just like Ms. Young said at lunch.

  “And when did you hire each of them?”

  Julia’s eyes roll up to the ceiling. “The first one was about six years ago, after I married my second husband. He didn’t have any luck tracking them down. About a year later I hired another one, and he found the address in North Carolina for me.”

  “But you don’t recall their names or the dates you hired them?”

  “I’m sure,” Julia said, a smirk forming on her lips, “I have it at home somewhere.”

  “Mrs. Mayers,” Ms. Young says in a voice that practically drips with sugar, “have you ever heard the term ‘borderline personality disorder’?”

  Julia blinks quickly, but her face doesn’t change. “I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

  “Have you heard it in any way applied to you?” Ms. Young’s voice is still sweet and gentle.

  “Absolutely not,” Julia says, mimicking the sugary tone of Ms. Young.

  “Could you explain to me, then,” Ms. Young says, producing a few sheets of stapled paper from under the notepad with all the flair of a TV legal show, “why the Seattle Office of Child and Family Welfare ordered you to seek therapy and take medication for a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder ten years ago before they would grant you the opportunity to visit with your son without your ex-husband being present?” Julia hands the paper to the bailiff, who looks at it and hands it to the judge.

  Julia’s face doesn’t flinch. “It was a misdiagnosis, one which I fought against for the next five years.”

  “I thought you just said you weren’t aware of this diagnosis as it applied to you personally.”

  “It didn’t,” Julia says, her voice calm. “I was previously diagnosed with anxiety and depression, both of which I was treated for as part of postpartum depression after Michael was born.”

  “And for which you continued taking medication even up to the time that your ex-husband left and removed Michael from the home?”

  “Yes, until Richard stole Michael from me.”

  “Only, you weren’t actually taking the medication. Michael watched you dump it down the sink on at least one occasion.”

  “He was just a little kid. His memory is confused by the lies his father told him for so many years.”

  Ms. Young tears out the drawing I made at lunchtime and hands it to the bailiff, who hands it to the judge. The judge looks it over, then looks at Ms. Young and nods.

  “Mrs. Mayers,” Ms. Young says, “do you recognize this?” She hands the drawing to Julia, who takes it as if Ms. Young were handing her a snake.

  “It’s the floor plan to the home we lived in when Michael was very small.”

  “Would you say, then, that it’s a fairly accurate representation?”

  “Not to scale, maybe, but yes, fairly accurate.”

  “Detailed?”

  Julia looks. She studies it.

  I even drew in her bay window with the house plants and my toy chest in the closet of my room.

  “Very detailed,” Julia says, her voice faint as if she realizes she has been caught.

  “Would you be surprised to know that Michael drew this from memory during our lunch break?”

  Julia doesn’t respond.

  “Mrs. Mayers, does that surprise you?” Ms. Young says more emphatically this time.

  “I haven’t seen my son in more than ten years. I don’t know him well enough to be surprised.”

  “But you’re certain he can’t have a good memory, that he can’t remember you pouring medication into the sink.”

  “His father told him that so he would hate me.” There is a hiss in Julia’s voice, and I know she is frustrated at having been caught.

  “Is that how you explain all the negative memories your son has of you?” Ms. Young says.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Mr. McIntyre says.

  “Sustained,” the judge says. “Ms. Young, please continue without leading the witness.” It’s a warning, not a polite request.

  “Let me rephrase the question,” Ms. Young says. “Why is it that your son can recall pleasant memories with detail, but those that are not so flattering to you are lies implanted by his father?’

  “Objection,” McIntyre says again, almost yelling at the judge.

  “Overruled,” the judge replies. “Mrs. Mayer, answer the question.”

  Julia looks at her lawyer, her eyes reflect just a hint of panic. “I’m not a psychologist. I can’t answer that.”

  “Would you agree that it is reasonable, then,” continues Ms. Young in her syrupy sweet voice, “that some of those unflattering memories might just be true?”

  “If you’re asking me was I a perfect mother, then the answer is no. But I was not the monster I’m being made out to be.” There is fear and frustration welling up in Julia. You can hear it in her voice, see it at the corners of her eyes.

  Ms. Young walks to her briefcase and sets it on the table next to me. She flips the latches open and reaches inside, then pulls out a small tape recorder, which she carries to the podium.

  “Your Honor,” Mr. McIntyre says, “may I inquire as to what nonsense Ms. Young is preparing for?”

  “It’s in the disclosure I faxed to you yesterday, Mr. McIntyre,” Ms. Young says. “If you’ll look on page five, you’ll see it there.” She takes another set of stapled papers from under the legal pad and hands them to the bailiff. “Transcripts,” she says.

  The bailiff nods, walks the papers to the judge, and returns to her post by the blonde woman whose fingers are flying over some sort of typewriter.

  The judge nods and sets the papers on her desk. “Proceed, Ms. Young.”

  Ms. Young looks at Julia, who is sitting up straight in defiance of her frustration. “Do you recall a phone call placed on or about July 12, nine years ago?”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” Julia says.

  “Do you recall referring to your son Michael as a,” she looks at her notes, then back at Julia, ‘parasite who can’t be far enough away’?”

  “I would never refer to Michael like that.”

  From the corner of my eye I see McIntyre squirm in his chair as he flips through a stack of white paper.

  Ms. Young switches on the small recorder, and it crackles to life in the microphone. There is a beep, like the sound of our old answering machine, and then a pause. Then it’s Julia’s voice, overlain with static and some unidentifiable noise in the background.

  “Pick up the phone, Rich.” There is a long pause and then a loud, obviously annoyed sigh. “Quit letting him call me, Rich. I don’t have the money to change my phone number, so quit having that little brat leave me messages trying to make me feel guilty. He’s nothing but a parasite who can’t be far enough away from me, and I don’t appreciate your trying to force me to interact with him.”

  There is the sound of a phone disconnecting with a violent slamming, then Ms. Young clicks off the tape recorder. The trick up the sleeve. Dad must have saved this, given it to Chuck years ago to keep in case something like this ever came up. Got it under control.

  Julia is stunned. McIntyre is leaning back in his chair, patting his face with a white handkerchief.

  I feel relieved. I feel like finally someone else knows the truth about her. Every muscle in my body twitches with excitement, but I hold perfectly still and fight to keep the smile off my face.

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Ms. Young collects her things and returns to the chair beside me. I want to jump up and hug her, but I hold completely still. She reaches over and pats my knee beneath the table, and then she scribbles something on the legal pad. She slides it over for me to read.

  “McIntyre isn’t stupid.”

  My enthusiasm dries up a little.

  “Opportunity to redirect, Your Honor,” McIntyre says.

  “Go ahead, Mr. McIntyre,” the judge says.

  He li
fts himself from the chair with great effort and returns to the podium. “Mrs. Mayers, how old is your son Steven?”

  Julia has been crying softly. She sniffs, takes a long, shaky breath, and dabs at her eyes with a tissue the judge has handed her. “He’s almost five now.”

  “The same age you lost Michael at.”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice cracking with emotion that I can’t decipher is real or faked.

  “How is your relationship with him?”

  “He’s a wonderful little boy, and I do everything I can to be with him as much as possible. I volunteered at his preschool, and when he starts kindergarten this fall, I’ll volunteer there, too.”

  “Do you work, Mrs. Mayers?”

  “No, I’m very fortunate to have a husband who makes a good enough living that I can stay home and be a fulltime mother.”

  “And are you currently taking any medication?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Can you explain to us, Mrs. Mayers, what would have caused you to say such a thing to your former husband about your son Michael?”

  Julia begins to sob, her shoulders bouncing up and down. “I had postpartum depression, the worst kind. It lasted for years after Michael was born. I was angry, I was hurt, and I felt so guilty about not being able to be the best mother to him that I lashed out at him and at Richard.” She is crying for real, and as much as I hate her, I feel a little sorry for her because this is the most genuine emotion I’ve ever seen out of her. “I would get these calls from him, I’d hear his little voice, and it was a terrible reminder of what a failure I was, and I couldn’t take that pain.”

  “Mrs. Mayers, what is it you want to have happen out of this? What outcome are you looking for by showing up now?” McIntyre’s voice is soothing, but I don’t trust him.

  “I just want to know my son. I just want the chance to be the kind of mother he deserves.”

  I nearly yell out “Bullshit!” but I grit my teeth so hard I think they might crack. Ms. Young puts a hand on my knee and squeezes tight.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mayers.”

  “You may step down,” the judge says. There is a long silence as the judge writes on her notepad and looks over documents. “Ms. Young, are you prepared for closing statements?” The judge looks over the top of her glasses at us.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Ms. Young steps up to the podium and proceeds to tell the judge all the reasons why I should be allowed to stay in Atlantic Beach, and especially why I should stay with Maggie. “Removing this young man and placing him into a situation that is foreign, taking him away from his support system when he has just lost his father, and relocating him to a place and with a woman of whom he holds so many terrible memories would be a devastating blow to his development and well-being.” Her voice is passionate and loud, echoing off the courtroom ceiling and punctuated by thunder.

  “Michael has grown into a healthy, well-adjusted young man who has a strong sense of himself and his future. He knows he is making a choice that is in his own best interest by requesting these arrangements. He understands the consequences of this decision, and he is prepared to embrace those consequences fully. Ms. Delaney is a responsible adult, one who took on the role of mother when she had no obligation to do so. She accepted the job even with no commitment from Mr. Wilson himself, though that was clearly forthcoming before his untimely death. To take this young man away from the only other family member he has would be untenable, and would be akin to losing another parent. Your Honor, he has already lost two parents in very difficult and tragic circumstances. It would be a shame for him to lose a third.”

  Ms. Young takes her yellow legal notepad, her stacks of papers, and returns to the chair beside me.

  “Mr. McIntyre,” says the judge.

  McIntyre heaves himself from the chair and heads to the center of the room. Sweat blotches darken the back of his beige suit.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” He clears his throat and dabs at his forehead again with the handkerchief. “Mrs. Mayers doesn’t claim to be perfect. She doesn’t claim to be without faults that, in the past, have led to mistakes and most assuredly, to regrets. But she does claim something that no one else in this room can claim: a blood tie to Michael. She is his biological mother, and therefore, in the eyes of the court and the eyes of the law, she is his legal parent and guardian.” He clears his throat again, and I wonder if he’s going to cough up a wad of phlegm in the middle of his lecture. “Mrs. Mayers has the love and support of a husband, which Ms. Delaney does not. She has the means to provide a lifestyle of advantage for Michael, which Ms. Delaney does not. But above all, she has the love that only a real mother can provide, the love that only blood can provide, which Ms. Delaney does not and will never have.”

  Behind me I can hear Maggie taking deep, shaking breaths, and I know that she is crying. I want to turn around and let her know that it’s going to be okay, but I’m too afraid to move. McIntyre is spinning a glass shell around us, and if I move wrong, it will shatter and fall in on us, and cut us all to shreds. I look at the judge to see if she is buying any of this crap. She is looking at the top of her desk, taking notes, giving nothing away.

  McIntyre finishes. “Thank you, Your Honor,” he says with a grandiose bow. She doesn’t acknowledge him.

  “We will reconvene tomorrow at one o’clock, at which time you’ll have my decision.” The judge looks up from the desk for the first time in a while.

  “All rise,” says the bailiff. We do.

  “This court is now in recess to reconvene at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  The judge leaves. We sit still. Julia and McIntyre huddle together, their heads almost touching. Ms. Young stands, takes my arm and pulls me up, nods toward the door, and we all make a hasty retreat to the hallway.

  It’s dark outside, though it’s only around four in the afternoon. The black clouds blotting the sky make it feel as if it’s midnight. I’m so exhausted I could drop to the floor like a pile of rags.

  Ms. Young pulls us into a knot and whispers, “I can’t get a clear read on the judge. I’d like to say I’m confident, but I’ll be honest, that last little stunt of Mrs. Mayer’s may have won her a few points.”

  Chuck puts an arm around my shoulder, and I want to pull away, but I can’t move. “What do you think she is likely to do?” he asks.

  “She’s a wild card,” Ms. Young says in a hushed voice. “I’ve only appeared before her once, but I’ve been studying her cases. She’s hard to figure out.”

  “I don’t feel good,” I say.

  “I’m sure it’s going to turn out fine,” Chuck says. He squeezes my shoulder.

  Maggie looks at me.

  “No, I mean . . .” I duck from under Chuck’s arm and find the nearest trash can into which to puke the soda I drank at lunch.

  Maggie takes a paper napkin from her pocketbook and wets it in the drinking fountain. She puts it on the back of my neck. “Blood is thicker than water. That’s crap,” she says. I laugh in spite of the foul taste in my mouth and the feeling I might hurl again. We sit on a wooden bench in the darkened hallway.

  “I think I’ve thrown up more in the past week,” I say, my voice sounding like a little kid’s, “than I have in my whole life combined.”

  “You goin’ for some kind of record?” Maggie asks. She smiles as she hands me the wet napkin.

  “Not on purpose,” I say.

  Maggie points to the drinking fountain on the wall near the door to the courtroom. “Go rinse out your mouth. You’ll feel better.”

  I take a gulp of water from the fountain, swish it around in my mouth, and then spit it out. I do it again.

  “Better?” Maggie asks as she moves beside me. She smiles at me.

  “I just want this all to be over. I want to go home and sleep, and play with Rocket, and ride my surfboard.” I want to see Rachel, too, but I leave that out.

  The storm outside is raging as we make our way to the car. We drive
to Maggie’s house and sit around the kitchen table. Rocket leans hard against my leg. The lights flicker overhead but stay on. My knees feel wobbly, like I just got off the boat for the first time after not being on land for months. I look at Chuck talking on his phone. A sudden surge of panic rushes through me like lightning, and my mouth opens before I know what I’m saying. “What about the boat?” Chuck stops. His brow furrows, and the lines of his mouth draw tight. He looks at Maggie.

  “Let me call you right back,” he says, then he slides the phone closed.

  “What about the boat?” I say.

  “What about it, Mike?”

  “What’s going to happen to it?” I don’t know why this is suddenly so important to me, but it is, and I need to know.

  “We haven’t gotten that far yet,” Chuck says.

  “Are we selling it? Is Jack Sutton gonna buy it?”

  Chuck lets out a sigh. “I don’t know yet, Mike. We’ll figure that out another day.”

  “We can’t let it sit too long. It needs maintenance. It needs work. I need to know what we’re gonna do with it, so I know what I need to do. Do I need to clean it up? Am I going to keep it and run charters? What are we doing?” My voice arcs.

  Chuck looks at Maggie, frantic and confused. “Can you help him understand?” he says.

  “Mike,” Maggie says firmly, “let’s get through tomorrow. We’ll talk about the boat after that, I promise.”

  I look at her. She’s not mad, but she has a serious look that says “drop it,” so I take a deep breath and hold it. I let it out slowly and wait for my heart to stop banging around like a gorilla trapped inside my chest.

  “If you try to take on everything at once, you’ll drown,” Maggie says. “Let’s just deal with today. Then we can figure out the rest later.”

  I let the pounding in my chest die down, sucking in air through my nose and letting it drift out. I can’t let go of the feeling that I need to deal with the boat. Then I hit on an idea. “I need to get out for a little while. Can I go with Jayd for a drive?”

  Maggie looks at Chuck, who has his head down, scrolling through something on his phone. She looks back at me. “Only for a little while. I’m afraid this storm is going to get worse, and we have a big day tomorrow.”