The Ocean Inside

by Janna McMahan

  In her bathroom, Sloan stared into the mirror at her pale, sweaty self. When would this stop? It seemed she spent every waking moment anxious. She couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t put it out of her mind. But she had no alternative. She didn’t have the freedom to unburden herself. Everything seemed to be going better for her family right now and if she opened up about Cal and Ronald and Verulo, things would spiral right back into the dark abyss they were only now beginning to escape.

  She watched her mother’s mind wander as they meandered through the inland grocery store Sloan had come to loathe. Her mother insisted they continue to shop here, since their money situation was still dire. Even though she had planned their meals for the coming week, it took her forever to make selections. Her mother seemed particularly overwhelmed by the cereal, so Sloan had made those decisions. As they rounded the end of an aisle next to the checkout counters, her mother stopped at a stack of Sunday newspapers from Charleston and suddenly became engrossed.

  The Post and Courier headline above the fold read, “Millionaire Real Estate Developer’s Financial Fall Leads to Drug Charge.” The story featured a photograph of Cal’s father exiting a yellow courthouse, wearing a crisp tie under his tailored jacket, the air slightly lifting his smooth hair.

  Her mother read down. “Says here Trip Wannamaker is going belly-up on a couple of his larger developments. Apparently his McMansions aren’t selling and he was looking for some quick money to keep his real estate company afloat.” Her mother paused in her reading and then said, “They’re getting it on conspiracy and money laundering too.”

  “They who?”

  “The article says, ‘local restaurant-owner and wine expert Alejandro Aldrete was also indicted. From Mexico City, Aldrete has been living in South Carolina’s coastal community for a dozen years, allegedly plying his neighbors with more than fresh gazpacho and thick steaks.’”

  Her mother scanned the rest of the article. “Apparently, the Wannamakers have been of interest for a while. Seems authorities suspected the restaurant was a money laundering scheme and that cocaine was fueling Wannamaker’s commercial development company. Even Joseph Wannamaker’s container business in the Port of Charleston is being investigated.”

  “Can I read it?” Sloan asked.

  Her mother handed her the paper and then checked the grocery list. Sloan read quickly and flipped the paper open to an inside page where the story continued. She found Cal’s arrest referred to in one paragraph as “the incident that triggered local and state authorities to move in earlier than planned on their investigation into Wannamaker and Aldrete.” The raid on the restaurant had been the talk of the town. So, what started as party favors ended up as charges of conspiracy to possess and distribute.

  Cal was lucky to be hiding out in rehab and missing all the excitement. Sloan would always wonder if he had known Verulo before the Mexico trip, if it had all been planned, their meeting like that, becoming involved so quickly. There were so many things about Cal and his family that she would never know.

  Sloan finished the article and breathed a sigh of relief. Once again she had escaped mention. Every day she expected a call from an investigator. But one day slipped into the next without incident and after a while she allowed herself the smallest hope that she would survive. She didn’t fear Verulo as much as she once had. She’d overheard Larry say Cal’s cargo had been so light that it must have been a trial run. Larry said the line of distribution was cut in this area so smugglers would simply move on to other opportunities. The entire coast was like a sieve of rivers and estuaries. Sloan felt assured that Verulo would just wait in Cancún for his next set of college kids to approach so he could start the whole process again.

  She’d never told anyone about Verulo. Even LaShonda, who had tried so hard to get Sloan to unburden herself, had ended up empty-handed. LaShonda had phoned her shortly after the bust, but Sloan had quickly asked her to never call again and then, as an added measure, she had blocked her number. LaShonda wasn’t really her friend. She was only interested in Sloan for the same reason Sloan had been attracted to Cal—the rush of being included, a glimpse into another life. It had been a minor friendship and one Sloan could no longer afford to keep. She made an effort to avoid any place LaShonda might be, including the gardens.

  Her parents hadn’t pressured her, but they had fished for information, always examining what Sloan said, asking questions when opportunities arose, probing where they shouldn’t have. Larry had lurked around their house for a long time like some sort of lie detector, but he’d eventually given up and gone home. Sloan wasn’t giving out information. Not to anybody.

  “Honey, we need juice and milk. Would you mind running over to the dairy case?”

  “No. I’ll be right back.” As she walked away her phone vibrated in her pocket and she checked. It was Cal calling from rehab. She never answered, but afterward she listened to the messages he left. They were nice messages, nothing that would implicate her. He was careful. Just short bursts of emotion, how lonely he was, how much he missed her. She’d never called him back. If there was one thing she’d learned from Cal, it was to be careful about mobile phone records.

  She’d thought about him so much over the past few weeks. Tried to dissect him and figure him out. Was Cal a good person who did bad things or was he a bad person who struggled to be good? Maybe that was something he could find out while he was in rehab…or prison. It was certain she wouldn’t be in his life to find out for herself. Still, she missed him every day.

  Sloan hated the sour funky smell of the milk case. Cold kissed her arms as she reached for a white carton. She had forgotten to wear her sweatshirt and she was freezing in her flip-flops and shorts. Grocery stores were like meat lockers compared to the searing heat of a South Carolina summer. She was thinking about Cal, wondering if he was sweating his upcoming hearing, what the weather was like in Arizona, if he was lounging around by a pool or sitting through a counseling session. She was ripped from her thoughts when she heard her name.

  Abraham Washington sauntered up the aisle toward her. He wore faded blue coveralls and had a grocery basket looped over one arm. His coveralls made a soft brushing sound.

  “Hello, Mr. Washington,” Sloan said. She prepared for questions.

  “Miss Sullivan, nice to see you.”

  “Yes, sir. Nice to see you.”

  “Miss Sullivan, I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My nephew, Ronald, do you know where he is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Sloan’s heart thumped over in her chest, but she kept the calm expression she had perfected over the past few weeks. She paused before she spoke, selected her words carefully.

  “I’m sorry?” she said.

  “Just tell me if he’s dead or alive so I can stop thinking about him. I worry about him, I do.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  Abraham Washington was standing there as if he had all the time in the world to listen to her. As if she could take a week to think about her answer and it wouldn’t make any difference to him.

  “Honey, please tell me what happened to Ronald,” the old man said softly.

  She felt the burn of tears threatening, so she cast her eyes down. Suck it up, she told herself. Don’t fall apart now. She raised her head and stared him directly in the eyes.

  “I don’t know anything about him,” she said as she pulled a thin smile across her face. “I really don’t, Mr. Washington.”

  She had been expecting to flip through the paper one day and there would be Ronald staring back at her. It would be a small story, a sidebar, below a photo of him. His body would have been recovered by an angler or the article would state how long Ronald Jones had been missing. There would be a number.

  “Nobody has to get in trouble. I just need to know, for my own self,” the old man said. “I’d never tell a soul. I just want to lay my worries down.”

&
nbsp; Verulo’s rhythmic words were tattooed on her mind. “If you talk, we will know.”

  A sincere threat.

  “Mr. Washington,” she said, “again, I’m so sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Sea Change

  Lauren pushed the file cabinet drawer shut with a solid thud and handed the new volunteer an information sheet to fill out.

  “Just take your time,” she said to the bright-eyed, hopeful young woman. “Bring it back to me when you’re finished.”

  Lauren watched the prospective volunteer move into a waiting area to fill out her form. She scanned the room for anyone else needing help, anyone looking for directions to the cafeteria or maternity. Seeing no person in need, she refocused on her computer screen where she was completing her volunteer list.

  In August, Ainslie had returned to school and Lauren had had a reality check about their financial situation. Even after paying off every bill, there was substantial debt.

  Larry had come through in a big way. Instead of allowing Common Good to pay the outstanding bills, which would have meant more months of delay while they negotiated with healthcare providers over what they called reasonable and customary charges, Larry had forced the insurance company to cut a lump sum check. He’d also taken some money out to pay his expenses.

  It arrived in Larry’s office the second week of June.

  “I’m holding the check in my grubby little hands,” Larry said when he called. “It’s all going to be okay. We’ll get your bills paid and get ya’ll back on track ASAP.”

  Lauren had wept with relief. Larry had been as good as his word. He’d totaled Ainslie’s bills and paid the healthcare providers each bottom line without question since they had waited so long. The medical savings specialist had found only a few small discrepancies, and overall, the billing statements were accurate, if not user-friendly.

  Larry had tacked on a “dicking around fee” which paid off his costs and those of the medical savings specialist. But even with that cushion, the money was quickly dispersed and there was very little left to pay other non-medical outstanding bills.

  Lauren spent weeks making sure their credit rating was repaired. It was during one of these financial marathons that she realized she had to get a job, at least a part-time job. Emmett hadn’t made any move to come back. If they got divorced, she would need a source of income. He didn’t make enough money to keep two households. Lauren had been looking at For Sale signs in yards of smaller homes. She’d even been wondering if she should move to Summerville and live with her parents for a while. Ainslie would be closer to MUSC, and surely the job market would be better there.

  While she waited for things to pan out or go ahead and fall apart with her husband, Lauren had started scanning the want ads. One Sunday she found an in-column ad in the jobs section for a hospital volunteer coordinator. Lauren recalled what Emmett had said about her organizational skills. She surely knew more about hospitals than the average person. She could direct people to the right place, help them find information. She certainly had the understanding and compassion the job would require.

  Lauren searched the Internet until she found a site with a quick reference for creating a résumé. She printed the guide, then set about enumerating her qualifications. Her résumé was nothing to be proud of, or so she thought at first. But once she started listing all the committees she had served on, all the fundraisers she had chaired, all her volunteer work, Lauren had had to cut information to contain her experiences on one page, as suggested by the guide.

  She’d asked Sloan for help, and her daughter had quickly created a polished document. She selected a font Lauren had never seen before and staggered the information in a way she said implied Lauren was dependable, yet flexible. Lauren’s résumé was an unexpected thing of beauty.

  Sloan then suggested she wear the navy blue dress to her interview.

  “Nothing flowery or pastel,” she’d said. “This is a professional place. You need to project confidence.” Lauren had worn her grandmother’s pearls and pulled her hair into a chignon. Sloan had insisted on more severe lipstick.

  “You’re a big girl now, Mom. Rock some red.”

  Lauren had been so nervous the morning of the interview she could hardly eat, but as soon as the double doors swished open she’d felt a surge of desire to prove herself in this carefully constructed atmosphere. She’d adjusted her posture and found an unexpected determination to get the job.

  Now she was the Director of Volunteer Services for Waccamaw Hospital. A few months ago, Lauren thought the best life in the world would be never to set foot in a hospital again. But oddly, some days she couldn’t wait to get to work. Emmett had been right when he said she was good at organizing people and arranging things. She ran a staff of two dozen volunteers who delivered flowers and gave directions and helped people who needed wheelchairs.

  She knew the main reason she was hired for the job was her understanding of local nonprofit organizations—everything from AA to cancer support, from emotional-health groups to assistance with the financial stress of illness. She was able to recommend churches and synagogues where people could find help, as well as government programs that provided assistance. She knew the ropes.

  Sloan didn’t go to college in August as she had hoped, so she was home until January. This meant she could pick Ainslie up after school and drive her to physical therapy, allowing more time for Lauren to concentrate on her new job. The girls had both been very supportive of her new ambition, and Lauren often worked more than the thirty hours per week for which she had been hired. She hoped to make the job full time after the first of the year. A full-time position would mean health benefits if she and Emmett divorced. Health insurance would forever be a focal point of her life.

  Ainslie’s health insurance situation would always be dire. Would insurance companies continue to consider her a risk? Would they exclude any type of cancer from future policies for her? She’d certainly have to stay employed by a major company with a large risk pool before she would be able to afford health insurance for a number of healthy adult years.

  But when Lauren was helping other people she was able to forget about her own problems and the problems of her family. She felt satisfaction when she was able to give people even the smallest amount of advice, point them in a new direction of hope. And while a heavy hand pressed against her heart each day as she passed the turnoff to Emmett’s office, she’d learned to shake it off and focus on her job, on her girls, on her future. She no longer had to force herself out of bed each day. She was moving on.

  CHAPTER 41

  Sister Secrets

  The shaggy-haired teenager pulled into a reserved parking spot and got out. Ainslie watched her sister to see what she would do.

  “Dude,” Sloan called from her driver’s window. “Don’t park in a handicap space. Please.”

  “I’ll only be a second,” the boy said defiantly and walked toward the front door of the Y.

  “Just move. You can walk a few more feet,” she yelled, but he ignored her and kept moving. “Jerk!” Sloan parked her Jeep around the side of the building and cut the engine.

  “Mommy would’ve gone off on that guy,” Ainslie said.

  “I know. Geez, what’s wrong with people? Can’t they read a dumb sign?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s mentally handicapped.”

  “Haaa. Funny.”

  The smell of chlorine assaulted the girls as they walked into the YMCA. Ainslie checked for the parking offender, knowing Sloan would probably continue her assault on the guy, but he was nowhere in sight. The building echoed with the shrill voices of happy children, the sounds of divers plunging into water, a whistle for roughhousing.

  The girls’ dressing room filled with the sound of wet feet slapping tile. Ainslie began to change from her school clothes into her bathing suit.

  “Do I really have to wear this stupid swim cap?” she whined.

  “Pool rules
.”

  “So what? I don’t care about rules. This thing pulls my hair out when I take it off.”

  “Just wear it.”

  Ainslie tried to yank the ugly piece of rubber down over her head, but her right hand failed her. She attempted to stretch the cap, but it kept popping out of her grasp.

  “Let me help,” Sloan said.

  Ainslie’s head stung as Sloan shoved little bits of baby fine hair into the clinging material. Happy swimmers pushed their way out to the pool and the girls were suddenly left alone with the drip, drip of the showers.

  “There,” Sloan said. “I’ve almost got it.”

  “I know you left with Cal that night.” Sloan stopped torturing her sister’s hair. Their eyes met in the full-length mirror.

  “What?”

  “I saw you. I got up to go to the bathroom and I heard the door close downstairs. I looked out my window and I saw you go down the road. Then a car started and lights came on and you pulled away. It was Cal, wasn’t it?”

  Sloan bent close and said, “Did you tell anybody?”

  Ainslie let the question stand. Then she said, “No.”

  “Nobody.”

  “No. You know I don’t tell your secrets.”

  “Do you know anything else?”

  “I know you swim at night sometimes.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. I used to watch you go out. It kind of scared me.”

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “Geez, Sloan. I said I don’t tell your secrets.”

  “Well.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess to scare myself.”

  “Why do you want to scare yourself?”

  “It’s a thrill, you know, like a roller coaster ride.”

  “You really should stop.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve had enough swimming for a while.”