That was the last time I had seen his parents. They did not attend our wedding.
Brad had been raised Protestant, and I had grown up Catholic, but neither of us were religious, and I had agreed to a civil ceremony. Brad paid fifty dollars for a marriage license and one month later, we arrived at Room 601 in Boston City Hall—an antiseptic office in a concrete monstrosity. My wedding day.
“Are you sure this is okay with you?” Brad asked. “We can reserve the club and do it next month. I have a hundred people who would come and none of them would care you’re pregnant.”
Brad had dozens of acquaintances, people he called friends, but he was not close to any of them. The thought of rallying a group of virtual strangers around us to celebrate something so intimate, seemed wrong.
“I don’t have any family left and only one close friend. If your parents and family won’t attend, it seems weird to have a big wedding. All I need is you.” I put on a brave face.
At three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, Brad and I waited for our turn to be married. I wore a stylish white dress, not a wedding gown, because my stomach bulged and the thought of wearing a gown in my state of pregnancy seemed desperate, sad. Our no-nonsense wedding was nothing like I had imagined as a child. The dress, the ceremony—the man. It all felt wrong, joyless. What would my father have thought about a ceremony like this? What would he have thought about Brad? No one could equal the man my father had been. I knew I idolized him and only remembered the good stuff, and I was certain there were things about him I had not liked, but I could not think of any of them. I simply could not.
Jessica and her husband stood beside us. Jimmy seemed to like Brad, or at least he acted like he did. Jessica held my hand and smiled, the kind of look you gave your daughter before she received a vaccination. It said, “be brave and it will be over soon.” When it was our turn, I handed my bouquet to Jessica, and stood between two potted plants in front of a justice of the peace.
Jessica leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Are you sure you don’t want to run for it? It’s not too late.”
Jessica had never kept her thoughts to herself, which was one of the things I loved about her.
“I’m sure,” I lied.
The judge made a few perfunctory remarks, the minimum to make the ceremony binding, and Brad and I said our vows. That was it. We were married, wed in a government building before a room full of bureaucrats. I felt like the judge had sentenced me.
I shrugged away the memory and sipped my coffee as the ocean rolled past.
I slipped my hand into my sweatshirt pocket and grasped the plastic medicine bottle containing my Xanax. I pulled it out and shook it. Enough pills to keep me medicated until we reached home. I had used them as a lifeline, but now, they did not seem to hold the same power. I wanted to feel like myself again, so I hefted the bottle in my hand and threw it over the stern. It plopped on the surface and floated away.
I would do this myself.
I needed to tell Brad I wanted a divorce, and I needed to do it now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Doubt and fear spread inside me like a fungus. If I waited another minute, I would lose my nerve. I went below and knocked on the stateroom door.
No answer.
I knocked louder and Brad stirred. I opened the door and leaned inside.
“Are you awake?” I asked.
“What time is it?”
“Almost one o’clock. Are you okay?”
Brad leaned on his elbows and groaned. “I feel like shit.”
“You drank almost two bottles of wine.”
“This isn’t a hangover. I’m sick.”
Hearing that triggered my best impulses as a doctor and I crossed the room and sat on the bed beside him. Despite my decision to leave Brad, I cared for him and wanted him to be healthy and happy. I pressed the back of my hand against his forehead. His skin simmered.
“You’re feverish. Does the medical kit have a thermometer?”
“I need aspirin.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“Don’t baby me.”
“Come on. What hurts?”
“Splitting headache, fatigue, aches. I’m hot and my mind is fuzzy. I feel awful.”
“Stay in bed and rest. I’ll take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself, but I’ll need you to sail until I feel better. One of us needs to keep watch.”
I hesitated. Manning the helm during a windless night was one thing, but what if the wind picked up? What would I do in a storm? I swallowed and tried to sound strong. “I’ll stay awake until you’re healthy enough to help. I can set my watch alarm and take twenty-minute catnaps on deck.”
“Damn it. It’s too dangerous to sleep. If you don’t wake up, we could hit something and die,” he said.
“There’s not much of a chance we’ll hit anything now. The wind died, and we’re only making one knot.”
“Tankers don’t use the wind, Dagny. Container ships, and other commercial shipping are all over this part of the ocean. I think we’re south of the shipping lanes, but we still have to be alert. I’ve explained this to you at least ten times.”
“I told you I’ll take the watch,” I said.
“Trim the sails when you see them luff and milk the most out of whatever wind we have.”
“I’ll get the med kit.”
I retrieved the medical bag and opened it beside the bed. I pulled a thermometer from the first module and took his temperature. Brad scowled at me while we waited. He did not enjoy being treated like a patient, because of his competitiveness or some macho thing, but I could not help myself. Every instinct I had made me want to care for him.
He looked flushed and diaphoretic. He fidgeted and seemed anxious. I removed the thermometer and read it. “One-oh-one. Not too bad. I’ll get you a cold washcloth and a bottle of water to take Tylenol.”
“I don’t feel well.”
I returned and gave him his medicine, then heated a can of soup for him. I held the bowl in front of him.
He pushed it away. “I’m nauseous.”
“Fine, but you have to eat. Let me know when you think you can stomach it.”
“You need to get on deck. What did I tell you? We could get rammed and sink.”
“I’ll take care of it. Shout if you need anything.”
Brad reclined and closed his eyes. He looked sick. Really sick.
I left and closed the door without a sound. I took my place at the helm and scanned 360 degrees of blue ocean. The wind had disappeared, and the sails drooped from the rigging. If it did not pick up, I would have to turn on the engine and use our limited fuel.
It would be cruel to discuss divorce with Brad while he suffered. Despite his faults, Brad could be a decent person. He had married me and cared for Emma. He had dragged me, kicking and screaming to the Indian Ocean, and had allowed me to break free of my grief—not completely, but enough to clear my mind, and I could finally see a way through my pain. I would always be grateful to him for that.
I could wait one more day to talk to him about our future.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I shook myself awake after falling asleep at the helm. The sun beat on my face, which meant I had slept for more than an hour. I stood and searched for ships, but the horizon remained clear. We were alone.
I would have to be more careful. Brad had been right—not having someone on watch was dangerous and I could not rely on the AIS alarm. I had been awake all night thinking about my future, and I had taken care of Brad all day, so I was not surprised I had fallen aslee
p. If Brad did not improve today, I would set my alarm and take brief naps.
On our second day without wind, the sea flattened like a lake, and the sails hung like towels on a hook. I checked the GPS and our position had not changed. I stretched and went below to check on Brad.
I tapped on the stateroom door. No answer. I opened the door and slipped inside. The bed was empty. A flicker of panic shot through me.
Brad retched inside the head, and vomit splashed in the toilet.
This is not good.
“Brad?” I knocked on the door.
“Leave me alone.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’m sick, damn it. Leave me alone.”
I stared at the closed door. He must not have slept well. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Get out.”
I retreated to the galley, made coffee, and climbed on deck. The cloudless day caused the temperature to rise. Our yacht bobbed on a current pushing us west, away from the Maldives. I walked around the deck and stretched my legs. Something splashed off the starboard side, and I whirled around with my heart pounding. A large fin cut through the water.
The great white shark had returned.
I moved away from the gunwale out of reflex and tripped over the cabin coaming. I stumbled and threw up my hands to catch myself but hit the deck hard and fell against the lifelines. The back of my neck tingled, and I peered over the side. The black shape swam just below the surface then dove under the yacht.
I walked to the port side, taking more care this time, and combed the surface with my eyes. I did not spot the shark. Why did it scare me? The beast was huge, but we sailed a massive yacht, and I did not plan to go swimming.
I had spilled the coffee on my shorts, so I went below to change and get another cup. Brad tossed and turned in bed. I sat next to him and put my hand on his forehead, which felt damp and warm. At my touch, his eyes swiveled toward me, bloodshot and yellow.
“How do you feel?”
He blinked, like he was trying to focus. “Bad.”
“You’re hotter. When did you take Tylenol?”
“What?”
“How long since you took anything?” I asked.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“I gave you 650 milligrams at eleven o’clock last night. Did you take anything this morning?”
“My head hurts.”
“We need to lower your fever,” I said.
I retrieved the medical bag and shook two Tylenol out of the bottle. I raised them to his mouth, but he turned away from me. I leaned over to insert the thermometer, and he snatched it out of my hand.
“Come on, Brad. I need to know how high your temperature is. You know I do.”
He glared at me and stuck the thermometer in his mouth.
I took it out after it beeped.
“Shit. Now, it’s one-oh-two.”
Brad dragged himself into a seated position and shook the sheet off, agitated, restless. I got him another cold washcloth and a drink from the refrigerator. He took them and leaned back in bed.
“Lay down and rest,” I said.
“I know what to do. I’m a goddamned surgeon too, or did you forget?”
I stood. Doctors were the worst patients. “What can I get you?”
“Leave me alone and let me sleep.”
Brad scratched his head furiously, wrapped himself in the sheet, and turned away. He seemed angry and confused.
Fevers could do that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Perspiration coated my skin in the sweltering heat. The wind had vanished, and the yacht lay motionless on the flat surface. I removed my tee shirt and used the soft fabric to wipe the sweat off my forehead. I dropped the damp shirt on the cushion beside me. Even in a bikini, the still air clawed at my skin.
The wind had been absent for days, and with a limited amount of diesel fuel, we were at its mercy. The breeze would increase eventually, but I did not want to think about having to sail without Brad. I had checked on him every hour, hoping he would get better. I needed him to deliver us to the Maldives.
The ocean sparkled, a rich blue—cool and inviting—but the thought of going in the water still terrified me. I had not swum since I was ten years old and there were thousands of feet of saltwater beneath us. My fear was genuine, and that was before I had seen the shark. The image of a jagged-toothed monster stalking the depths below—unseen and hungry—sent a cold jolt through my stomach.
Splashing water over my face and body would feel refreshing but jumping into the shower would disturb Brad. I opened the instrument panel and flipped to the screen controlling the swimming platform. It appeared simple enough, with buttons to raise and lower it. A drop of sweat dripped off my forehead onto the screen. I pressed the button, and the stern opened with an electrical hum. The platform unfolded outward and descended on its hydraulics until it extended parallel with the surface. The teak deck hovered a few inches over the water.
I searched for the shark before I descended the wooden steps. My eyes swept the surface one last time, and I stepped onto the sturdy deck. The ocean remained flat, with no wind or noticeable current, and the platform felt stable. I relaxed and knelt along the edge of the dock. I stared into the depths, but my face reflected off the glassy surface.
I leaned over, cupped my hands in the water and splashed my face. It was not as cold as I had hoped, but still cooler than the air.
The ocean did not scare me as long as my feet remained on solid ground, and spending weeks on the yacht had dulled my fear. I should have done this years ago. I dunked my hands again and splashed a handful of saltwater over my chest. It dribbled down my torso and onto my legs, cooling me.
The shark broke the surface ten feet in front of me, its gray nose sticking out of the water.
I threw my body back from the edge and fell onto the center of the dock.
The shark rolled its head over and stared at me with a black eye—the face of a devil.
I leapt to my feet and scrambled up the steps. My heart raced, and my head spun. I took shallow, rapid breaths but continued to tremble.
I crept to the stern as the beast’s head lifted again, flashing rows of white teeth. Its jaws smacked open and shut, and its head submerged. The shark stroked its giant caudal fin and slid past the dock, in no apparent hurry. The sun gleamed on its dorsal fins as it swam along the port side of the yacht and disappeared beneath the surface.
I pushed the lift button, and the dock retracted against the stern. Maybe the electric currents had drawn the shark. Whatever it had been, I would never do that again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I spent the afternoon scanning the ocean and did not see the shark again, but I sensed it lurking nearby, staying close, waiting for something. The fine hair lifted off my arms.
At twilight, I went below and listened at the stateroom door. Nothing. Brad needed sleep more than anything, so I crept in without knocking.
He snored and smacked his lips like he was thirsty. He tossed and turned in a hyperactive sleep. He scratched the top of his head, rolled over, and scratched it again with his other hand, obviously uncomfortable.
I poured a glass of water and set it beside him. I touched my wrist to his forehead, careful not to wake him. His skin simmered.
He swatted my hand away in his sleep and scratched again. When he pulled his fingers away, blood dripped off his fingernails.
I leaned over and examined him. Dried blood matted the hair on the crown of his head. Had he scratched himself hard enough to break the skin?
Brad’s filmy eyes opened and grew large, filling with rage. He jerked his head off the pillow and grabbed my shoulders.
“Get the fuck off me,” he yelled.
I opened my mouth in a silent scream.
His fingers dug into my flesh, sending shooting pains down my arms. He pushed me and I stumbled off the platform and crashed against the wall. Surprise spread across his face and he gawked at his hands, as if they were controlled by another person and had acted without his permission.
“What the hell?” I asked. “You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry. You startled me. I, uh, I must have been dreaming.”
He seemed contrite, but my shoulders ached, and my hands shook. I hugged myself, more unnerved than injured.
“That hurt.”
“What the hell were you doing to me?” he asked, his tone sharpening.
I took a half-step backward. “I saw you scratching. You’re bleeding.”
Brad’s eyes softened again, and he rubbed his scalp. He removed his hand and stared at his fingertips, which were stained red.
My feet had rooted to the deck. “What is it? Why are you bleeding?”
“Something must have bitten me. I don’t know. The bat, maybe.”
My blood chilled. “The bat? You told me it didn’t bite you.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Did it?” My throat had constricted, making my voice high, panicky.
“It bounced off me, but I never felt a bite.”
“Bats carry all kinds of diseases. You should have let me examine you. I could have taken you to a doctor in Bali.”
“I said I didn’t know it bit me. It’s not my fault. I’m a doctor too, you know. Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Let me examine it.”
“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”
“You’re not fine. You still have a fever.”
“Get away from me . . . please.”
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