The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners

by Luanne Rice

  “It wasn’t so far,” he said. Then he put his arms around me, eased me onto the soft green grass, and we fell asleep in the sun.

  Twenty-One

  The next morning, Rafe lay in bed, hooked up to IVs. He had the world’s worst headache, and when he opened his eyes, he saw double. Peering at the door, he saw the nurse—two of her, actually—coming toward him. She held up the syringe, and he shook his head.

  “Really?” she asked. “It will help the pain.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll skip it.”

  What had come over him? Legal painkillers were being offered hourly. Back in rehab, starting with the first one, he’d met people who’d been sober a few years, who’d gone out, started using again, during hospital stays. They counseled skipping the narcotic cocktail when possible, going with Tylenol instead. Their faces and stories came back to Rafe now.

  He’d spent two nights in the hospital. Last night, when his headache had gotten really bad, he’d picked up his cell phone and called a number he had stored, but rarely used since his stay in Malibu. His sponsor answered—Kevin McCauley.

  “Hello?” Kevin said.

  “Hey, man,” Rafe said.

  “Is this who I think it is? I was pretty sure you’d fallen off the planet.”

  “Almost did,” Rafe said. He went through the short version of what had happened. Hitting his head, standing up and being able to walk on his own, then getting to the hospital and having everything crash. Losing consciousness, having a seizure, slowly getting back to some kind of normal.

  “Sounds as if you’re lucky to be alive,” Kevin said.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Rafe said.

  “You said you were at your grandfather’s?”

  “That’s where it happened, yes.”

  “Ironic, right?” Kevin asked. “That you should take such a bad fall right there. Was it near the spot?”

  “A hundred yards,” Rafe said, knowing Kevin meant the place Rafe’s grandmother had died.

  Twice a week, the rehab residents would go to outside twelve-step meetings. He’d met Kevin at a Sunday morning AA meeting, chosen him to be his sponsor because Kevin had managed to stay clean and sober for eleven years, didn’t sound as if he had all the answers, and worked as a gardener for the movie stars of Malibu. Because Kevin knew the garden, loved the earth, he reminded Rafe of his grandmother.

  “There are no coincidences,” Kevin said, using a phrase Rafe had heard a hundred times in rehab and meetings. It had always set his teeth on edge—one of the pithy things people in recovery said to sound spiritual, or to connect dots never meant to be connected. But just then, Rafe knew Kevin was right.

  “Lyra came to help me,” Rafe said.

  “The neighbor you think hates you? Your grandmother’s friend?”

  “Yeah,” Rafe said. “I was out cold. Hanging on the edge, and I heard a voice. It brought me back, woke me up. It was Lyra, calling my name. But this is weird. She says she didn’t. She says she heard it too, and it was my grandmother.”

  “That sounds right,” Kevin said.

  “But how?” Rafe said.

  “Why wouldn’t she be looking out for you?” Kevin asked.

  “Because she’s dead,” Rafe said. “And it was my fault.”

  “Look,” Kevin said. “I don’t know about these things. But it seems to me maybe she was trying to tell you to stop thinking that way.”

  He looked around the hospital room, seeing two of everything. His grandmother had come here after her fall. Rafe thought of how sharp and alive she’d been when he was young, how like a little girl she became as she aged. Losing all that she knew, regressing, forgetting names. He’d come to see her here, in bed with a broken hip. Sobbing like a child, she’d called him “David,” his father’s name.

  “I wish I could,” Rafe said. “They keep coming around with shots, and those syringes are looking pretty good. My head’s killing me, and I’d really like to stop thinking about my grandmother.”

  “Here’s the rule,” Kevin said. “If it’s medically necessary, take the shot. Sounds as if you’re doing better. So you should ask yourself—is it worth it? You’ve put together how much time now?”

  “A year and thirty-five days,” Rafe said. “Clean and sober.”

  “Great, Rafe. So why screw that up? Take ibuprofen, and know ‘this too shall pass.’ Do the next right thing.”

  “Okay thanks. That’s what I called you for,” Rafe said. “Oh. And something else. You know that girl Monica?”

  “From the rehab? I remember her.”

  “Do you ever see her around?” Rafe asked. “She lives out there. Santa Monica, I think; I thought maybe you’d bump into her at meetings. You don’t have her number, do you?”

  “No,” Kevin said. “You know, I have my four meetings a week, all up here. Santa Monica’s got some good ones. I hope she’s going.”

  “Me too,” Rafe said, thinking of her, praying she could make it this time.

  “They have meetings in Italy too,” Kevin said. “I’m sure you can find some right on Capri. Recovery is like a campfire. You want to stay together, close to the warmth. Once you start wandering away, you can get lost in the woods.”

  “Thanks, Kevin,” Rafe said as he hung up. He knew his headache was less intense than yesterday, that he could get through it without Vicodin. A couple of hits, and he’d be heading down to see Arturo, as far from the campfire as he could get. But he wished Kevin had had Monica’s number, and he wished his thoughts would stop swirling up to torment him.

  Rafe drifted in and out. The hospital was its own netherworld. He felt restless and imprisoned, alternating with too exhausted to move. He knew Pell had spent most of the first night waiting with his grandfather and Lyra. At least he was mainly unconscious then. When she stopped in to visit, an hour after his call to Kevin, he felt embarrassed to see her.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered, coming to stand by his bed.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “A lot,” he said. “If you’re talking about my pride.” He tried to smile.

  “How can you say that?” she asked. “You’ve been one of the best parts about being here. I’m the one who was a jerk.”

  “I guess I was mixed up about your situation,” Rafe said.

  “I put you in a bad position,” Pell said. “Seeing my mother after all this time has been intense. Having you here made it so much better. My feelings have been all over the place, and somehow they landed on you.”

  “Well, I wanted them to,” Rafe said.

  She smiled. “You were so good to me, taking me to see the seahorses. And even more, not letting me leave without seeing my mother.”

  “‘Do the next right thing,’” Rafe said.

  “Exactly,” Pell said. “Are you okay?”

  “Getting there,” he said.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Because the starfish can’t do without you.” She and Rafe both smiled, remembering their first talk, that walk along the tide line. He thought of how high and dry he’d felt himself at times, out of the reach of the ocean, of the life-sustaining sea.

  “So, your boyfriend’s here?” Rafe asked.

  “Yes,” Pell said. “Travis. He’s waiting for me downstairs. I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing. Make sure you’re okay.”

  “He’s a lucky guy” Rafe said.

  “Somewhere out there is a lucky girl,” Pell said, kissing his forehead. “Get better fast, and go find her.”

  “I’ll try,” Rafe said.

  “Get back to the beach soon. The starfish need you.”

  And it was funny, but Pell’s words made his headache go away. Just like that—no Vicodin, not much more Tylenol. He felt absolved from his own stupidity, thinking he could substitute one girl to care about for another.

  He thought of Monica, remembered that day on the lawn when she’d prayed to his grandmother, to look over him.
More than anything, he wanted to find her, tell her what had happened that night on the stairs. He felt goosebumps, thinking his grandmother had called his name.

  Rafe stayed in the hospital one more night. The doctors did more tests, to make sure there was no bleeding in the brain. The X rays looked fine, and they let him out that afternoon. His grandfather drove him home, slow and easy, winding up the serpentine road from the hospital to the villa.

  “How does it feel to be home?” his grandfather asked as they pulled in to the driveway.

  “Good,” Rafe said, but he felt sad. This wasn’t really his home. Neither was the boathouse, nor New York. He was nineteen, un-tethered. Most of the last five years, he’d been too busy bouncing in and out of rehabs.

  “You don’t sound as if you feel good,” his grandfather said, glancing over.

  Rafe looked around at the parklike grounds. Craggy rocks, terraces of green lawn and brilliant flowers, the white villa silhouetted against blue sky. This place represented his grandfather’s life. A lot of people didn’t realize that his grandfather was a self-made man. He’d earned a lot of money early, from two hit plays that were turned into films. But he’d grown up in Nottingham, the son of a factory worker.

  “What made you start writing plays?” Rafe asked.

  “I was curious about other people’s lives,” his grandfather said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’d look at row houses and imagine the stories going on inside. A light behind a curtain. Two people leaving a bar. Your grandmother painted beautiful pictures of gardens, flowered terraces, exteriors. That was her domain. Mine was the interior, what went on under the family’s roof.”

  “Does writing help you figure things out?” Rafe asked.

  “Sometimes,” his grandfather said. “But not always. Lately I’ve found life to be completely unfathomable. The mysteries are too great for a humble playwright like me.”

  “Come on, Grandpa,” Rafe said, laughing as they parked the car. “You’re the wisest person I know. What’s so unfathomable?”

  “The fact,” his grandfather said, not opening the door, just turning to face Rafe, “that such wrong assumptions can be made about people you think you know well.”

  That was a loaded statement. Was he speaking of Rafe’s father? Probably. Rafe knew his grandfather had called to tell him about Rafe’s fall. Rafe hadn’t heard a word from him, and didn’t expect to. His grandfather, on the other hand, never stopped hoping that Rafe and his father could have a rapprochement, hug it out, and go play a nice round of golf.

  “Don’t worry,” Rafe said. “I’ve messed up so badly, I can’t even blame him. It’ll take a long time before he trusts me, if ever. I can’t really expect to have a relationship with him till then.”

  “You’re speaking of your father?” his grandfather asked. He smiled. “Yes. He surprised me. But I was actually thinking of Lyra.”

  Rafe opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t get the chance. Speaking of Lyra, here she came now. Her daughters too, and that tall guy with Pell had to be Travis. Everyone was carrying something: Lyra a big canvas bag and a bouquet of flowers; Pell a huge ceramic pasta bowl; a young girl, obviously her little sister, with a straw basket overflowing with tomatoes and basil; and Travis with a string of fish.

  “What’s going on?” Rafe asked.

  “Nicolas took Travis out fishing,” his grandfather said. “They had good luck. Lyra says it’s your grandmother, still watching over you.”

  “Me? I didn’t go fishing….”

  “No, but it’s your homecoming,” Max said.

  “For me?” Rafe asked. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “Rafe, you don’t have to ‘do something.’ We love you. Everyone is just so glad to have you home. Bella has kindly consented to letting Lyra, Pell, and Lucy use the kitchen to cook for you. Lyra insisted.”

  Rafe gazed through the windshield at Lyra Davis. Something had transformed her. Instead of the angry woman who he’d assumed hated him, she appeared wreathed with love. Surrounded by her two daughters, a miracle in itself. Rafe wondered how they’d done it, come back together after so much pain. He glanced at his grandfather, saw him beaming. We love you, his grandfather had said.

  Love had come to the villa, Rafe realized as he opened the car door. He saw Lyra stand beside his grandfather, watching him take the basket from Lucy. Kisses all around. Rafe felt tired. He knew this was in some ways for him, but he felt it was really a celebration for everyone else. His grandfather and Lyra had something new going on; Lyra was reunited with her daughters.

  “Grandpa,” Rafe said, “I’m a little tired. You mind if I go down to the boathouse and rest for a little bit?”

  “Rest, of course,” his grandfather said. “But not the boathouse. Please, Rafe, I’d like you to stay up here until I’m sure you’re steady.”

  “My stuff’s down there,” he said.

  “I’ll get it for you,” the tall kid said. “I’d be happy to run down.”

  “You must be Travis,” Rafe said.

  They stared at each other a few seconds, then shook hands. Out of the corner of his eye, Rafe saw Pell smiling.

  “And you’re Rafe,” Travis said. “Glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks,” Rafe said. Then he turned back to his grandfather. “Anyway, thanks for thinking up the party idea, but if it’s okay with you, I’ll just—”

  “Rafe.”

  A voice Rafe hadn’t heard in months, not since he’d flown to New York from California, after getting out of his full year in Malibu rehab. Gazing at the villa’s terrace, Rafe saw the dark silhouette, sunlight glinting behind him. Years flew away. Rafe might have been ten again, just home from fishing with his grandfather, seeing the man he looked up to more than any other.

  “Hi, Dad,” Rafe said.

  While Rafe and David sat on the terrace, Travis built a fire on the grill, using dried olive branches; Pell and Lucy cooked pasta, dressing it with olive oil, ripe tomatoes, and fresh pecorino; Max stood at the sink, cleaning the fish; and Lyra picked sprigs of rosemary and thyme. At one point, passing by, she leaned into him. Just for a moment—no words were exchanged. But he felt the quick pressure of her body, almost as if she was touching base.

  He watched her stand between her daughters, admiring their cooking. He stared at the backs of their heads, three dark-haired women, so similar in their grace of movement. They spoke in low voices, happy and excited. Max felt a wave of doubt and sorrow—they were all so young. How could he be feeling this way, was he a complete old fool? But when Lyra turned, their eyes met, and she smiled.

  Max was in that strange, blessed phase of writing a play when the characters have taken over and seem to be creating themselves. His new work had started as a love story between two sets of characters, but as he wrote it, he’d started to realize that he’d made his landscape too small. Life, as it had presented itself to him this summer, was proving to be too enormous and generous to be expressed through four characters, in three acts.

  To the list of characters representing himself and Lyra, Pell and Rafe, he had added Lucy and Travis, Bella and Alonzo, even John and Nicolas. He hadn’t dared hope for a third-act reunion between the Rafe character and his father, but as of this morning he’d found it necessary to include a character symbolizing David.

  That had been the shock of shocks, looking out the window and seeing his son walk up the stairs from the dock. David had been in London; he’d flown down, hired a private boat in Sorrento, come straight to the villa.

  Max had wanted David to accompany him to the hospital, to pick up Rafe and bring him home. David said he’d needed to make a business call, he’d see Rafe when he arrived. But Max realized his son had taken time alone to make peace with Christina and with this place. From the kitchen window, Max could see the spot on the lawn where Christina had broken her hip, the fall that had led to her final decline.

  Someone had left a bouquet of roses on the spot. White roses, her f
avorite. And when Max and Rafe entered the house from the hospital, Max saw white petals and torn leaves on the terrace’s tile floor, from where David had trimmed the roses’ stems of thorns.

  The doorbell rang. Perhaps Max should have kept the evening lower key, but he knew Rafe’s welcome home needed to include Nicolas. Amanda and Renata, back from Rome, were overjoyed about their moon gate, and wanted to meet Lucy, the young woman who had provided such precise calculations for the arch. And Max couldn’t help inviting John, if only so the old gossip would see David and realize what had taken place between him and Rafe.

  As twilight settled, the sky turned deep purple. The Bay of Naples sparkled with the lights of boats coming and going. Drinks were served, then dinner. Everyone sat at the long table, eating the delicious meal.

  Max toasted his son and grandson and beloved guests, Lucy toasted the Gardiners and thanked them for being so kind to her family, Pell toasted everyone gathered together, Amanda and Renata toasted Lucy’s geometry and the moon gate, John toasted secrets of the summer night, and Nicolas toasted the fish. Max waited to hear from David, Rafe, and especially Lyra, but they all stayed quiet.

  After dinner, when darkness had completely fallen, the sky blazed with stars. Max had always loved the night sky from this terrace—there were so few house lights around, it sometimes felt as if he could reach out his hand, touch the stars’ white fire. Never more than tonight.

  Lyra had been sitting beside him. At one point, after coffee, she’d reached over and squeezed his hand. When he looked at her face, he saw her staring up at the sky with such intensity, her eyes bright and distant, he thought something must be wrong. She excused herself, and was gone a few minutes before returning with the white canvas bag she’d brought.

  While everyone kept talking, Max watched her reach into the bag, pull out her tripod. She set it up beside the balustrade. Everyone at the table continued their conversations, glancing at Lyra, aware she was doing something. Max was trying not to eavesdrop too blatantly on David and Rafe, seated across the table and a few seats down. John, however, had no such compunctions.