Shearwater: Ocean Depths Book One (FULL)

by D. S. Murphy

  “But what if he’s a psycho?” I asked. My brow prickled with sweat and my skin felt hot and sticky. The stuffy air made it hard to breathe.

  “Your parents had the right to appoint a legal guardian without a formal court appointment, but we’d never put you at risk. We’ve contacted the local authorities to check his records and get character witnesses, and everyone says he’s a perfectly lovely man. Maybe your mother had a falling out with him but always hoped you’d get to meet him—that would explain the will.”

  “What about college?” I interrupted.

  “You’ll still have your American citizenship of course, so you can apply to schools here, although Europe has excellent universities as well, so you may discover you change your mind. And after the house is sold—”

  “You’re selling my house?” This was too much. It felt like my whole world was dissolving around me. My knuckles went white as I clung to the back of my chair; a single point of certainty in a spiraling universe.

  “The property assets will be liquidated and go into a trust fund for you. That, together with the life insurance policies, should be more than enough to cover the tuition for wherever you go to school, and then some. It’s all laid out very clearly in the will. Your parents certainly had their affairs in order.”

  No surprise there, my mother always thought a thousand moves ahead. I put my face in my hands and took several deep breaths. I opened my mouth again to argue, but nothing came out. I was out of objections, and Janet-Janice or whatever her name was knew it. She patted me on the shoulder, then gathered up all the paperwork into a folder.

  “When do I have to leave?” I slumped down in my seat.

  ***

  A week later I was on an airplane leaving behind everything I’d ever known, to live with a man I’d never met. And I was heading to a town I couldn’t even pronounce: Portballintrae. My parents’ deaths brought out one surprise after another. And not a surprise like a puppy in a box under the Christmas tree.

  At the airport, I kept imagining a stay of execution: this was a huge mistake, and somebody was going to come running through the terminal shouting to stop the plane. They’d messed up the paperwork. It was all just a misunderstanding. I thought it would be like one of those romantic movies. But no one came to save me.

  “Everything is going to be fine, Clara,” Beth said, giving me a tight hug. “We’ll keep in touch. I’ll come visit you next summer.” I nodded, and tried to smile. So far I’d put on a brave face and been polite to everyone, but I was too tired to keep up the act. When I’d gone through security, I turned back one last time to wave goodbye.

  “No Beth, it won’t,” I said under my breath.

  When the plane took off, I felt more alone than I’d ever felt in my life. Apart from Beth and her parents, no one would even miss me. I had no expectations, nor hope for my future. Just a calm, deep sorrow, and a numbness that covered my body like a blanket of ash. A few days after the accident, the police dropped off the personal items my parents had on them at the time of their deaths. I’d taken my mother’s iPhone, both because it was a newer model than mine, and because I couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Now I scrolled through all of her favorite music, listening to each song one by one.

  I transferred planes at JFK, had some barely acceptable Chinese food, and headed to the next gate. By the time I boarded the plane and found my seat, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I fell asleep before the plane took off. When I woke up and glanced out the window, all I could see was the sun on the horizon, reflecting over the expansive body of water below. It dawned on me that I’d never seen the ocean from above before, apart from in movies and TV. Arizona was one of the driest states, and on family holidays we went to places like Yellowstone. I remembered a camping trip, where my dad taught me how to build a fire, and we roasted marshmallows and sang silly songs. My mother cooked baked beans and hotdogs, and it was the best thing I’d ever tasted.

  Thinking about my family on vacation brought out the tears. For the past week I’d shut them out by keeping busy. (By “busy” I mean glued to my iPhone, checking every few minutes for more sympathy comments on my Facebook wall, feeling a thrill when Timmy Grant posted, “you’re moving? That sucks,” and congratulating myself when I refused to hit like or comment a reply.) But now, stuck in a tiny seat with no leg room or cell phone signal for a ten-hour flight, I was trapped with my emotions, and I couldn’t hold them in anymore.

  The sudden loss of my parents was bad enough, but the shock and confusion I felt after the revelation of my mother’s secrets was too much to handle. Every time I let myself think about it, my thoughts spiraled out of control. Why would my mom lie to me about where she was from? I’d always thought of myself as being a little bit English. I even had a poster of Big Ben and double-decker buses in my bedroom. I felt like an idiot now. I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

  Did my dad know who she really was? And why hadn’t she told me about my grandfather? What was she running from? Why had she left home as a teenager—what if this Aedan Daly was a monster? How could the State of Arizona just ship me off to live with someone I’d never even met?

  My parents were dead, life as I knew it was over, and nobody cared. Sure people were talking about it right now, but in a few weeks most of the kids at my high school wouldn’t be able to remember my name—although that’s not saying much. To be honest, there probably weren’t that many who knew my name anyway.

  I gave in to my self-pity and sobbed for at least an hour. Part of me felt bad for the guy sitting next to me, shifting uncomfortably and trying in vain to read a spy novel; from the cover, something with explosions and gunfights and snowmobiles. The stewardess stopped by more than once to see if there was anything she could get me, but I just waved her off and said I was fine. Finally I was out of tears and my body shut down into an exhausted sleep.

  I woke up hours later and watched the sun glinting off the blue vastness below. It was hypnotic, and somehow calming. They brought around the breakfast cart, with a ham croissant and some coffee, and we landed about an hour later at the Dublin International Airport. After collecting my things and splashing water on my face in the restroom, I followed the line of people from the airplane.

  I went through customs and then waited at the luggage carousel for my suitcases. They’d given me a few hours to decide which of my possessions I loved enough to keep. “Don’t worry about it too much,” the estate manager told me. “Anything you forget to bring, I’m sure you can just buy a new one when you get to Ireland.” My suitcases were mostly full of books and sentimental keepsakes. The largest item was the vintage Remington Noiseless typewriter my dad bought for me when I was nine. We found it in a second-hand shop, and he spent days fixing the keys so they wouldn’t stick together. I think he was excited about the idea of me becoming a writer.

  I spent months typing things, eating up stacks of pristine white paper, starting dozens of stories, but by the time I was eleven I was more into singing instead. For years it was just an expensive paperweight and decoration. But then I started to feel guilty for not using it, and I imagined the silence emitting from my room was heavy and meaningful. So I began to spend a little time each day just hitting the keys. I didn’t put any paper in it, I just typed my thoughts and let them disappear into the air. It became a therapy of sorts. I fed my secret fears, hopes and regrets into that typewriter, and it absolved my confessions with the satisfying clicks of the metal keys. Despite its name, it wasn’t completely noiseless, and I adored the subtle give of the keys against the persistent force of my downward stroke. Leaving it behind would have felt like leaving a part of myself.

  I heaved my bags onto a luggage cart and pushed it out past the Nothing to Declare sign, into the arrivals terminal. It didn’t take long to find my grandfather—he had a big sign with my name on it and was waving at me. I would have recognized him anyway, from the photo I’d been given of a tall man in a plaid scarf.

  “Welcome to Ireland, Cl
ara!” my grandfather greeted me as I rolled up to him. I pulled the edges of my lips up in what I hoped passed for a smile. He gathered me into a tight hug, patting my hair awkwardly.

  “Hi,” I said, pulling away.

  He wasn’t as old as I would have guessed from the picture. Late 50s, maybe, but tall and fit, with dark hair tinged with gray, and blue eyes that sparkled when he smiled. He looked friendly enough… but looks could be deceiving.

  “You can call me Aedan,” he said. “Or Grandpa of course, once we get more familiar with each other. I’m so sorry for your loss. What happened to Branna—” his face twisted into a pained expression, and I remembered he’d just lost his daughter. Maybe I wasn’t all alone in this.

  “I mean, both your parents, of course,” he caught himself, “though I never had the pleasure of meeting your father. I can’t imagine how hard all this must be for you.” He handed me a white rose, a simple but touching gesture that made my eyes water. I brought it up to my nose and inhaled to show my appreciation.

  “Thanks,” I said, with another little smile, but then I stopped, feeling self-conscious.

  How long after the death of one’s parents was smiling illicit?

  He grabbed the cart and pointed the way to the parking lot. As he loaded my suitcases into his old blue jeep, he asked how my flight was, whether I’d eaten on the plane, and if I was jet-lagged. I climbed in next to him and buckled up. Then we drove out of the airport and onto the highway heading north.

  The silence was heavy enough to notice, and I started thinking of topics to broach. But I didn’t trust myself not to have a meltdown or blurt out something I’d regret, so I just bit my lip until he finally broke the silence.

  “I hope it’s okay, I’ve enrolled you for school already at Ballymoney High. The principal said it would be better to get you started as soon as possible, so you don’t fall too far behind everyone else as the semester goes on. You’re scheduled to start on Monday. But if that’s too soon…” he drifted off, glancing sideways to check my reaction.

  It was Friday, so I’d have all weekend to settle in. I shrugged, “It’s fine, I guess. Do I need to… prepare anything?” He looked relieved to discuss such trivial topics. I wanted to grab him and shout, why did my mother leave? Why did she lie to me about it? But I kept my emotions in check. I needed to wait this out and see what happened.

  “I thought we’d go shopping tomorrow, so I can show you around town, and buy some supplies and things. You don’t have to worry about clothes, because all the kids wear uniforms here, but you may want to pick up any – err – toiletries and such, feminine products…” he coughed but continued bravely.

  “Tomorrow night I’ve organized a Wake at the pub my mate Liam owns, for your parents—or mostly your mother. A lot of folks in town remember her and want to pay their respects. Liam’s son Derry is two years older than you, but there’s another lass in your year that lives near me, I’ve asked her to come by and help get you ready for school.”

  “That sounds... nice,” I conceded. For the first time, I realized my mother grew up here. People knew her. She must have had friends. People she was close to. Maybe someone would be able to tell me why she left. If she and Aedan did have a falling out, he probably wasn’t the right person to ask anyway.

  Suddenly my brain kicked in, reacting to something Aedan said. Uniforms. Like, the short skirt and sweater vest and everything? I groaned inwardly. I was already dreading being the awkward new student. Now I wouldn’t even have the security of my comfy jeans and a hoodie I could disappear into.

  As we left the city, buildings thinned out and were replaced by rolling green hills and ancient stone walls. We even passed the ruins of an old church. When we had to stop for a flock of sheep I almost laughed out loud, it was so stereotypically Ireland. I had the impulse to pull out my mom’s iPhone and snap selfies with the sheep behind me, but I resisted. It seemed self-indulgent, and really American. I’m not sure why I cared what Aedan thought of me, but I might be stuck living with him for a while, and I didn’t want to make the wrong first impression. I didn’t get cell service here anyway.

  I took a few deep breaths and leaned back in my seat. I’m in Ireland, I told myself, trying to make it seem real. Even though I was grieving, and my mind constantly gnawed at my situation in worry, part of me felt… excited. It was the first time since the accident that I felt even a glimmer of happiness.

  Maybe Beth was right. Maybe, somehow, everything really was going to be okay. But then my pessimism asserted itself. No it isn’t. Nothing’s ever going to be alright, ever again.

  3

  I slept in the next morning but the smell of strong coffee roused me. Miscreant, Aedan’s longhaired grey cat, hissed at me from the green easy chair in the living room. We were briefly introduced the night before—he scratched my arm and then ran out of the room.

  “Morning to you too,” I said.

  Aedan left out a simple breakfast—a few slices of thick, hearty brown bread, fresh butter and homemade jam. Everything else in the past two weeks had tasted like cardboard. I don’t know if the change of scenery had refreshed my taste buds or if the food was actually better here, but I ate everything. It was deceptively simple fare, but I marveled at the tastes and textures. The kitchen smelled like lavender and cheddar cheese. There was a note on the table.

  At work all day, sorry to leave you alone—I left a present for you outside if you want to explore the town a little. Tonight we’ll head over to the pub at 8 for some dinner and company.

  Next to the note was a tourist brochure that looked at least ten years old. It told me Portballintrae had about 700 inhabitants, and that “the charming village also boasts a sheltered harbor, a quiet beach, a plethora of interesting rock pools and a beautifully situated nine-hole golf course.” Great. Just what I need, a bunch of rich tourists swinging clubs around like cavemen. A picture of a ruined castle caught my eye and I read the accompanying text.

  “While visiting the area, be sure to take a trip to the nearby ruins of Dunluce Castle, which sit on the edge of a cliff between Portballintrae and Portrush. The castle was the main stronghold of the MacDonnell chiefs of Antrim.”

  Out of habit I reached for my phone to Google the MacDonnells, but the ‘no-service’ icon reminded me I needed a new sim card. I’d have to read up on the history later. Instead I put the breakfast away, washed my plate and poked my head out the front door. I blinked in the sudden brightness, but then my eyes widened in wonder.

  We’d arrived home after dark and I didn’t get a proper look around. Aedan’s house was just outside the main village, an older building perched on a grassy knoll with an unbroken view of the sea. It was far enough away that the sound of the ocean wasn’t deafening, nor the wind ferocious, but the deep sea-green horizon sliced in half by a merry blue sky with fluffy white clouds took my breath away. I felt refreshed by the salty sea air.

  I realized I was basically living in a town other people visited on vacation. This might not be so bad. After I’d had my fill of the view, I turned to see a lady’s bicycle leaned up against the house with a big purple ribbon tied to it.

  The white paint was chipped and it was a little beat up, but it had a lovely woven basket tied to the front. I checked the tires and the brakes and everything seemed in good working order—I noticed the gears had recently been oiled. I hadn’t ridden a bicycle in years, but it seemed like the right way to get around.

  But I wasn’t quite ready to stray from the house.

  “This was your mother’s room,” Aedan had told me the night before, showing me into a small but cozy room with a desk, bed and chest of drawers. “It’ll be yours now.”

  When he caught me staring at the boxes stacked in the corner, he said, “I never got around to packing up your mother’s things after she left.” Then he scratched the back of his head. “I guess I was too sentimental, and I liked feeling like she had a home she could come back to. I put everything into the boxes when they got in
touch with me, but thought you might want to keep something. I’ll let you look through them before putting them up in the attic.”

  I noticed the sadness in his eyes. I’d assumed there was a falling out of some kind—after all, normal teenage girls don’t leave their families and move to the other side of the world without some cause. All I knew about my mom’s childhood was that her mother died when she was very young, and she came to America years later, with no money and only a small suitcase. She was putting herself through nursing school when she met my father. He came in with a dislocated shoulder after a biking accident. “Love at first sight,” Dad said. But I didn’t know what was true anymore. Was there more to the story? And what other secrets did my mother hide from me about her past?

  I brought my suitcases into the room and started unpacking. I set up my laptop on the desk and put the books I’d brought on the shelf above it. I probably brought too many, but they seemed important at the time. Moby Dick, The Count of Monte Cristo, 20000 Leagues Under the Sea, Robinson Crusoe, The Tempest. I realized suddenly that they were all stories about ocean adventures. My fascination with the sea probably came from my lack of personal experience. Mom always kept us as far away from saltwater as possible.

  I put my clothes in the dresser and moved things around a bit more, then I finally pulled out my typewriter, and heaved it up onto the desk. My fingers twitched, aching to use it. I let myself caress the keys, but pulled away, staring instead at the boxes of my mother’s things. I didn’t get very far before the profound emptiness swelled up in my heart again, and I lost myself in tears.

  When I finally tired of crying, I reached into the box with trembling fingers, and started pulling out items from the life my mother had abandoned before I was born. There were schoolbooks, a package of watercolors, a poster of an Irish rock band, a collection of coasters from different bars in Ireland, a chess set, an assortment of clothes and an old school uniform. There was also a walkman and a stack of tapes. The only band I recognized was the Cranberries, so I popped that in and put on the headphones.