The Sky Beneath Her(3)

Oil paintings of clipper ships and centuries-old coal-powered vessels graced the white walls. Like our firm, which specialized in maritime law, the entire Norfolk region revolved around the water.

The Brooks name was front and center on the firm’s masthead, Tierney, Brooks, and Bainbridge. I’d never met any of the other named partners and assumed they were older than Mr. Brooks. Frankly, I was surprised either was still alive, let alone came into the office.

Mr. Brooks studied me as if searching for something. Perhaps he didn’t see mid-level paralegals often and was just as curious about me as I him.

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Brooks. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Tula Cassidy.”

“Tula. Welcome. Would you have a seat?” His accent was neutral and could be assigned to endless locations.

Twin leather chairs angled in front of his desk. This seemed like a lot of trouble for a firing, and he didn’t have the look of a guy ready to make a sexual advance.

Still cautious, I smoothed my skirt and sat down. He sat in the leather chair behind his desk, which frankly felt more like a fortress.

Again, he studied me a beat before reaching for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Carefully he slid the manila folder to the center of his desk. “You’ve been with the firm almost seven years?”

“Yes. Nearly seven years, sir.” The anniversary of my hiring was in September, but that didn’t matter now.

“You’re a paralegal?”

“I started in the mail room and worked my way up through the firm’s apprentice program.” Did this bit of ancient history matter? Men at his level didn’t know where the mail room was located. And they sure didn’t pay much attention to apprentices, first-year lawyers, or paralegals housed in endless cubicles.

He didn’t open the file. “You’ve had stellar reviews until this last one.”

I straightened. Getting the work done over the last year had been a struggle. Dave, the anchor in my life, had left. I might not have loved him, but at the time I’d met him, my life had felt like it was trapped in the outer bands of a hurricane. Dave was calm and steady and had promised a solid, stable life.

But that endless consistency had tightened around me like a noose. I began to resent Dave’s so-predictable schedule and his ten-year plans for our lives. Dave wasn’t stupid, and he’d come to dislike my lack of interest in us. He began drinking and spending more time away from home. And then, after a horrific fight, he took off for two weeks. He hadn’t answered any of my calls.

During his hiatus, I became furious. My resentment grew, although it wasn’t directed toward him but toward myself. I believed I couldn’t make it without him. I drank. Worried. And when he’d finally texted and said we should talk, I’d wished for a different life.

As soon as Dave returned, I was slightly relieved. But as he poured a bourbon, he asked me for a divorce. Pride kept me from saying anything. I sat in silence as he pointed out that we wanted different lives. One day I would see that. He packed a bigger bag, moved out of the house (which he owned), and told me to get a lawyer.

I’d stayed in the house during the divorce, but now the limbo was ending. I had two weeks to find somewhere else to live. So far, finding an affordable place had been challenging. To make the numbers work, I’d have either a long commute or three roommates.

Mom had often said wishes are as slippery as eels and as unpredictable as the ocean. The line separating wishes from curses was thin, and it leaked.

So here I was, free of my marriage but on the verge of joblessness and homelessness.

“It’s been a rough year. But I’m back on track.” Personal excuses were only valid if the work was done well and on time.

“Good to hear.” Mr. Brooks leaned back. “You’re familiar with the Outer Banks in North Carolina?”

“Sure. I lived there for three months during my senior year of high school.” The Outer Banks were the last stop Mom and I had made together.

The two of us had lived a nomad’s life. We traveled the world, moving from one scuba diving spot to the next. Mom was a master diver and made her living as an instructor and guide. She’d done well enough, so we always had something to eat. But there were no extras, and anything that didn’t fit in my suitcase was unnecessary baggage. Still, it was a good life. We saw the world. I’d witnessed miracles most only dreamed of. Vacationers on Mom’s diving expeditions envied us. To have no attachments. What a dream.

But we were rootless. We stayed on the move, never staying anywhere for long. And then, right before my eighteenth birthday, we returned to the Outer Banks. She’d enrolled me in high school and rented a place for the spring. She taught lessons and led more expeditions into waters dubbed the Graveyard of the Atlantic. Two months later, my mother dove a local wreck called the Oceanus and vanished.

“Your mother passed, from what I hear. Seven years ago, in a diving accident.”

“That’s right.”

Mom and I were diving the Oceanus. When we’d set out, the weather was clear, with no signs of a storm. But her on-again, off-again dive buddy had not shown at the dock. So, we’d set off alone. I didn’t think twice when I followed her under the water.

We drifted past the ship’s hull, which had rested on the ocean floor for almost eighty years. Though I’d explored many sunken ships, this was the first time I’d seen the Oceanus. Instantly, I was uneasy. The water started churning more. I checked my dive computer and realized I was low on air. I signaled Mom to return to the dive boat. She nodded, held up five fingers, and then motioned for me to lead the way. The hand signal told me she’d be five minutes behind me. Fair. She knew how to manage her oxygen better than anyone, so I ascended, but when I looked over my shoulder, I saw her gliding a gloved hand along the large gash made by a German torpedo in 1942. Her dark hair floated around her tanned face. Her eyes looked so bright and blue behind the mask. She must have felt my attention because she waved and gave me a thumbs-up.