A Deep Thing Read online

  He remembers it clearly. One minute he’s joking around with the catering staff complaining about the lack of healthy foods and flirting with the hot blonde in the crew, giving him the “I want to have sex with you now” look and the next he walks onto the set and seconds after the camera’s light turns red, he is covered in sweat and running off camera. He remembers his heartbeat rapidly pounding out of his chest, pain, tightening of his gut, and the overwhelming desire to be anywhere else. He thought he was having a heart attack.

  He tried to work through the anxiety, swallowing a few Valiums before filming the last few episodes of Season Two. It didn’t matter. When the camera turned on, so did his anxiety. Night after night, he would find himself covered in sweat, dreading the next episode. Embarrassed to tell anyone—afraid it would leak out in the media—he hid it from everyone. If they found out, he was convinced his career of being a reality star and dreams of being rich and famous would be over. He woke up obsessing about it and went to sleep worrying when it would happen next. It controlled his life. He couldn’t tell his publicist and now with Season Two over, he hid from management until he figured out what he could do. He missed his father so much. A voice inside his head kept asking, “Why, Dad, why did you have to leave me? I needed you so much and you left me.” He had planned to talk to his father when he returned from the trip that took his life. The only one he could talk to and now he was gone.

  ****

  He was eighteen, a legal adult his father would never know. He slammed the door on his silver BMW 325i and walked toward the park, nicknamed “the DUN playground.” Thankful his father didn’t know this Ryder.

  The DUN playground stood for the “drugs u need” playground. He needed more Valium, or Xanax, some type of antianxiety medication to help in front of the camera. He swallowed his last one. He pulled his hat down wearing dark sunglasses. He hadn’t showered since the gym, hoping this helped him smell and play the part of a strung out druggie. He glanced past the puffy block letters painted in various colors declaring territory on the warm cement. He hoped the pimple-faced blond surfer-looking dude on meth would appear.

  His iPhone vibrated. He blinked at the display, the drugs making everything hazy. Kendall. He spit on the sidewalk. He wouldn’t answer. Talking on the phone, even texting irritated him. Old school. It reminded him of his mother, all she did was talk on the phone.

  Kendall. His father left her everything in the will, his half of the bar in Gettysburg, the house in Maryland, everything except a scholarship fund for Ryder, only payable if he went to college, and another lump sum when he graduated. He didn’t need the money that bad. It pissed him off. Kendall had offered for him to move out to Maryland where he could go to school at Western Maryland College, and work part time at the bar, but he wasn’t interested. Leave Scottsdale? Live with Kendall? He had no reason to speak to her. She was nothing to him. Nothing. He did not love her, not even a little bit. His father was dead, and she was no relation, just a bad reminder of his father.

  Gripping his phone, he thought back to the day when he did answer. Kendall sobbing, as she uttered the words his father was dead in Belize. He hated her. He threw the phone against the wall, the glass shattered.

  Chapter 4

  Water was all around her, transparent turquoise water. The liquid warm and clear. Floating seemed so natural. When she looked out, she could see miles ahead, incredible visibility with high definition. Then she saw him, his blue-green eyes and dark curly hair, his cleft chin and his white enchanting smile. She wanted to swim toward him but he was shaking his head. Wait…a vibration came out of nowhere, irritating, she could hear a buzzing in her ear, it hummed, pulsed and then she felt wetness over her eyes and face, like a warm rough rag being dragged across her skin.

  Kendall gasped, tried to lift her eyelids, separate bottom and top lashes. Her head swayed, as a jackhammer pounded in her skull. Nausea washed over her. The rough wet rag swiped her mouth and cheekbone. The buzzing sound again and then presence of breath next to hers. He looked concerned, staring at her eyes, three inches from her face, and he whined, glancing back at the pill bottle lying on the bed. Nudging her face, whimpering, Harvey licked Kendall until she responded.

  Clarity hit Kendall like a sharp paper cut. The pills. The buzzing sound continued this time in short bursts. Harvey continued to whine and nudge her until she sat up. She barely made it to the bathroom, vomiting her insides in the toilet. Harvey never took his eyes off her. What seemed like hours later, Kendall washed her face, brushed her teeth and returned to bed.

  She pulled Harvey to her chest and hugged him with all the energy she had left in her body. He lay there with her, letting her hold him in her arms and cry. She couldn’t stop the tears. She moaned, she cried, she yelled out Tim’s name. Gasping for air, sobbing, the air sealed so tight in her chest burst, finally the anguish escaped.

  She had no idea how long they lay there. A woman and her dog mourning the loss of a man like Tim Jackson. Every so often, the vibration of the phone would add to their sounds of sorrow. The level of light changed. The oversized photo canvas of Tim and her on their wedding night in the sunset on the beach of Puerto Morelos, Mexico, was coming into focus. Reds and oranges of the sea reflecting the sun’s warmth, and their love for each other explosively glowing on their faces. She in a white halter wedding dress, Tim in white long-sleeved shirt and white pants.

  She used to like waking up faced with the two of them first thing in the morning. Sometimes, depending on the sun’s path, especially in the early spring, the light from the window would create an illusion of the surf moving in and out on the sand. She raised her head. He was staring at her. Tim’s loving face and wind-blown dark hair with his arms wrapped around her, his gentle white smile, and the water dancing on the surf appeared to be turned to the bed. Normally, they were both looking at the sunset. The picture fell to the ground.

  She never much believed in signs, as her pulse quickened and she inhaled to catch her breath.

  Why didn’t the pills kill her? Kendall’s heart froze then pounded. Tim would never have understood her desperate action. He wanted her to live, to pick up the pieces and experience life. As weak as she felt, something unfamiliar stirred inside her. A small glimmer of hope.

  It was time. She bolted out of bed, it startled Harvey and he went flying across the room, panting with his long pink tongue hanging out, kind brown eyes staring at her. Somehow, things were going to change. She couldn’t go on like this.

  She used the house phone and left a message at the college about taking a personal day. It was six a.m., Thursday morning, almost sixteen months to the day when she lost the love of her life. Time to start living again, even if it was without Tim.

  She didn’t stop. Like a severe OCD patient, she packed up the bedspreads, the sheets, the pillows. She went through the cupboards in her kitchen carefully removing the photos of Tim she had taped inside every cabinet. Next, the doors, she had his photo attached to the back of closet doors, the bathroom door and her bedroom door.

  Most of the photographs were duplicates, shots of Tim taken in the past six years, but only a dozen different pictures. A few from his childhood and several face shots of the two of them when Tim held up the iPhone. He had been an avid photographer of others, but avoided pictures of himself. Removing the photos off the refrigerator, she placed them in a large old Dunhill cigar box of Tim’s. Like a robot, she methodically peeled photographs off every surface until her fingertips wanted to bleed. Every recorded copy of his face placed in a box except the canvas print in the bedroom and one beside the bed. She rearranged furniture, removed paintings from the wall which reminded her of him and yanked out nails and picture hooks. Simple, clean, bare walls. She moved rugs and relocated the white couch to face the fireplace. She scoured the house, packing everything up in boxes and bags. Systematically, pulling, folding, and making piles. As if it were anybody’s clothing. Underwear, sweats, and shorts in one bag, T-shirts and button-downs in anot
her. Jackets, sports coats and suits in a large box and two bags full of jeans and khaki pants.

  She kept one worn sweatshirt from a bar in Evergreen, Colorado, holding it against her cheek for a brief moment and a shirt he loved from Ireland with a four leaf clover on it, and shoved them in the bottom drawer of her dresser as if she didn’t want anyone to see. Flip-flops, dress shoes, boots, running shoes all thrown into a garbage bag. Her face glistened with sweat and dirt as this freaky adrenaline pumped into her veins.

  When she finally stopped, the front room full of garbage bags and boxes, her gaze lingered on the liquor cabinet. She hesitated, opened the door, grabbed the dozen or so bottles of tequila in various stages of fullness and placed them in a box. She had tried to find solace in tequila—Tim’s favorite liquor—a remedy to dull the pain. It never worked. She decided to move everything to the upstairs of the detached garage. Making a dozen trips back and forth, she carried the load to the bottom of the steps, Harvey on her heels watching every move. Kendall found the key, climbed the stairs like a superhero and without a second thought juggled the first load, opening the door with her arms holding three oversized bags.

  The door swung open with a kick from her foot. Sweet musty tang filled her nostrils, a little cologne, hints of Ralph Lauren Polo, and a trace of a cigar. It was as if someone slapped her. She dropped to her knees hugging the bags, then with a shove a football coach would be proud of she moved them away placing her forehead on the dusty wooden floor, she extended her arms straight out. Unintentionally, she lay in Child’s Pose, a position of rest in Yoga, powerless to move from his smell.

  At six p.m., she stood, walked down the stairs, and took a shower. Mechanically, she leashed Harvey for a quick walk down the path, behind the house, through the woods, her legs on autopilot. As the falling light silhouetted the branches of the trees and the sounds of evening birds chattered, Kendall chose to live.

  By eight p.m., she was driving back to the house in her black Saab with plastic bags filling the backseat full of white fluffy towels, soft sheets and a white down comforter. One solitary white vanilla candle from Bed Bath and Beyond sat on the seat beside her.

  What seemed like moments to Kendall passed and the house was transformed. She lit the vanilla candle and turned on some classic John Mayer. She liked listening to him before knowing Tim; it was pre-Tim music, a safe choice, no images appeared in her mind.

  Her stomach shouted at her, grumbling. Ready to order some won ton soup from the Chinese delivery place around the corner, she searched for her cell phone. Between the vomiting and the marathon clean-up, she was washed out. Adrenaline had taken over for the past fourteen hours, an inner force ecstatic she was alive had helped her survive a day when most people would not be able to function or crawl out of bed.

  It was then Kendall saw the three missed calls and a message from Puerto Morelos, Mexico.

  Chapter 5

  “Hello, this is Scout Whitman. I’m calling for Tim Jackson. I’m following up on a letter I sent to an address in Westminster, Maryland. Umm, I’ve tried to email Tim over the past couple months and the emails are returned. Probably my email service in Mexico. I’ve been having issues with my server down here.” Long pause. “I’m hoping this number is a way to reach him. I called before and didn’t know if I should leave a message but, umm…this number was listed in the initial paperwork as an emergency contact for the trip.”

  Slight pause and clearing of the throat. “Please call me back as soon as possible. As I said in the letter, everything is arranged for the trip, the gear, the Sherpas, and the trespassing approvals. I wanted to confirm for the first week of May. Okay then…thanks.”

  Another pause; the caller was not done. “I’m calling from Puerto Morelos, Mexico, so please leave me a message at this number, someone will get it to me and I will call you back. From the US dial 011 638 5319987.”

  With her iPhone in her hands, Kendall kept replaying the message. Her exhausted mind created different scenarios of what the message could mean. What approvals? What trip? First week of May? Tapping the touch screen again, Kendall leaned her head nearer to the phone as if she’d missed something crucial; if she listened closer, maybe it would make sense.

  Puerto Morelos, Mexico took Kendall back to a place of wonderful memories. They married, honeymooned and fell deeper in love with each other on the Riviera Maya coast of Mexico. In ten glorious, freeing days, they made their way from Cancun to Puerto Morelos to Playa Del Carmen to Tulum.

  Just thinking about their honeymoon moved the corners of Kendall’s mouth upward, a gesture she hadn’t practiced in a long time.

  They had rented a luxury beach villa. Days and time jumbled together as they took long walks on the beach, drank wine, made love, and sipped irresistible buttery tequila. White soft sand, flip-flops and bare feet, bright warm days with happy blue seas and bubbles from the waves hitting the shore stayed trapped in her mind forever. She wished she could be there right now, holding his hand.

  Exploring the local towns, they had walked and talked for hours each day. Their skin glowed with warmth, her hair curly from the humidity, his black hair unruly and wavy from maneuvering in soft sheets. They tasted like salt. They constantly touched each other, his hand on her waist or her fingers running through the dark curly hair at the nape of the neck, no schedule, no appointments, and no agendas. They fed each other ceviche, lime-cured fish with fresh avocado, and kissed after each citrusy taste. Sipped hot sauce from raw oysters and dipped warm fried chips into mashed-up roasted tomatoes, drank cervezas on ice with salt rimming the glass and sampled private reserve tequilas. Mariachi music filled the air and local merchants’ voices yelled out one-liners selling their wares.

  Days and nights blended. They slept in the day; they lounged on the beach at night. She had dreamed of days like these. Although Tim had been married for twelve years, she had waited her whole life to meet him.

  A husband. She remembered waking up looking out at the brilliant sparkly blue water, twisted in soft white sheets with Tim’s arms wrapped around her naked body. On his left hand, she could see the platinum wedding band; joined together forever.

  At night on the roof deck, completely private from another living being, they stretched out on the euro lounge chair made for two, counted falling stars, shared wishes, made love and slept breathing the sea air filling their lungs.

  It was when they finally decided to put real clothes on and explore outside their newly created private sensual world in Puerto Morelos they discovered the Ruta de los Cenotes, Spanish for the “road of the cenotes.”

  “What is it again?” she remembers asking, never having heard the word before.

  Tim poured her a sipping glass of tequila, Clase Azul, a wonderful buttery tequila discovered in Playa Del Carmen. They toasted and he wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “A cenote is an underground cavern of fresh water. A beautiful sinkhole. A deep thing.”

  She was astounded by the cenotes. The fact, they were unknown and unfamiliar amazed her. The guidebook mentioned they were sacred to the Maya as they were the only resource for sweet fresh water in the Yucatán jungle. Some believed the crystal-clear water had magical qualities; others believed they represented the entrance to the underworld.

  Kendall read everything she could find on her iPad; she discovered the majority of cenotes were owned by private families. Certain cenotes would allow visitors access so they could zip line across, snorkel or swim. She would read to Tim from her research, “Did you know there are rumored to be over six thousand cenotes in the Yucatán Peninsula but less than a thousand are registered and only a few hundred marked on a map?” Or, “Did you know cave diving was strictly forbidden in the private cenotes unless authorized by a private guide?”

  “Have you been inside one?” she asked.

  “Yes, many times.”

  “Are they as magical and mysterious as they look?”

  He kissed her and smiled at her eagerness. “Yes, they
are as magical and mysterious as they look. Steve and I came down here during college and did some cave diving. Why, you want to explore one?”

  She squealed and jumped up to hug him wrapping her legs around him.

  She found it fascinating so many were on private land, inaccessible to the outside world. She remembered thinking how cool it would be to have a cenote in your backyard.

  The picture of the Chichen Itza cenote, owned by the Mexican government, looked like a gaping hole or large well that opened in the middle of the jungle with rocks and trees lining the rim, descending deep into the earth. The color of the water mesmerizing. Here tourists could swim, but Tim stated he would take her to a more intimate cenote. She agreed with joy.

  The day they visited the road of the cenotes, she was entranced with the clarity of the water and the brilliance of the colors. The freshwater holes formed by the rivers flowing underground in the Yucatán peninsula were made up of limestone porous rock, so where water gathered it formed spectacular caverns underneath the land. Sunlight hitting the water on the open cenotes shimmered and created a color that transfixed her to a land of make believe.

  Before Tim’s death, she had loved the water and scuba diving. Open-water certified, she surprised Tim with a vacation to Bonaire when they first started dating. It was in Bonaire where she noticed Tim and the water had a special connection. He seemed to be more beautiful in the water, glowing. In the cenotes, it was indescribable.

  Tim had become a certified scuba diver when he was a child. His Uncle Dan, a strong force in Tim’s life, took him to Mexico for two weeks when he was twelve. When he came home to Arizona, the joke his uncle told was, “Tim grew fins.”