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The Deep

These are dangerous waters to tread.

By Jillian SpiridonPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
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The Deep
Photo by Conor Sexton on Unsplash

The ocean scared Moira Hunt more than anything. Maybe it was the first nail in the coffin of her marriage when she refused to wade through the waves just off the coast of Hawaii even at her husband Dean’s insistence. Hiking and mountain-climbing she could do—gladly—but water in a great wide expanse? Give her a small heated pool any day.

“You’ve gotta learn to live a little,” Dean had complained. She had tried not to focus on the disappointment in his voice, the tone that veered a little too close to irritation. When it had come time to use the water skis, she had walked back to the hotel resort on her own, her sandals dangling from her fingertips. The rest of the vacation became a lesson in patience as Moira kept to the confines of the resort while her husband chased his best life through day trips out on the ocean—without her.

On the airplane home, Dean sported a new tan as well as a sudden need to discuss their future. His fingers found her wrist, right above her pulse. “I think we need to start thinking how we can make each other happier,” he said.

Moira watched a stewardess pass by before she allowed herself to say, “I don’t know if I like the way this is going.”

He laughed, but the sound was far from humorous. “I just spent a dream vacation jumping from island to island while you sat and read on a hotel balcony. Do you realize how long I spent planning this trip?”

Her eyes fixed on the airplane window even though she had the sudden urge to cry. The same thing had happened back in her school days whenever a “friend” had let her in on a nasty piece of gossip about her. Back then, it had been so easy to blink away the tears and laugh. Now she was just treading water and hoping she didn’t drown.

“We obviously have a lot to talk about,” she murmured.

And, irony of ironies, Moira and Dean barely spoke the rest of the time they were in the air.

By the time it was back to work for the both of them, her husband volunteered his time on a project that had him sleeping at the office a few times each week. But she had little room to complain, as the catering business she had co-founded blew up with events that also left her spending more time working than being at home.

It was only when Dean’s thirty-fifth birthday was coming up that Moira began to plan a party in his element. Maybe it would take a big gesture from her to lace back together the fraying threads of their marriage. Or, if he still wasn’t happy, then his birthday would be the last hurrah of what had once been a good thing for the both of them.

Booking a yacht and inviting all their friends and family seemed like just the kind of thing that would pull Dean back into her orbit. He liked being the center of attention, so he would appreciate the effort on that end. And being out in the ocean on a party boat—that would show she had tried to overcome her fears just to make him happy, right? Maybe then the memories of Hawaii would seem like nothing or, at worst, just a bump in the road.

On the big day, she asked him if he wanted to go on a drive to the beach. He had raised his eyebrows but said nothing as they packed a cooler for the ride. When she offered to drive, he just looked at her as if she were a different person than the one he had been living with for years.

But the duration of the ride followed mostly in silence, even as Moira’s hands sweated on the steering wheel. When had it become a chore to talk to her own husband? And he seemed even less enthused than she did.

“Maybe we need a break,” he said, not even looking at her as they entered the beach town and the little tourist places crowded with people.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Do we have to talk about this now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, it’s your birthday.”

“I watched my parents live in an unhappy marriage, and I won’t waste my life like that,” he said.

If she hadn’t needed to concentrate on driving, Moira probably would have already succumbed to her tears. But all she could do was try to fight the nervous trembles that had started to build in her fingertips. “Let’s just try to enjoy today for what it is, okay? We have the drive home to discuss these things all you want.”

When they finally got to the dock about twenty minutes later, Dean frowned as he took in the familiar faces waiting for them just outside. “What is this?”

“I booked a boat,” she said, her excitement already deflating like a balloon losing its air. “Surprise.”

He looked back at her wordlessly before turning his head away and then getting out of the car. Then he put on the mega-watt smile that would fool anyone, that same smile that had snared her back when they had first met. As he clapped the backs of his closest buddies and exchanged hellos with her parents, she tried not to think of the implications of what he had said. And what was there worth saving anymore if he didn’t want to be a participant in their marriage anymore?

All the while, Moira avoided glancing at the ocean tides not far away. Just looking at them would make her stomach turn over, she was certain. And when she got on the yacht with the rest of the party group, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about how she was leaving the safety and stability of dry land.

The party was, of course, a hit. Moira drank too much champagne—it was the only thing helping her with not focusing on the waters surrounding them—and laughed along with jokes she had heard a dozen times at different get-togethers throughout the years. Dean circled the crowd, engaging everyone he talked with, and she even had to look away from him eventually because seeing him was like watching the ocean: it made her feel like her stomach was ready to drop to the floor at her feet.

But as the sky darkened, the yacht a spot of illumination in the night, she separated from the group and tried to focus on her breathing, slow and steady, even as panic still had a vice around her. At least looking out onto the ocean now, she could imagine it was just a continuation of the shadows beginning to fall over everything.

“Moira?”

She jumped a little and nearly laughed at herself as Dean came into view. “How’s the birthday boy? Do you like the party?”

But he wasn’t smiling like he had been for the last few hours. It seemed he didn’t think she deserved a smile or even a thank-you—despite having put this surprise party together for him over the past few weeks.

“Did you think this was going to be some kind of band-aid, Moira?” he asked, his voice heavy. “A party was never going to save our marriage.”

A pressure began to build behind her eyes. No, she wouldn’t cry. There had been too many times already where she had succumbed to tears just to please him. Even just trying to scuba-dive in Hawaii had nearly thrown her into hysterics.

“I don’t understand,” she said softly. “I try to be the best wife I can be, yet you never give me any credit.”

“What do you expect me to do? Give you a gold star? You’re not a damn kid who needs praise, Moira.”

That was what did it. The breaking point.

She just intended to shove him. That was all. Anything to give him just a sense of how angry and hurt he made her feel. But she didn’t expect to stumble forward—or to watch as he tried to get out of her way.

It was as if she were watching in slow motion as his back dipped backward over the railing of the boat.

Her scream pierced the darkness just as his body slammed into the water.

And some twisted part of her felt a stab of glee because suddenly her fear of the ocean didn’t seem so silly after all.

marriage
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About the Creator

Jillian Spiridon

just another writer with too many cats

twitter: @jillianspiridon

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