Chapter One Tula #2
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.
Confident she was minutes behind me, I rose and popped above the surface. I was surprised to see that the clouds had blackened, and the water was still churning. Waves smacked against the boat. I hoisted myself onto the dive platform.
When Mom didn’t surface, I readied myself to go back down. But a wave hit the boat and knocked me backward. I smacked against the deck. I struggled to my feet and scrambled to the boat’s radio. I called in a Mayday. More and more minutes passed. And Mom didn’t surface.
The waves kicked up higher, and it was hard to maintain my footing.
When the coast guard helicopter arrived, the waves were washing over the side.
A guardsman descended on a rope and ordered me to put on a harness.
I tried to explain that Mom was still in the water.
He insisted they would look for her. And I was pulled aboard the helicopter.
From above, I stared at the rolling, angry waves.
It was clear any search was too dangerous.
Another guardsman promised me that they’d search once the storm had passed.
And hours later, they returned. But Mom was never found.
I returned to our rental house. We both traveled so light, there wasn’t much more than a suitcase full of clothes that belonged to her. I held her T-shirt to my nose, inhaling the familiar scent of coconut suntan lotion.
In her suitcase, I’d found a two-hundred-year-old coin fashioned into a corded necklace. My mother had always worn it. The coin was as fixed to all my memories of my mother as her smile and vivid blue eyes.
Attached to the necklace was a note written on a grocery receipt. For Tula. No tender words. No warnings. No hints of her impending disappearance. The brief message was so Mom. I’d slid the coin on my sea-glass necklace chain.
I’d lingered on the Outer Banks for months, hoping Mom would be found.
When our lease expired, I moved in with a friend from high school.
I’d begged the ocean to give her back. I pointed out that Mom was too stubborn, too tough, too full of fight to stay lost. I believed the ocean would eject her and she would swim ashore, just as she’d done a million times before.
But the ocean had kept her.
The community rallied around me—the girl whose mother was swallowed by the ocean.
That close to the Atlantic, stories of lost loved ones weren’t uncommon.
The deep sea had claimed fishermen daring rough waters, surfers who’d underestimated rip current warnings, or swimmers seduced by calm waters, only to venture out too far.
Living on the barrier islands came with risk.
Still, our story caught headlines. Mother Lost at Sea. Teen Girl Rescued.
As days turned into weeks and Mom still didn’t return, the locals set up a trust fund for me. It wasn’t enough to make me rich, but it would bridge the distance between now and the next part of my life. At the end of the summer, I’d left the Outer Banks and returned to Norfolk.
When I married Dave, I thought I’d put my unsettled nomadic life behind me. But it always tugged at me. And then resentment festered for the too-stable guy and the cubicle that grew smaller and smaller every day.
“I’m not sure that has anything to do with my job performance,” I said, pulling myself from my memories.
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why bring it up?”
He ignored the question. “My great-uncle built a house in the Southern Shores area on the Outer Banks in the late 1940s. I spent many vacations down there.”
“It’s a beautiful place.” What else was I going to say?
“He passed about the time your mother died. I held on to the house, but I never use it anymore.”
“Okay.” If he was dropping a trail of breadcrumbs, I wasn’t following them.
“My great-uncle died in 2019, but I’ve kept and maintained the house as it was when he lived there.” He flipped through the pages in his file. “When I was in my great-uncle’s home office a few months ago, I found a partial manuscript. It’s about the Oceanus.”
I’d avoided all articles and online videos featuring the wreck. It might have been a curiosity for history or dive buffs, but for me it represented loss. “I see.”
“I want to give you the pages. I thought if there was anyone who might have an interest, it would be you.” I was ready to refuse the offer, when he raised his hand.
“There’s no one else I know who cares as much about the vessel as you.
And maybe reading about it will spark your interest in diving again. ”
His suggestion annoyed me. “How do you know I don’t dive anymore?”
“News travels.”
“It doesn’t, because I don’t share it.”
He studied me as if coming to a decision. “I’ve heard you’re not much of a gossip.”
“I’m not. Again, why does this matter?”
My anger didn’t seem to faze him. “I have a job for you.”
“A job? I thought I had one.”
“Think of this as an extension of what you do now. I need someone who doesn’t gossip to close my great-uncle’s house. It’s remained untouched for seven years. There will be boxes of files to weed through and destroy, and all the contents need to be sold or donated.”
“Do you want anything from the house?”
“No. But you’re welcome to anything in the house.”
“Seems like there are more efficient ways to close up a property.”
“There are, but I would rather someone who has a connection to the firm and area tackle it.”
A summer at the beach. Nice, but the rental prices were too high for me. Maybe I could bunk with my high school friend Kaitlin, who was still there.
And then, “You can stay at the house, but it’s likely a dusty mess. Or, if you have friends, stay with them. I’d like the job done by mid-September. You’ll receive your regular salary, benefits, and an allowance for food and gas.”
He pushed the manila envelope toward me. “That’s the first portion of the manuscript.”
“Where’s the rest?”
“In the house, I presume. I couldn’t find it. I’m not sure why it was divided into sections.”
“Have you read it?”
“No.”
I didn’t reach for the folder. “I haven’t been back in seven years. It’s not a good place for me.”
“Don’t prejudge. This might be the kind of project that launches you on a new start.”
I’d wished for a change, and here it was. “Do you want weekly reports?”
“Not necessary.” A smile teased the edges of his lips. “If this offer doesn’t appeal, you can go back to writing briefs in your cubicle.”
I’d longed to be untethered. To move on. And here was the chance. I pulled the folder toward me. It felt heavier than I’d imagined. This was the last outcome I’d imagined. Ever. The coin felt warm against my chest. And still, I said, “Okay. I’ll do it. Thank you.”
“Excellent.” He rose, signaling this meeting was over. “Pick up the house key from my assistant.”
I stood and extended a clammy hand, which he easily accepted. “You really don’t want anything from the house?”
“It’s served its purpose. Feel free to keep what you want.”