The Deep End of the Sea Read Free

to me, and later I cried because I could look at his face and know that there was no way for my eyes to deprive him of his breath. Since then, he comes to visit me once a month, bringing with him a plethora of items, including food, toiletries, and packages from a post office box he’d set up for me on the mainland years before. In return, I send with him various items from the temple, such as urns and art, so he can sell them and deposit the funds in my bank accounts. Since I am an instrument of death, I try to balance my karma by donating money to worthy causes across the globe. My current favorites are Doctors Without Borders, shelters for the abused and poor, disaster relief funds, rape survivor networks, and animal and nature conservancy funds. Mikkos teases me about how I waste so much of the money I’ve amassed over the years, but he’s put some of his money in the pot more times than not.
    He and I are friends, dear friends.
    I worry about him. He’s so frail nowadays, his skin like tissue paper, and each time I see him, there are fresh bruises. He tells me he doesn’t heal like he used to. I ask if he ought to be making these trips at sea to visit me, yet he always maintains he’s fine. Says he likes my company, that I laugh at his jokes and don’t consider him an addled old fool like so many of the girls back home. I contend I do believe that, and then he and I laugh together, but I secretly worry. There will come a day when Mikkos will not come to my island anymore, and I will not know if it’s because he can’t or if he’s died. And if he dies, there is no way for me to go to his funeral and pay respects to one of the kindest souls I’ve ever been blessed to know.
    I love that old fool.
    I broached the subject with him during his last visit. We were sitting on a mosaic-laden patio overlooking my garden; even though he can’t see the view, Mikkos always insists we enjoy our wine al fresco. “Is your son still in Thessaloniki?” I’d asked, pouring him only a little more Cabernet Sauvignon. It’s his favorite, and he’d been the one to bring it to me, but he also needs to be able to steer his boat home—and being blind, his senses must stay sharp, not muddied. Interestingly enough, Poseidon never rages when Mikkos travels to Gorgóna, not like he does when other travellers seek out my isle, often fighting punishing storms and waves just to find me. The waters stay calm for Mikkos’ journeys to and fro, almost like the god knows I need my friend.
    While appreciated, this confusing act of kindness does not endear me to the Lord of the Seas.
    Mikkos laughed at my question about his son, like I’d said something of great amusement. “He will never come home. He’s met a girl, you know.”
    Mikkos’ son was always meeting girls, and that was a problem. He was thrice divorced, with seven children. Seven grandchildren that Mikkos hardly knew. It was a horrible shame, one that left me simmering in sympathetic, righteous fury far too often; but then, my feelings on such matters were hardly relevant. Nobody involved would ever ask for my opinion, no one except for Mikkos. What did I know about having a family, after mine had died so very long ago?
    “You should call him, ask him to come for a visit,” I urged gently.
    His eyes, cloudy yet still beautiful, dulled for the smallest of moments, and I wished I had legs to kick myself. But then he found my hand and laid his brittle one over it. “You are a good girl, matakia mou . The world would be a better place if there were more people like you in it.”
    I’d forced back the maelstrom of emotions threatening to overtake me and answered with a light voice. “If there were more people like me around, the world would have a tiny population. Be glad there’s just me, and that I’m confined to this island.”
    His dear face scrunched in irritation. “You do not give yourself enough credit. Were you the monster they say you are, I would not be sitting