Devil and the Deep Blue

By Deborah Morris

Sam Alexander’s husband, Jake, died eight months ago. She isn’t in denial. And she hasn’t lost her marbles. But she still hears him whispering in her ear, feels his embrace, and responds to his energy in ways that were…unexpected, to say the least. But then again, Jake did say he’d find a way—through hell

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Morris
• Release date: Jul 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732988682

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DEVIL

and the

deep

blue

deborah morris

A Vedere Press Company

Devil and the Deep Blue

Copyright © 2019 by Deborah Morris

All rights reserved.

This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in

any form or by electronic means, including storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the publisher except for the use of

brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Lyrics to Gary Mitchell’s Afraid of the Dark used by kind permission of Gary Mitchell. Afraid of the Dark written, arranged, performed, and produced by Gary Mitchell, copyright 2008, all rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1-7329886-4-4

ISBN-10: 1-7329886-4-1

To R. C. P.

Always

Y. F. D.

Prologue

Jake

My dad always said life’s a mystery. But I really had no idea how far-reaching the mystery of life could be—until mine ended. Or rather, mine paused, while I moved on to a different place.

Now, you might think at first that I’m talking specifically of heaven or hell, or even purgatory, as a different place. But, that’s not really what I mean. At least, I don’t think any of those are where I am now, or even where I passed through. That part’s a little sketchy.

Let me just say, that where I am now feels right . . . so perhaps it is heaven. But there are parts that are confusing, and I—I guess that could be purgatory.

What I do remember is my promise. I remember bargaining. I even remember there being a temptation and turmoil. But mostly, I remember a pulling—or maybe a better description—an ache.

It was painful and that pain felt more powerful than what I expected. Heck, I am not even really sure what I expected. That part of my memory is fading some, too. Which is weird, because other things are becoming so clear and understandable to me.

But, I am at home—this, I am sure of—so I guess this isn’t hell. I mean, it could be. But, it’s too pretty. It’s too comfortable. And I feel really strong—powerful, I guess you’d say. Like I fought against the dark and won. Or became one with it.

See, that’s where this one promise comes in. One I made. One, that I’ve kept—come hell or high water.

But what I can’t figure out is how I actually got here with her—or got back here. I keep having these glimpses of being with her before. Times and places that I barely recognize. And her face looks different in each one. So does mine. Like a dream you have, where you interact with someone you know but they don’t look exactly like how you know they look. Or you dream of music that sounds so beautiful and familiar, but when you wake, you have no clear recollection of the melody or where you first heard it. But it—it haunts you.

Weird.

I mean, did you ever awaken from a dream and feel that way?

Well, anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter how I got here, right? It’s just . . . well, I know her name is Sam. And I know she’s mine. She has been since the beginning, and will be until the end. No force is stronger than that truth. No force is stronger than me when I make a promise.

Not the gates of heaven.

Or hell.

I hear her calling me. So I gotta go. But you—you read on.

Maybe you can figure out the how.

n

March 28, 2015

Today is the Mass for the Repose of the Soul of Jacob Stephen Alexander at Church of St. Mary, Mother of God, in Sylva, North Carolina. It’s already been four months since Jake died, and Sam’s thoughts just keep going right back to the same thing: Here I sit—again. And nothing about being here is comforting me. Nothing.

In fact, Sam feels like screaming at Father Dawson to shut up. He has no idea what she has been suffering through. She almost hates him for even speaking.

Her son, Matthew, is sitting to her left, and Charlie is on her right. Amy is to his right. Amy is Charlie’s wife. She isn’t very happy seeing Charlie hold Sam’s hand so tightly yet not hold her own. Sam is quite certain Amy wants to spit nails.

Too bad.

n

Sam squeezed Charlie’s hand and looked ahead, staring at Father Dawson, who was now standing behind the lectern. He had already closed and kissed the Lectionary, and Sam hadn’t even paid attention to the gospel reading; John something or other.

Didn’t matter to her, she had only come to Mass for Matthew—her son, not the gospel.

He needs this. I sure as hell don’t. If God had looked after Jake, like I prayed for years, he’d still be alive.

"Grief can be such a solitary thing. Father Dawson began speaking softly and deliberately, eyes closed, with his hands folded in prayer, his fingertips touching his chin. Looking directly at Sam, he proceeded. Yet in the presence of profound sadness, there is profound love, treasured memories, powerful lessons, deep understanding, unmeasurable gratitude, and even overwhelming beauty. The first exists because of the rest." His head now lifted, he acknowledged those in the choir loft.

Matthew slipped his arm round his mother’s shoulders as Father Dawson continued. "The latter can propel us forward, if we allow it, and if we are aware of God. This process can help us to heal. To grow our faith. To live, and to fully love again. Even in this weeping of the night, He gives us what we need."

Yeah, that is what we are told.

Father’s whole countenance changed when he glanced back to Sam.

Good, maybe he sees that I am angry and he’ll stop flippin’ talking!

There are times, however—No such luck, she thought—"when we aren’t merely propelled, we are catapulted, and, missing the mark, we grope our way through the shadows, wondering if there is a light somewhere—anywhere—after all. Because grief is big. It is an ugly misshapen stone that we carry as we stumble through the darkness, searching for the comfort that we have lost, the familiarity that kept us grounded. We want somewhere to bury that stone. We want back who we have lost. We want that person to be our Lazurus. To be brought back to us. Like a child, we demand it."

Father paused the homily, deciding to change the direction of his commentary to reflect one parishioner’s life in particular.

"In the darkness of that night, our weeping becomes so painful we may leave our faith for a moment. It is during that time that we unknowingly leave our hearts unguarded, open to that prowling lion. We may doubt God’s promises. Or be angry or confused because our prayer wasn’t answered. Why Mary’s? Why Martha’s? Why not mine? In today’s gospel reading, we are told of a miracle. Lazurus was raised. There was rejoicing. There was joy in the morning. And there will be for us—our own little miracles. Our minds know this, but our hearts cry out, ‘When will I have mine, Lord? Illuminate my way.’"

Sam’s face reddened as Father Dawson looked straight in her direction. She let go of Charlie’s hand and quickly crossed her arms. Irreverence was all she had right now, so Sam just glared down at the kneeler. There was a loose screw on the floor beneath it and the fittingness of that idiom was just too perfect to ignore.

Both Charlie and Matt turned to raise a questioning eyebrow at Sam’s muffled half-snicker, but she just shrugged one shoulder in reply. When Charlie reached over to take Sam’s right hand in his again, Sam could see Amy lean forward—just a bit.

Sam gave Charlie her hand.

Father continued, Yet, in our grief, we often have only the energy to grasp whatever hand is extended to us. If we are aware, that hand is God’s.

And if we are not—then what? Outta luck, huh? Well, luck is getting what you want, isn’t it, Father?

Sometimes you have to grab whatever hand you can reach.

Chapter 1

A Beautiful Mess

Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes; for those who love with heart and soul, there is no such thing as separation.

—Rumi

Well, time hadn’t really healed that much, and Sam’s anger was still billowing—mostly just under the surface, but sometimes right out in front. Like today. She’d long since thrown aside her gardening tools and gloves, and was digging in the dirt with her bare hands. Dividing lilies wasn’t exactly on top of her I-like-to-do-this list, and it definitely wasn’t the part of gardening she enjoyed. But, today it helped her to vent some very disagreeable emotions.

After flinging down a clump of roots, Sam tilted her head straight up to glare at the sky. The brightness of the sun made her eyes sting even more and she quickly looked back down and rubbed some of the dirt off her hands. Why did I even start this frickin’ mess today?

Daytime was really hard for her.

The night was easier, and that was certainly unexpected. Nevertheless, at this point, she thought it should have been the opposite for a young widow.

Widow.

I don’t want to be a flippin’ widow!

Sweat was now rolling into her eyes, mingling with a sudden blur of tears. With a slight glance to her side, she could see Henry, her neighbor, gingerly stepping over the piles of earthy rubble. While the sweat was the perfect camouflage, she still didn’t look up right away.

Good morning, Sam. You need some help there?

Sam shook her head, spoke a nearly inaudible thank you, and continued digging.

Stop it. Talk to Henry, she told herself as she felt another overflow of tears.

She looked up and saw Henry shift his cane as he was about to take a step closer. He had noticed the tears.

Dammit.

Sam pulled in a steadying breath, then let it out gently and turned toward him. Hey, Henry, I wouldn’t ask you to dig in this dirt, as spiffy as you look this morning. Where you headed? Sam grinned, maybe a little off-kilter. The permeating scent of Old Spice and Brylcream was carried in the wind from sweet Henry’s face and hair right smack dab to where Sam was kneeling. It took effort not to scrunch her nose.

He always used a bit too much, but she wouldn’t be the one to tell him. Trying to ignore the overdose, A little dab’ll do ya popped in her mind. She almost giggled. Well, at least her grin might ease his concern for the streaks on her face. With the less dirty back of her hand, she brushed her hair from her cheeks, along with the sweat-tears.

"I’m headed to The Coffee Shop to meet a few of my old railroad buddies, and a couple of the young’uns. Want me to bring something back for you?" Henry gripped his cane with one hand, and with the other, pulled at the collar of his brown plaid shirt—a bit mismatched with his olive khakis. It was a little cooler this afternoon than the norm for the Plott Balsams this time of year—seventy-three degrees—but probably not as cool as he had expected it to be, having worn long sleeves. There were few trees in this part of the yard to offer relief, and that allowed the sun to warm them both just beyond a pleasant level.

Henry, you are always such a gentleman. But no, I actually just had a very late breakfast—brunch, I guess—not too long ago. Why don’t you plan to join me for supper? I just picked some squash and tomatoes. I was thinking of that, some corn sautéed with onions and bell pepper, and a couple of pork chops. Sam leaned back and knocked the dirt off her palms and wiped the remains on her gardening smock. She squinted as she looked up for Henry’s answer.

Well, that sounds just about right up my alley. I’ll see you this evening!

Good! Six works. Relieved that Henry had accepted her invitation, both for him and herself, Sam waved good-bye and looked around at the mess she’d made on the walkway. This time, she formed her characteristic lopsided grin and imagined Jake standing there looking at her.

Jake, you can still make me laugh. I hear you—If your brain was in a June bug, it would fly backwards.

Well, the rest of her project could wait. Sam stood up, stretched her back, grabbed at the air with her hands, and headed inside for tea—or bourbon.

No, Henry’s coming over—no bourbon. Be a lady.

Sam looked around her kitchen—her corner of the world. The sunlight burst through the bay window and brought a gorgeous hue to the blue—Sherwin Williams Sleepy Blue, to be exact—walls of her kitchen and dining area.

Blue, to match Jake’s eyes.

The breeze pushing through the screen over the sink was also unusually cool for July, and Sam stood there for a moment, glad for that. Closing her eyes, she smiled, recalling the hundreds of times she had stood right there. Jake would approach her from behind and wrap his arms around her, tenderly kissing her behind her right ear. Hello, gorgeous, he’d say. Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen? Putting her hands on her hips, she’d turn toward him and say, "My name is Serena Ann Martin Alexander. And you are mistaken—this is my kitchen."

During many of their in-front-of-the-kitchen-sink encounters, she’d toss her head back and beg, Quick, kiss me again before my husband walks in! Jake would grab her, spin her around, pull her chin up to his, and lay one on her. He’d then spin her back around to face the sink, and walk away, laughing. Sorry, lady. My pager just went off. Got to go on a call.

Yeah, I’ll make something go off, mister!

Promise?

"Jake!" she’d squeal, throwing a towel at him.

What? he’d say, ducking. You started it; I’m just following your lead!

Sam brought herself back to the now, and scrubbed her hands and arms up to her elbows with the oatmeal and shea butter soap, taking time to work as much of the dirt out from under her fingernails as she could. She dried her hands and tossed the towel aside, then gave herself a generous pump of Jergens. The sweet cherry-almond smell made her think of her mom. She smiled again, rubbing the lotion into her hands and halfway up her arms.

After pouring herself a cold glass of tea, Sam took a seat on the disheveled corduroy cushion in the bay window. The faded-brown cushion had come from her mom’s house. It worked like a touchstone, helping Sam to picture her mom sitting in her own window seat, reading Ladies Home Journal or Good Housekeeping while a cake baked or a gumbo simmered.

Such bittersweet memories.

Yet, those are the things that are supposed to keep us grounded.

"Oh, I can just smell your cooking, Mom. I sure do miss you—and Daddy." Sam bit the inside of her cheek. The profound sadness of losing her parents had eased over the past four years, just as all of the well-intended had tried to assure her would happen after Jake’s death.

Her eyes watered as she stared out the window, feeling the hurt bubble up again. At least, she thought, she had worked through the horrible anger she’d felt last fall when Jake died—well, most of it, anyway.

It’s a process.

n

Sam and Jake had been married twenty-two years and eight months when Charlie Wallace knocked on her door. Charlie had been with the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department for twenty-four years, and had been Jake’s friend for even longer. He was the only one who could have brought the news to her. He and Jake had a promise between them—to look out for each other’s spouse, should one of them die.

Sam remembered the confusing sound of Charlie’s words—he could barely speak himself—Jake’s had an accident. His hands had trembled as he took hers and tried to explain. Jake had been en route to the trauma center at Harris Regional when his patient became violent. The patient had OD’d on heroin. Jake was about to give him a third dose of Narcan. The guy woke up . . . knocked Jake against the back door of the ambulance. Closed head injury. It doesn’t look good, Sammie. I’ll take you to him.

Sam had slumped into Charlie’s arms, almost sinking to the ground. Her chest had felt hot, stinging, and everything around her had become blurred. Beyond that moment, her surroundings appeared surreal; she perceived her movements to be in slow motion.

She remembered Charlie helping her up and walking her to the sofa.

The only word she had spoken was Matt.

She remembered Charlie handing her his phone. He had already called Matthew’s number for her. Barely able to breathe, she had to force her words when she told Matthew to come home. Your father has been hurt. Be careful, Matt. Can someone else drive you? Yes, come straight to the hospital.

n

The risk was always there. She had known that; Jake had known that. But he knew, and she knew, that his job was his calling, an offering to the community—and to God. His work was in an uncontrolled environment that hid many dangers. He had just always been lucky, protected by his guardian angel, she believed. Never had he had a needle stick, nor caught a horrible, contagious disease—no Hep A, B, C, or D; no HIV; no TB; no One-Two-Three Hike.

It was a line of work that not many could do year after year. Most burned out. But Jake’s heart and soul were in being a paramedic, and he was one of the best in Jackson County—If I do say so myself. Sam smiled, remembering him saying that, oh, about 487 times.

He was adamant though, about moving forward if . . .

If something happened to him, Sam wasn’t to worry. He’d watch over her, he said. Hell, he’d even make a deal with the devil so he could come back in another form, just to be with her. Sam was sure if anybody could, Jake could. But he wouldn’t make a deal with the devil. No, he would tell a few jokes to Saint Peter, and negotiate for it right there at the gates.

If wishes were horses.

n

The hot shower had relaxed her; the rest of the dirt had been scrubbed from under her fingernails, and her still-damp, chestnut-colored hair, was up in a loose ponytail as she prepared a modest supper to close the day. Sam cranked up the music and got to work in the kitchen. Cooking was on the top of her I-like-to-do-this list; the chopping and slicing and layering the flavors just so. She had arranged the thick, juicy slices of the tomato on her favorite Talavera platter, the reds and blues in the pattern showing off the ripeness of the fruit.

Mmm, these must be so full of flavor. I can just smell it!

She thought of Jake, only last August, biting into his favorite summertime sandwich—the ripest garden tomato, sliced thick, piled on soft white bread which had been covered in Duke’s mayonnaise and lots of freshly cracked black pepper. Juice dripping down his chin, he’d said, Man! This is almost as good and juicy as you were this morning!

Sam rested her hands on the counter and, despite feeling the heat in her now crimson cheeks, smiled. You would think all Jake thought about was sex.

Duh.

Sam was standing at the stove, swaying back and forth to the music. As the last seductive strains of Put Your Lights On were moving in her head, she detected an off-note in the music.

Oh! It’s the doorbell! Sam turned the fire down, wiped her hands, and then did kind of a hop-skip to the door.

Come on in, Henry. Let me turn this down a bit. Sam turned down the volume and changed the station on Pandora from Santana Radio to something a little more apt to be enjoyed by a gentleman of eighty-seven.

Ah, yes, Doris Day. Que Sera, Sera—perfect.

Oh! Henry, these are gorgeous. Thank you. Henry had handed Sam six of Betsy’s Duchesse d’Auerstadt roses. The apricot color was gorgeously inviting, and looked so pretty against the blue walls of her kitchen. Sam poked her nose in the silky petals and breathed in the luxurious fragrance and smiled—this time, a full-on, wide-open, genuine smile.

"Well, now, I am glad you think so. Now, do you remember my story about the Oh Henry?"

Of course, I know this story. Nevertheless, Oh! Tell me!

Well, you know it’s the name of a candy bar that was created back in the twenties. My mother said that she and several of her girlfriends would sit at the candy counter in Chicago—that’s where my mother was from, you know—Sam nodded, and Henry continued—anyway, you see, there was a very dapper young man, as my mother described him, who would frequent the store—I think it was called Williamson’s back then. You know, it’s made by Hershey’s now. Well, that young man’s name was Henry. And my mother said he was a marvelous flirt, and she and all of her girlfriends loved to see him. They would all giggle when he spoke, and declare, ‘Oh, Henry!’ So, long story short, when I was born, my mother decided to name me Henry, and that’s that!

Oh, Henry—ha!—yes, Henry, I love that story. Did your father know the reason that your mother chose that name for you?

Well, now, that’s an entirely different story, but no, she didn’t tell him until many years later, and I think just in an attempt to make him jealous.

Oh, that sounds mischievous. Tell me more about your parents.

Sam listened while Henry shared many memories of his childhood and relayed very thoughtful observations about the times in which he lived and the lessons that his mother and father had taught him and his siblings. She just let him speak, but she would nod or interject a comment or two. She’d of course heard the Oh Henry! story many times before. Now whether the account was true or not, didn’t matter to Sam. It was Henry’s story, and was a charming one at that. Plus, letting Henry relive some of his fondest memories put a little lift in his step, and Sam liked to be a part of that, no matter how many times she heard the same things over and over through the years.

There was always something new to learn.

n

Supper was a good one, and while pouring coffee for the two of them, Henry sang along with Frank on Fly me to the Moon. Sam put the last dish into the dishwasher and moved to the table for some decaf with Henry, who was smiling as he warbled the last few notes of the tune for her.

He cleared his throat. So, Sam, tell me how you are. I know you miss Jake, and I know you are having a time of it. I miss my Betsy, and I sure am having a devil of a time.

Sam reached out across