Blue Voyage Page 4

My shrink appointments ramped up to twice a week. I had nothing to say to her, though. All through those last drawn-out weeks of school, I heard about the sex scandal and the Athleta incident. My dad’s crime and my crime were forever hooked together. And even when Mom announced that we were going for a long-overdue trip to see Aunt Jackie in Turkey and offer her our moral support, I knew it wasn’t going to solve our problems. I could go thousands of miles away, but still our crimes would always be there, awaiting our return.

  4

  The purr of a motor leaked into my dreams. I sat up and looked through the porthole, blinking stupidly at the glare of sunlight glancing off the turquoise water. The boat was motoring slowly, hugging a rugged coastline. I sat up straighter. Where were we? How long had I slept? I saw no sign of Marmaris. I saw no other boats. This was my world now, stripped down to basics: boat, water, pine trees, hills.

  Glancing at Mom’s sleeping form on the other bed, I decided not to wake her up. On a ninety-two-foot boat with nine passengers and a crew of three, personal space was hard enough to come by.

  I rinsed off one limb at a time in the tiny bathroom sink. I slathered on my high-SPF sunscreen and dressed in a long-sleeved top and a lightweight pair of cargo pants. I applied heavy foundation strategically over the white blotches on my hands and face. This turned out to be really hard to do in the dim bathroom light, on a rocking boat, with the medicine cabinet door banging in my face. I did the best I could, then threw on my Red Sox cap and lowered the brim to hide any mistakes.

  At the last moment, I went to my suitcase and took out my journal—an extravagant hardcover thing with heavy cream paper, a bon voyage gift from Dad at our pathetic pre-trip “let’s pretend everything’s normal” ice cream outing. “Think of me when you use it,” he’d said. “Write down all your adventures, and then you can tell me all about them when you get back.”

  Of course, this was a far cry from the conversation I’d overhead him and Mom having at our front door. “So now we reward her behavior with a fancy vacation?” he’d burst out. “What kind of values are we teaching? You shoplift, no problem, Mom’ll take you on a cruise!”

  “It’s not a reward, Marcus,” Mom had countered. “It’s about our daughter’s emotional health. We need to get her away from the constant media attention. Which you brought on us!”

  “How about more hours with the psychologist? How about working on an organic farm? Or Camp Feinman. She used to like going there. Did you even think of that?”

  “What, now you’ve decided to step up and be a father and offer up some opinions?”

  “I am a father. And I have a legal right to see my daughter this summer. You cannot take her away. I could actually press charges against you, you know.”

  It had taken Mom twenty minutes to persuade Dad that the six-week trip was really about getting us both away from the media glare, as well as helping her grieving sister get her grip on reality again. The sister argument had done it; he’d finally backed off. Tickets were purchased, suitcases packed.

  But I didn’t want to think about Dad right now. I tossed the journal back in my luggage and grabbed the Lonely Planet guide instead. The Lycian Tours representative had made it clear we were on our own until he hooked us up with a local guide at our first shore excursion, so any information I got about where we were would have to come from this book. At the last minute, I remembered Mom getting on me about locking my suitcase. I zipped it, then locked it, if only to not start the day with her yelling at me, and tiptoed out of the room.

  I looked both ways down the cabin’s narrow hallway. The lantern-shaped wall sconces were turned off, but sunlight leaked down from the stairway to the upper deck, making the wood on either side of the thick Oriental runners gleam. All six cabin doors were closed, everyone apparently still asleep. At the end of the hall, I climbed the steep steps hand-over-hand until I came to the sundeck. There I stood for a moment, squinting in the strong sun and taking deep breaths of fresh air.

  The sails were still wrapped in their blue canvas covers—Aunt Jackie had told us most gulets weren’t actually rigged to sail—and we were motoring at a good clip. We glided past brown rocks jutting out of the water, and the occasional village clinging to a hillside. Now I could see other gulets dotted throughout the bay, and a long three-masted yacht with a shiny wooden hull cruising just behind us. While our boat bobbed up and down like a toy, the bigger boat moved steadily ahead, slicing waves out of its way.

  Wincing as my bare feet seared on the sun-baked deck, I made a beeline for the shade of a blue awning at starboard and curled up among the fat bolsters on a cushioned seat. I was overdressed and already beginning to sweat.

  Minutes later, our boat slowed and turned, approaching a cove. There were no buildings—just rocks, water, and trees, and the occasional goat grazing on stubbly grass on the hills. The boulders on the hillsides called out to me, though. I did bouldering and top-rope climbing at my gym but had never tackled real rocks. If ever there was a great place for a first outdoor climb, this would be it.

  If only I could get some climbing in, I could survive this trip. Though they’d grounded me after the Athleta incident, even taking my phone, my parents had let me keep my membership at Burlington Boulders. I guess even prisoners are allowed exercise. So in the few weeks after the school year ended and before leaving for Turkey, I’d spent all my spare time climbing. Away from the social climbers at my school, I met a few people—mostly college kids—whom I took turns belaying with, but they ultimately saw me as a kid and didn’t really want to hang out much. So mostly I just bouldered on my own or used one of the auto belays. I’d found a kind of peace when I climbed. Climbers are focused on looking for the next handhold or foothold and, you know, the whole business of not falling. They give you your space. Before Mom bought our airline tickets, I’d thought I could spend the rest of my summer like that.

  “Good morning,” Orhan said, coming out of the kitchen. He passed me, carrying a bucket, then sloshed water beneath the wooden table nearby. I drew my feet up onto the cushioned seat as a small river trickled my way. “You should be wearing your swimsuit,” he pretend-scolded. “It is beautiful morning to swim,” he added when I raised an eyebrow at him.

  I pulled at my sleeves and hooked my thumbs in the thumbholes. “I’m not that big a swimmer.”

  “You do not know how?”

  “I do. I just don’t really like to.”

  He paused mid-slosh and looked at me with real concern. “But you will be too hot, yes? The sun here, it is very strong now. It will become stronger.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Orhan shrugged and returned inside with the bucket. He came back with silverware, which he proceeded to lay out on the table. He glanced at me a few more times, but I buried my nose in the Lonely Planet guide, reading about the Mediterranean coast.

  Stirrings below deck interrupted my thoughts. A door banging, a toilet flushing. I heard pots and pans in the kitchen, and smelled something delicious frying. But not even the breakfast smells, the perfect surroundings, or the Lonely Planet guide could distract me from Orhan’s comment about the sun. Would the awning offer enough protection? How exposed was I going to be on this cruise?

  I hadn’t done a geography lesson for a long time. I pushed my shirtsleeves up to my elbows and dared myself to look, really look, for signs my skin disorder was progressing.

  The stark white patches on my right elbow looked about the same. But the ones on the left had shifted. My Australia patch looked as if it had detached and was traveling toward the top of my forearm like a continental drift—definitely on the move. At first glance, the archipelago of eight spots that I’d dubbed Hawaii appeared unchanged. But then I realized the diameter of one of the minor islands surrounding it had widened. And Molokai had morphed, too, the right side bulging in a new way. I lowered my sleeves and rolled my pants up to the knees. The patches and speckles look
ed pretty much the same, except that Greenland almost covered my left kneecap now, and on my right shin, Patagonia had extended its reach farther.

  I rolled my pant legs back down and hugged my knees. Dr. Shaw had always cautioned that vitiligo could be stable for years, or it could spread slowly. It affected people differently, at different times in their lives. She’d also warned that stress could cause it to flare up and lead to more loss of pigment.

  Stress. The gift that keeps on giving. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

  The most stressful thing about having vitiligo was dealing with people’s reactions to it. So I always tried to cover up. I hadn’t been to a pool party or a camp with swimming since sixth grade, when some kids saw the blotches and teased me. Those same kids recoiled from me in the lunch line, afraid they’d get whatever it was they thought I had, even though it’s impossible. That was the end of Camp Feinman for me. Not knowing how fast the disease would spread or where it would progress next on my body was another annoyance. And now my skin felt more vulnerable than ever, under stress levels that were increasing by the hour and the intense Turkish sun. I’d been told to avoid the sun because tanning my regular skin would make the contrasting white patches more noticeable. I’d be slathering on sunscreen constantly on this cruise.

  The boat stopped a few yards from the cove, and I looked up. It was a quiet place compared to Marmaris. No bustling docks, no busy boat traffic. No police lights, either. I wondered about that big search yesterday, and if they’d caught the robbers.

  Captain Mehmet and Selim lowered the anchor. One of the Australians, Milton, emerged from the cabins wearing a tight Speedo. He stretched his scrawny arms, which were already burned lobster red. He patted his paunch and grinned at me. “Hell, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  He gestured toward the sea, the rocky beach, the sun-dappled hills enclosing the cove. A black goat, bleating loudly, skittered up a hill, nibbling on tufts of scrub grass. “This. Everything. Ha. I’m joking. This is heaven on earth! Got your swimsuit? Care to join me for a pre-breakfast dip?”

  “Oh. No, thanks. Looks a little cold.”

  “Right, then. Toodle-oo.”

  Captain Mehmet and Selim lowered the swim ladder over the side of the boat, but Milton ignored it. He took a running jump and swan-dived over the side, his body surprisingly agile as it sliced the blue water like a neat blade.

  Great. Now I was trapped on this cruise, with geezers in Speedos, unable to sit out in a swimsuit. And the rocks in this cove were not big enough to climb. Feeling sorrier for myself by the second, I watched Milton knife through the water, take two laps around the boat, and strike out in the direction of the super-fancy yacht. Soon I lost sight of him. I stood up, suddenly worried he’d drowned, but then saw his snow-white hair coming around from the back of the yacht. He was doing laps around both boats.

  I wished my grandparents could see Milton and take a lesson. They’d been against our trip here. They thought Turkey was dangerous, and showed us an article in Travel and Leisure magazine about crime being on the rise. Maybe it was—we’d seen enough police yesterday—but museums seemed to be the targets, not tourists. And now this old guy was here, swimming, having the time of his life.

  The sounds of breakfast intensified. More passengers came up on deck and reintroduced themselves to me. There was Maeve, Milton’s wife, who was just as sunburned as her husband; Nils and Ingrid, the slim, athletic-looking Norwegian retirees; and Fiona and Alice, a mother-daughter pair from England who were celebrating their fiftieth and seventy-fifth milestone birthdays together on this cruise. One by one, everyone dove into the sea for a swim. All of them urged me to jump in, and shook their heads like they thought I was crazy when I politely refused.

  I retreated downstairs to the cabin. Mom came out of our room, dressed in her new blue-and-white-striped maxi dress. She plucked at the billowing fabric, as if she weren’t sure what to do with all the freedom; most of her outfits were tailored. She looked up and smiled when she saw me. “Hey there! We missed you last night, sleepyhead. Where are you off to now?”

  “Room. Bed.”

  “I see we’ve moved from the vow of silence up to one-word utterances.”

  I sighed. “I’m going to go lie down. Read or something.”

  “What’s everyone else doing?”

  “Swimming. Snorkeling. It’s apparently what one does on a cruise. Fun in the sun.”

  “You can swim, Zan,” Mom said. “Dr. Shaw never said you couldn’t. Besides, we bought you all those cute cover-ups and SPF-coated swimwear. And the swim tights and long-sleeved rash guard. What about those?”

  “No one here is wearing those things. Everyone will ask me questions.”

  “Just say you have sensitive skin. Lots of people do. Look at those sunburned Australians! They’ll turn green with envy when they see all your protective gear.”

  “Mom, I just want to be out of the sun. I checked, and the patches are getting worse.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. It doesn’t happen so fast. And you brought plenty of makeup.”

  “It takes forever to put on. And I don’t want to swim if it’s just going to wash off and need reapplying. Go have fun with Aunt Jackie. I’ll find something to do.”

  “I’m not so sure ‘fun’ is what Jackie’s up for,” Mom said in a hushed voice, glancing toward her sister’s closed door. “She’s totally stressed.”

  “About Uncle Berk?”

  “About Uncle Berk, yes. The ‘murder,’” said Mom, with air quotes.

  I was starting to really hate how Mom acted like Aunt Jackie was crazy, or lying. I knew that tone too well. It was like when I insisted I wasn’t going to shoplift again after the Athleta incident, and Mom refused to believe me. Or when she checked out my Google search history—which had a long list of athletic-wear stores—and accused me of plotting more elaborate shoplifting sprees, when honestly, I was just checking out new styles. “What if Aunt Jackie’s actually right?” I said, feeling a strong urge to take my aunt’s side now, if only to get under Mom’s skin. “What if he really was killed? I thought they found him with no cash in his wallet.”

  “Right. That’s mostly why she thinks he was killed by some hoodlum. She’s sure maybe he did something risky like refuse to hand over his wallet. Or maybe he fought back, and paid with his life.”

  “That all sounds totally possible to me.”

  “But, Zan, the facts are the facts. I saw the English translation of the coroner’s report. Berk fell from a significant height and broke his neck.”

  “Yeah, but couldn’t he have been pushed?”

  “Of course. But there was a thorough investigation. The only footprints found up there were his. He’d gone off the marked trail. He made a bad decision.”

  “But what if—”

  “Honey, Aunt Jackie is really struggling emotionally. She’s at the denial stage of the grieving process, and looking for somewhere to place blame. Our job is to ride it out for a while and then try to help her move on.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, it’s not just Berk that stresses her out. She spent most of dinner last night texting her guest relations manager.”

  “How come?”

  “I guess the hotel’s having real problems. Staff is quitting. Scathing reviews went up on TripAdvisor. But we shouldn’t be discussing all her problems in the hall.”

  I felt a sharp twinge of sympathy. Aunt Jackie didn’t deserve all this stress and grief at once. And the fact that Mom didn’t believe her theory made it that much worse. I believed Aunt Jackie. I didn’t think she was so emotionally off-balance. I decided I would do all I could to support her. And if that happened to piss off my mom, well, that would be an added bonus.

  We both turned to look as the door lock of a cabin clicked. But it wasn’t Aunt Jackie’s door. It was the last room at the end of the
hall. I expected to see one of the Geezers.

  I blinked. A girl stepped out. A girl around my own age. She was so tall she had to duck her head slightly to avoid grazing the ceiling. Her curly red hair was pulled back into a messy bun held with a plastic clip, and she wore a pair of aviator sunglasses propped on her head. Her green halter bikini top with white polka dots and a matching swim skirt looked not only stylish but expensive, too. She had a heart-shaped face, broad shoulders and arms sprinkled with freckles, and a bit of a muffin top going on at her waist, but she wore her outfit with so much confidence, she looked like a swimsuit model from a sportswear catalogue. She clutched two books to her chest and nodded a brief greeting to us as she headed for the steps to the upper deck.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, watching her climb up into the sun.

  “Her name’s Sage,” said Mom. “She’s from Oregon.”

  “That’s weird. How did I not meet her yesterday?”

  “You went to bed really early and practically passed out from jet lag.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And she came running down the dock at the last possible moment. Almost missed the boat. It was a very dramatic way to start a cruise. Her plane from Istanbul had been delayed.”

  “Is she here with her family?”

  “No, she’s traveling solo. Can you believe it? She’s barely nineteen years old. She said she’s been in Turkey for a year as an exchange student. This Blue Voyage is her farewell trip. Anyway, now you have someone close to your age here. Isn’t that nice?”

  It would have been nice if the girl hadn’t seemed so completely disinterested in us, almost rude, as she pushed past us in the hallway. “I don’t know, Mom. You didn’t love most of my friends back when I actually had them. So you tell me—is she a quality person?”

  Mom took me by the shoulders and steered me back to the steps. “Let’s go find out.” But when we got to the deck, Sage was already in the water, swimming with firm, confident strokes. She swam a couple of laps around the sleek, three-masted yacht anchored near us. I noticed the boat’s name, Gulet Anilar, painted on the stern in scrolling black and white letters. I also saw a tanned blond couple eating breakfast on the sundeck, gazing at each other while feeding each other fruit. They reminded me of my parents on family vacations in happier times. I winced and turned away.