Balance of Power Shifted (2 page)

With an inquisitive look still prominent on his face, Bill hastened off the deck and down into the bow
els of the ship where the crew sleeping quarters were located and made a beeline to the last row of bunks and climbed up to the top bunk.  Rummaging around, he grabbed a beat up backpack with an
Institute of Marine and Coastal Sciences
sticker emblazoned across the front, along with the large scarlet
R
, which was Rutgers University’s symbol.  Backpack in hand, Bill reversed his previous trek and was shortly on the deck looking down at the piece of organic material.

Taking a rubberized set of gloves from the backpack and a clear
30-gallon trash bag, he gently lifted the plant from the deck and placed it in the bag.  Using a deck hose, he added about a gallon of the Pacific’s best seawater to keep it moist.  William Bates was part of the latest Rutgers graduating class and was spending the last part of his studies aboard the salvage ship Darkhorse, in pursuit of an advanced degree.  Darkhorse, owned and operated by a large salvaging and shipping firm called
Modern Marine Management,
regularly took on college students from a number of universities as part of a work-study program.  The Darkhorse was an 8-year old vessel at about 680 tons and was 80 meters long, with modern attributes. The ship primarily operated from a Southern California base and performed contract jobs including some from the US Navy in the South Pacific.

Bill returned to his bunk
area, deposited the specimen in the bottom of his locker, and headed off to the ships galley.  As part of the work-study program, Bill basically performed whatever tasks the first mate wanted him to, and since coming on board about 2-months ago, he had standing responsibility to help Sal the cook during the daily meals.  Tonight, Bill was to peel potatoes and provide plates and utensils for the crew and guests to eat from and then wash the and clean up the galley area.  When not performing odd tasks, Bill collected marine data for his classwork, which included notation of GPS coordinates in relation to wind speed and water temperature and water depth readings.  All of which he uploaded daily using the ships satellite communications system to the school’s collection server for his professor’s review

A week later, after performing his evening readings and water samples
, Bill decided to take a look at his find and see how it was holding up to being stored in his locker.  Upon opening the door, his sense of smell reacted strongly the putrid odor.  His first thought was that the specimen was rotting, and then he quickly realized that his clothes were in dire need of a wash.  Pulling out a week and a half worth of dirty laundry and stacking them for cleaning, he grabbed hold of the plastic bag and placed in on the floor next to him.  Opening the bag slowly, he was surprised to find that no fishy or rotten smells assailed his senses.  Reviewing the specimen, he felt that it appeared to be lighter in color than it was when first retrieved from the ocean.

There was a
brackish color of the water, which was greenish brown.  It appeared to Bill that the coloring from the specimen may have leached into the water.  Similar to anyone who wanted to see if something had a live electrical charge, Bill tentatively put his hand into the bag, only to nervously remove it before touching it.  He did three times before taking a deep breath and actually grabbing the plant.  With some surprise, he did not feel any electrical shock, perhaps a slight, imperceptible tingle.  Bringing the plant to a stainless steel sink, which had decent lighting around it, he laid out the specimen.  Using his iPhone camera, he took about 10 pictures from every angle and a few close ups.  For the next couple of days he tried to identify the specimen using Rutgers online resources as well as numerous web sources without any luck.  Giving up, he sent the pictures and details on where and how the specimen was discovered to Professor Greyson, who was the head of Marine studies at the university.

Two days later, Bill received an email from the professor telling him that the specimen was something that they could not identify and that he believ
ed it was a new species.  He babbled in the email about how exciting this was and wanted Bill to package it and ship it back to New Jersey as soon as he got into port.  Looking at his iPhone calendar, he realized that his next port of call was in 5 days, which also corresponded to wrapping up his shipboard duties and studies.  While still on his mind, he went to the ship’s communication room to send an important message to his long time best friend Rico, also known as Rico Sauvé or better known as Michael Carter.  Thanks to Mike’s mother, Rico is what most friends and family called him, except for the nuns back in the early days of grammar school, who would only use his given name.

L
ife can be cruel at times.  I was 12 years old and sitting in 7
th
grade math class at
Ronald Reagan Middle School
working my way through a 20 question snap quiz.  Math and science were my two favorite subjects and I generally aced them.  Interrupting my concentration was the sudden sound of the classroom door opening.  Looking back to the door, I saw the principle standing in the doorway, and framed in the same door were my grandparents. 

Man they did not look happy at all
, which made my radar go up.  I assumed I did something wrong, but my mind quickly zipped through the possibilities and concluded that I hadn’t done anything that I probably should not have.  My teacher, Mr. Smoltz, was a nice guy, but a hundred pounds overweight, who kind of half waddled, half skipped towards the principle. 

Taking a quick glance
backwards, I saw the adults whispering and periodically looking in my direction.  Crap, this did not look good, what did I do?  Maybe, someone discovered my hacking into the school computer systems. That would suck, since I couldn’t access any sensitive areas, such as the grades, and had given up.

Glancing back again, the principle caught my eye and motioned for me to come to the back of the room.  Slipping out of my chair
, I slowly walked to the door.  My eyes were drawn to my grandmother who was wiping tears from her own eyes.  All of a sudden, I had a bad premonition…why weren’t my parents here?  When I got to the door, my grandmother hugged me while at the same time the principle was guided us into a vacant classroom next door.  Once inside with the door closed, my grandfather gently grabbed me by the shoulders, bent down from his 6-foot three height, and looked me in the eyes.  While staring into his blue eyes, I heard him say, “Rico, there has been an accident.  Your mom and dad were flying from Teterboro airport to Atlantic City airport in your dad’s Cessna.  Their plane lost power and crashed.  Rico…Rico” he stuttered, “your mom and dad were killed.”  As he said the words, grandpa broke down and started to cry himself.  My mom, his daughter Celia, was their only child and his main devotion in life.  I took a long stuttering intake of breath and wanted to ask a question or say something, but the next thing I remember was waking up in my grandparent’s guest room with my Nana sitting in the easy chair perched right next to the bed.  I immediately jumped out of bed, buried my face in Nana’s neck, and proceeded to cry for the next hour. 

My grandfather walked in and
knelt on the floor next to us.  “Rico” he said, “your mom and dad are dead but you have us, we are here for you and will take care of you.  This your home now and we will make sure your parents will always be remembered for the great parents and giving people they were.”

A trying, confusing
, and tearful week later, they had a viewing at McPearsons Funeral Home, and mass at St Anne’s Catholic Church a day later. I was mortified at the McPearsons event.  There were two closed caskets sitting side by side which contained what was left of my parents.  This meant no last look or visual picture of either of them.  I had to rely on the hundreds of photos of them from over the years, placed all around the room.  Tears came to my eyes whenever I looked to close at these picture memories of my parents.  Celia and Michael Carter Senior were well-respected and active people in their community, church, arts and other charitable activities.   Celia volunteered at my school and taught CCD at Saint Anne’s church.  Mike senior was the CEO of a successful Internet marketing firm.  The line for condolences literally went out the door and halfway down the block.  On the line were a couple of distant cousins from my father’s side of the family, but in my family there was no one else.

Mom was an only
child; Dad had one brother who died suddenly and unexpectedly a couple of years prior from Meningitis.  His parents passed away at an early age while in their 60’s within a year of each other.  In other words, I had no brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles or close cousins.  It was just me and my Grandpa and Nana.  Lucky for me, I could not have asked for more loving and fun grandparents.  They were always taking me places and even allowed me to bring a friend along at times.  My favorite was spending a good part of my summer in their old Victorian home in Loveladies, on Long Beach Island in New Jersey.  I loved my grandparents before my parent’s accident and I loved and adored them even more afterwards.

Did I say life could be cruel…
yes; it could and do so in spades.  Fast forward to 10-years later, I am just about to head out to a Friday night keg bash at an off campus home where a couple of my buddies shared a large, albeit somewhat decrepit home.  The house I live in, with a couple of roommates, has one major drawback.  The owner lives about a block away, so having a kegger there was not going to fly. 

Just as I reach
ed for the door handle, my new iPhone starts to ring with, “I love you, love you soooo much,” in an annoying whiney voice ripped from some YouTube site.  This was the handiwork of my on again off again girlfriend Fiona, who must have snuck it on there when I wasn’t paying attention.  Sliding the touch screen to answer the phone, I simply said, “hellloooo!”  A quiet voice asked, “Am I speaking to Mr. Michael Carter?”  I said, “Yes you are.”  Then as I stood there with shock spreading across my features, as Officer Sampson of the Peapack, NJ police department informed me that both Edna and Charlie Rickel died in a car accident at 6:49 pm on route 206 in Bridgewater, NJ.

When
I hung up the phone, my thoughts immediately drifted to memories of my grandparents. I had loved and admired them for so many reasons.  Even though they were in their early 80’s, they were still so vibrant and active in all aspects of life.  Mostly in a daze, and on autopilot, I caught the Marta just up the road from the Georgia Tech campus.  After making a call to a limo service for a ride from my destination, Newark airport, I tried to get hold of my friends Bill and Fiona.  Both attempts to contact my friends went to voice mail.  I was too frazzled to leave a message for them.  A short time later, I arrived at Hartsfield International airport via the Marta.  Still in a daze, I found myself on the last AirTran plane out to Newark.  Once on the ground my limo driver was waiting.  The driver asked me if I had any bags, I shook my head no and only then realized that I had brought none of my things including my laptop or schoolbooks. 

Using the
40-minute drive time out to my grandparents place in Peapack Gladstone, I called the number provided by Officer Sampson and left him a message stating that I was now in town and wanted to meet with him next morning to talk about the accident that took my grandparents.  A dark cloud of pity washed over me as I realized that there really was no one I could lean on in this situation to help me figure out what steps I should be taking.  What about a funeral home, mass, cemetery and about 20 other things that came to mind as the car pulled into a big circular drive and stopped in front of the main doors of a beautiful classic 100-year old colonial home, which had been my home for the last 10-years.

Paying the driver, I exited the car and with
trepidation, entered the main foyer.  This home now seemed to be devoid of the loving ‘life force’ that had been so much of Nana and Gramps philosophy in life.  The house now seemed colder and darker with their energy now gone.  Climbing up the classic oak staircase to the top landing, I walked down the dark hallway, opened the last door on the right, fell into my bed, and was asleep in less than a minute.

With bright sunshine streaming in through the windows into my eyes, I thought with some hope
, that I had a bad dream.  As I opened my eyes to a squint, I realized that it was no dream as I took in the surroundings of my old room.  Looking at the clock, I saw that it was just after eight so I jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom to take a leak and shower.  As I passed the large mirror on the way to the bathroom, I caught a reflection of myself.  Staring back at me was a stranger.  The eyes were not the bright and mischievous eyes of the person who owned them just 24 hours earlier.  They were the eyes of a person who lost a part of their soul.  The face normally held an easy smile, which was probably why making friends came effortlessly.  The smile, plus the 6 foot 2 muscular 220-pound frame and black curly hair, ensured that many of his friends were of the female persuasion.  Right now, there was no smile and the face was of a stranger that showed tension clashing with normally relaxed features.

Tearing himself away from the mirror with renewed fears and concerns
, Rico headed to the bathroom.  After 10-minutes, he emerged in a cloud of steam, grabbed some clothes from his closet and was dressed in another five minutes. Feeling slightly more refreshed after taking a shower, he logged onto his grandparent’s desktop computer and Googled the address for the police station.  The address seemed familiar and he realized that his grandparents had to pick him and his friend Bill up from there one evening after some underage drinking.  This was the only time that I could remember Nana getting really pissed at me.