Siren Sisters

by Dana Langer

  Two nights ago, in the darkness of the motel room, I thought these girls looked a lot like us. But I was wrong. These girls are not like us. These girls are not even remotely human. And their voices, no matter how perfect, are nothing but sad and useless, dulled by the pain of manipulating and pretending and the fact that nobody who matters will ever hear them. Dulled by whatever sacrifice it was that brought them here in the first place and kept them alive like this for way too long.

  It’s not worth it, I think. It’s not worth it to live like one of these blind zombie bird girls.

  I link my arm through Lara’s and start pulling her toward the door. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

  On the walk back to our house, I watch my sisters in the passing headlights, moving single file down the side of the road, and I think about what the Sea Witch told me, about the sacrifice they made. I keep thinking about it all night, even after we get home and begin cleaning up the broken glass and putting the living room in order. All this time, I thought my sisters chose to become sirens because they wanted to be beautiful and powerful and immortal. But that’s not what happened at all. They did it for me. When I died, they were right there in the graveyard with a flashlight, and a shovel, and a spell from the Sea Witch. They were willing to trade their own lives just to bring me back.

  Later, I follow Lara into the kitchen to help make hot chocolate. She places a little saucepan on the stove and pours milk into it. “You want the yellow seashell mug, Lolly?”

  I nod. “Sure.” She knows it’s my favorite.

  “Okay. Get the chili pepper.” That’s her secret ingredient.

  I take the container from the spice rack and hand it to her. Then I hop up on the counter and grab a wooden spoon to help stir the milk. She glances at me. “Don’t bang your feet on the cabinets.”

  “Lara?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything.”

  She reaches out and pulls on my ponytail. “You’re welcome, little one.”

  The next morning, a headline appears in the local paper:

  LANDOWNER, ERIK BERGSTROM, AMONG CASUALTIES OF LAST NIGHT’S STORM

  Jason’s mom and stepbrothers get dressed up in suits and drive down to Portland to speak with an attorney, and Jason gets to stay home alone. The first thing he does is take all the stuffed animal heads down from the walls and shut off the air-conditioning. Then he and I sit upstairs in the nook by the picture window with my history textbook and Hannah’s diary and we read every word.

  March 2nd, 1710

  Several weeks ago, one of the orphan girls from the village knocked at my door and begged me to cure her sister of a fever. Every night now, I have them both out there by the water, luring the hateful ships to our shore, searching for Rebecca.

  We read about the centuries of lost, orphan girls who worked for the Sea Witch, girls like my sisters and me, and how some of them ended up running away, and some were hypnotized and kidnapped, and some just vanished and were never heard from again. Nobody ever succeeded in undoing the spell, though. None of them could ever figure out how.

  Abigail says she’s finished being a seiren. She is in love with one of the boys in our village and wants to be married. But I will not let her go. Not yet. When Rebecca comes home safely, then, perhaps, I will recite this spell for forgiveness and reunite the broken pieces of my soul. Then, perhaps, I will find peace. And then I will set them all free.

  “What are the broken pieces of her soul?” Jason asks.

  “Maybe it’s the wolf,” I tell him. “She wrote in one of the earlier entries that the wolf appeared in her jail cell on the night the judge sentenced her to hang. I think she took all of the anger and terror she felt that night and used it to conjure him. He’s her protector now. And the rest of her soul, her real self, is hidden away somewhere in the ocean. That’s how she has the ability to cast these spells, to do this kind of magic. That’s what makes her a sea witch.”

  “But how do we get the wolf away from her?”

  “I don’t think it’s enough to take him away. It’s not like Mr. Bergstrom and his crown. Her power doesn’t come from the wolf; it comes from being broken into pieces, from hiding the soft ones away and keeping the tough ones close. Now, if we could put all of her pieces back together, if we could summon the wolf ourselves and reunite him with her soul, we could probably undo all of the spells she’s ever cast. We could help her find peace and set the rest of us free.”

  “But maybe she doesn’t want to find peace.” Jason sets the book back on the floor. “I mean, we can’t change what happened to her. Maybe she just wants to stay mad.”

  “Look, you have your stepfather’s power now. You have the ability to perform spells, and she gave that to you. She helped you find it. Maybe she wants you to use it. Maybe she’s as tired of the shipwrecks as we are. Maybe she just wanted somebody to hear her story and understand. Maybe she just wanted somebody to listen.”

  “But the ocean is a big place, Lolly. Even if she is ready to move on, and even if we do the spell for forgiveness and it works, how is the wolf supposed to find his way to her soul?”

  “I know,” I tell him. “I have an idea.”

  Ms. Cross lives in a little blue house on a side street a few blocks from the diner. Her screen door is shut, but the front door is open, and soft yellow lamplight spills out onto the porch. Jason and I race up the front steps, and Jason rings the bell. A few moments later, a woman in an oversize sweater and slippers comes to the door. She’s one of the folksingers from the festival, the one who strolls around town with a painted guitar.

  “Hello?” she says.

  “We’re looking for Ms. Cross,” I tell her. “She, um, she lives here, right?”

  The woman smiles. “Yes,” she says. “Are you students of hers?”

  “Yes.” Jason holds out his hand. “Jason O’Malley.”

  They shake hands, and I’m impressed again at his ability to transform into a grown-up at exactly the right moment.

  “Addie,” the woman says. “Just a second.” She walks back into the hall and calls up the stairs. “Julia! You have visitors.”

  I don’t like the thought of Ms. Cross having a first name, let alone family members who call her by it, but I know somehow that’s just a sign of me not being quite as grown-up as Jason, so I try to push it from my mind.

  Ms. Cross comes down the stairs and steps out onto the porch. She’s also wearing slippers, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her without her waterproof boots. “Well, hello,” she says. “It’s very nice to see you two, but I’m afraid it’s almost dinnertime. Can this wait until normal business hours?”

  “No,” I tell her. “We have something for you. Like, an offer.”

  “It’s important,” Jason clarifies. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t impose.”

  Impose? I think.

  “Well, then.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose and grabs a shawl from the coatrack. “We’d better have a seat.”

  Ms. Cross turns on the porch light, and we sit together on the front steps, balancing the diary and the textbook across our laps in the gathering darkness.

  “You were right,” I tell her. “I know the author of this diary, and she is in trouble.”

  “What do you mean you know her? Lorelei, this diary is hundreds of years old.”

  “Yes, but she’s still alive. She’s been alive this entire time, and she still lives here, on an island not far from town.”

  “She’s not quite human,” Jason explains. “She’s become sort of a . . . well, I hate to use the term now, but”—he lowers his voice—“a witch.”

  I look up at Ms. Cross. “And your family was involved in the trials, right? They were witnesses during the trial of Hannah Martin.”

  “Yes.” Ms. Cross laces her fingers together. “In fact, that is one of the great sadnesses of my life, knowing how they behaved. What they did to her.”


  “Well, you were right that the author of this diary is her. It’s Hannah Martin. But the thing is, she’s still alive, and she’s still in pain. And there’s a chance now for you to help her.”

  Down the block, streetlights start to flicker on, and one of the neighbors comes out through his garage carrying a garbage can. He waves to us, and Ms. Cross takes off her glasses and waves back. “Hello, Mr. Hale!” She dabs at the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “Even if that were true,” she whispers, “what could I possibly do about it now? It’s been three hundred years.”

  “You could apologize.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not too late,” Jason says. “Three hundred years is nothing. I mean, not when you really think about it.”

  “Well.” She smiles a little. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “You could write her an apology.”

  “Please,” I say. “Even if it wasn’t your fault, you understand what she went through. And you’re sorry about it. Like, really truly sorry about what happened. It would help her to know that. I know it would.”

  “And it would help Lolly,” Jason says. “And her sisters. And a bunch of other girls too. You could keep them from being a part of this cycle. You could help make them human again.”

  “You know who they are,” I say. “The other ones. You’ve been worried about them this whole time. You told me. Please. Just acknowledge what happened and tell her you’re sorry. Otherwise, all of this—the storms, and the shipwrecks, and the kidnapped girls—it’s all going to get worse.”

  Ms. Cross is quiet for a moment, looking down at her feet, and the wind keeps lifting the fringes of her shawl. “Yes,” she says, and it’s almost like she’s speaking to herself. “I believe that would be the right thing to do. In fact, it is the only thing. Apologize. How else is one to proceed?” She shuts the diary and gets to her feet. “All right, children,” she says. “I’ll write the letter. Come inside.”

  “There’s one last thing,” I tell her.

  “Yes?”

  “We need to borrow the lanterns from your classroom. All of them.”

  “Actually,” Jason says, “we’d like to keep them.”

  The next morning, all of us are scheduled to work at the diner. I sit at my usual perch by the entrance, and I watch as my sisters glide back and forth, trays held gracefully aloft, balancing juice and coffees and slices of pie. Lara slips past me and winks. “Almost time to start your server training, Lolly.” I smile back at her, but I don’t say anything. I can’t. I wait until she walks away, and then I take a tube of her lipstick out of my pocket, the same one Lula used to draw on my hand, and I draw a tiny heart on the side of the seating chart. Another symbol. This time it’s for them, so they’ll know not to be afraid.

  Lula’s brewing a fresh pot of coffee, and Lily’s carrying a tray of apple crumb to the display case. It’s just a normal day, but I sit and watch everything for a few minutes, trying to breathe in all the sweetness like steam from one of Lara’s hot chocolates.

  It’s not too busy, but most of our regular customers are there. Coach Bouchard’s motorcycle is in the parking lot, and he and Nurse Claire are having lunch together, holding hands across the table and sharing a piece of lemon meringue. The gymnastics girls are all packed into the big table in back, eating ice cream sundaes and wearing matching track suits. Addie and Ms. Cross are sitting together in a booth in the corner with pancakes and a crossword puzzle.

  The last thing I do is make two sandwiches and pack them up in “to go” boxes. Dad’s not home yet, and I’m not supposed to use the stove by myself, so I make myself tuna fish on whole wheat, and peanut butter with strawberry jelly for Jason, so he won’t have to deal with any mayonnaise. Then I wait by the door.

  Finally, Dad’s rusty blue hatchback, the car he’s been driving since he left us his truck, turns the corner and pulls around to the employee parking lot. I grab the sandwiches and my jacket and hat and go out back to meet him. It’s a cold, clear morning with bright winter light glinting off every surface, and Dad’s bent over, taking suitcases out of the trunk. He looks tired and pale; his shoulders are slumped and there are dark circles under his eyes.

  “Welcome back,” I tell him, and point to the sandwiches. “I’m leaving early.”

  He turns around and smiles. “Nice to see you too, kid.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  He runs his hands through his hair and shrugs. “I guess so. Yeah, I did. What about you? How’s it feel being thirteen? You feel any older?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So where are you running off to?”

  “To Jason’s. It’s because we have to work on a project together. I mean, it’s for school.”

  “Sure, kid. Whatever you need.”

  I put the sandwiches down and push my hands into my pockets. “There’s something else, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you put down the guitar?”

  “Sure.” Dad puts down his guitar case. He takes a seat on one of his suitcases and starts playing with the handle. In his oversize jacket, he kind of looks like a kid who just got sent to detention. “What is it?”

  “We need you to stop living at the diner and move back home. To our house. I know Lara’s technically an adult, and Lula’s sixteen, but still. It’s not the same. You’re a good dad, okay? At least, you’re good enough. And we need you.”

  Dad doesn’t say anything for a while. He just keeps sitting there on that suitcase. And the longer I look, the more he starts to seem like the vulnerable one, the one so lost he couldn’t find his way back now if he tried. “I’m no good in that house, Lolly. I can’t ever seem to fall asleep there anymore. Even here, I usually just stay up late playing music. I guess I don’t sleep very well anywhere these days.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell him. “None of us do.”

  “Well, it’s not that simple.” He curls his fingers around the handle. “What if I lose her again?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother. I mean, I can find her so easily now. When I walk into that house, it’s like no time passed at all. Every room, every piece of furniture—it’s all memories of her. I like it that way. I want to keep it that way. So, what if I move back home and it stops feeling like that? What if I move back and life just goes on and then I can’t find her anymore?”

  “Dad—” I can’t bring myself to say what I’m thinking. She’s already gone.

  He takes one of my gloved hands and threads our fingers together. “I guess I never thought of staying away as leaving you. I thought of it more as holding on to her.”

  For some reason, I start thinking about that grief pamphlet I got from Nurse Claire. And I think about Hannah and Rebecca and all the things people try to hold on to and can’t. And all the things they end up wrecking when they try.

  “Well, listen,” Dad says. “I’m gonna get myself a cup of coffee. Can I get you one too?”

  “Okay.”

  “And you want to split some fries with your old man? I’ll make ’em right now.”

  “Yeah, Dad. Sounds good.”

  “Great.” He stands and touches my forehead, the purple bruise flowering around my eye. He has no idea what happened to me and, as usual, he doesn’t ask. But a look of concern flickers across his face. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, Lolly. None of this is your fault, okay? I mean, you know that, right?”

  I nod. “I know.”

  “Look, your mother and I weren’t always the best parents. That’s why we had so many of you. So you’d take care of each other.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll be right back with the fries, kid. We can eat out here. It’s not too cold, right?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  And I guess it is.

  Sometimes I wish I could tell Dad everything. I wish he wasn’t always so lost in his own head, and that he could understand my sisters and me and wha
t’s happened to us. But I guess something that happens when you grow up in a restaurant is you learn to accept what’s available. Usually it’s best not to push too hard for things that aren’t on the menu.

  Without thinking too much more about it, I pick up my sandwiches and walk out to the road. I leave before he comes back.

  At sunset, Jason and I walk to the sound, which is a quiet body of water, between the cliffs, that feeds into the sea. We’re carrying our sandwiches, Ms. Cross’s apology, Hannah’s diary, a pack of matches, and a box containing all of the lanterns from my classroom. Jason is wearing one of Mr. Bergstrom’s old Viking helmets. He says he thinks it might help us with the spell, but I think he just likes wearing it. At night now, he sleeps with it under his bed.

  Together, we kneel on the shore and unfold the paper with Ms. Cross’s apology. The sun is vanishing slowly, shimmering in the trees, and we open Hannah’s diary and recite the spell that’s written there, the spell for forgiveness. Then Jason strikes a match and burns the apology, sending sparks and ashes up into the air. And then we set to work lighting the lanterns. Jason arranges them in an evenly spaced pattern, and I follow along behind with the matches and light each one.

  Jason looks at me. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “You know, I’m still not sure I believe everything the Sea Witch—I mean, Hannah—I’m not sure if I believe everything she told us. But if it’s true what she said about the night your mom died, about giving your sisters a spell to bring you back from the dead, and if we’re about to undo all of her spells, then that might mean—”

  “It’s the only way,” I tell him. “Otherwise my sisters and I will end up like the girls in the motel, and I don’t want that. They saved me, and now I want to save them.”

  “Well, take this.” Jason digs in his pocket for a second and draws out some rope.