The Sea Taketh (Alex Singer)

by Teresa Rae

  “Yes, Henrik has a policy of traveling with an adequate cushion. Do you want to see my other accounts?”

  “This is crazy! Where did you get that kind of money?” My eyes are glued to the total on the screen. “You’re only like six months older than me.”

  “About that,” he clears his throat. A worried look appears on his face. “Please don’t overreact, but I may look like I’m eighteen, but I’m older than that.”

  “How old are you? Twenty?” I ask, peering at his face.

  “A lot older,” he says. He pauses for a moment before saying, “Merfolk are immortal.”

  I furrow my eyebrows. “How much older… exactly?”

  “I’m more than five hundred years older than you.” He tensely waits for my reply.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” I say, storming to the door. “I don’t think you’re funny, and I don’t like to be laughed at!”

  Before I can turn the handle, he picks me up and tucks me under his arm like he’s carrying a football. He goes out the door and walks down the landing.

  “Christian!” I hiss.

  “Yes, my love?” he asks, turning into the library.

  “Put me down, so I can go home!”

  “I’ll put you down, but there’s something you need to see.” He places my feet on the floor and turns to his cousin. “Henrik, please excuse us.”

  He raises an eyebrow before taking a book and going out the door.

  “Yes, Marjory has very nice books,” I say, looking at the beautiful leather bound volumes lining the walls. “Can I go?”

  “It’s not the books I brought you in here to see,” he says, pointing to a stone tablet. “Please look at the collection of artwork. I keep a few items in here from my travels in North America.”

  I look closely at the stone tablet. It shows a sort of pictograph story of men with fins on their legs coming out of the sea. Christian points to one of the mermen. Strangely, it resembles him.

  “This is a very finely carved piece done right before Cortes conquered the Aztecs. I particularly like how the artist captured the long hair I wore at the time. I was rather a rebellious teenager.”

  He moves to the next piece of artwork, an animal skin behind a protective glass. On it is a drawing of a merman with light hair.

  “I enjoy the simplistic nature of this piece. I like how it speaks the truth without being bogged down by details. My Iroquois friends were absolutely delightful that way.”

  My brows furrow as I move on to a painting. Christian’s face smiles mischievously in oil paint. It is an exact likeness, only he’s wearing colonial style clothes. The paint is old and cracked, but Christian looks exactly the same.

  “Oh, yes, a dear friend of mine was more than a patriot during the Revolutionary War, he was a talented artist. I asked him to paint a portrait of me on a whim, and this is what he gave me on my next visit,” he explains.

  Next is a series of very old photographs of Christian and Henrik in top hats.

  “These daguerreotypes are some of Marjory’s favorites. She particularly likes the one in which I have a stern look on my face. She thinks it makes me look dignified. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I’m angry in that one because the photographer had just informed me that Abraham Lincoln had been assassinated,” he says.

  More photographs follow, but these are of Christian, Henrik, and Sven wearing fine suits in front of Marjory’s Victorian house with a lady in an enormous hat.

  “Ah, this is Marjory’s grandmother. Her name was also Marjory. She was the first of our housekeepers here. Her son then his daughter followed suit. The Rockwells enjoy our fantastic retirement plan; free house and board for life, although I have always wished Marjory would spend more money on her own upkeep. She has always been a very frugal woman.”

  My eyes go to a formal portrait over a beautiful fireplace. Once again, Christian’s face peers out of a canvas.

  “Yes, that’s a lovely portrait. Marjory Sr. commissioned it and it’s hung there since,” he says.

  “So, the underage drinking laws don’t apply to you?” I break my silence.

  He laughs with a degree of relief.

  “No, that’s why we don’t feel badly about breaking them. Furthermore, I have had five centuries to build up substantial financial reserves. Now I’m afraid you can’t use money as an excuse not to date me because I have more than enough for the both of us.”

  “How old are Henrik and Sven?” I change the subject, returning to the Victorian photographs of the three of them.

  “Henrik is approximately three hundred, and Sven is only a hundred and sixty.”

  “Does Jen know?”

  He nods. “Jen has become an expert on merfolk in your absence. She is particularly fond of swimming with Sven.”

  It’s a lot to take in. I quietly scan the room a second time. It’s hard enough to deal with Christian being a merman, add the facts that he’s rich and over five hundred years old, and I am more than overwhelmed what this means for us. No wonder he’s so arrogant and calls everyone by their first names! He’s been alive longer than the United States has been a country!

  “Why are you dating me?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even as I look at the photos. What could he possibly find interesting about a seventeen-year-old girl?

  “Alexandra, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are refreshingly different. In all my years, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  He kisses the back of my neck, causing chills to run down my spine.

  “But I don’t know anything. Talking to me is probably like talking to a baby,” I counter.

  “Of course not. Remember that my age and your age don’t mean a thing. I will always love you. Moreover, I find you immensely interesting. You are intelligent, beautiful, humble, and once your allegiance is earned, you are loyal to a fault. I would be a fool not to love you.”

  “But you’re so old and I’m…” I begin to argue.

  He silences me with a kiss. My stomach does a complete somersault, and I melt into his arms. The intimate feeling that my soul is linked to his has returned with a vengeance. I take a breath as I try to fight away the sensation that something deep inside me recognizes this merman. It’s almost as though we’re long lost lovers being reunited.

  Christian ushers me back to his room. Sven waves as he dusts the banister in his pink, lacy apron. I force a smile as we pass.

  Once inside Christian’s room, he directs me to the giant bed and puts the velvet box in my hands. I try to hand it back to him.

  “Are you afraid of a box?” he teases.

  “No, I’m afraid of you,” I whisper.

  “I know, and I’m always going to love you, regardless of how hard you try to push me away. I promise you that I will never intentionally hurt you. It’s taken me too long to find you.”

  I tightly clasp my hands together, making my knuckles white. My mind is a swirl of emotions. I want to love Christian, but I am so very afraid. So many things could go wrong if I let myself love him.

  Seeing that I’m not going to open the box, he gently lifts the lid. In it is a diamond bracelet. He takes it out of the box and clasps it around my wrist.

  “No, it’s not even yet Christmas,” I object.

  “It’s not for Christmas. I saw it at Peggy’s and had to buy it for you.”

  “Christian, you can’t buy me a diamond bracelet for no reason. It’s a ridiculous waste of money.” I try to take it off.

  He stops me. His hand goes to the pearl necklace at my neck; the necklace I’ve tried to remove countless times but couldn’t. I can’t even explain it to myself, but I have been unable to sever this connection with him, even at the worst of times.

  “It brings me indescribable pleasure to see you wearing items I have given you.”

  He kisses my forehead.

  I lay back on the bed, crossing my arms. On the ceiling above the bed is a photo of me, proving that Christian is undeniably in love with me.

  He
lies next to me.

  “The last thing I see each night is your face,” he says without embarrassment.

  I sigh, knowing he is also on my mind as I go to sleep.

  We remain silent for several minutes.

  “Tell me about the mermaid who saved you when you were a child,” he says out of the blue, turning on his side to look at me.

  I swallow nervously. My mouth suddenly goes dry. This isn’t a topic that I’ve even discussed with Jen.

  I begin slowly, not looking at him as I talk, “When I was young, I was always seeing faces in the water. I would scare my parents by leaning over the side of the boat to wave to the children in the water and no one could tear me away from the seashore. I had too many friends in the waves. People thought I had invented imaginary friends, but I knew they were real. One day when I was about ten, my parents and I went to sea. That day only one small girl followed. I shared some candy with her as my parents sailed the boat. We laughed as the waves grew higher and higher. It seemed like a carrousel or some kind of kiddy ride. Neither of us understood the danger. The waves got higher and higher, tossing the boat around like a toy. We hit a rock, and it broke open the hull. Dad was hit by the mast as the boat went down. Now that I’m older, I suspect he was killed instantly, but Mom wouldn’t leave him. She wrapped me in her lifejacket and went after him. She never came back up.

  “I became frightened when she didn’t come for me. I started to kick and scream, slipping out of the lifejacket. There was only darkness as I sunk into the depths. Then the little mermaid came for me. She was so small, but she told me to hold tightly onto her shoulders. She piggybacked me all the way to land.

  “The next day, my parents’ bodies washed ashore. I was deemed the ‘imaginative miracle child’. Psychologists used me as an example of how children use their imaginations to suppress terrible memories. But no one could explain how I got from where the boat sank to the beach without a lifejacket.”

  I can say no more. I wipe tears from my eyes. It is cathartic to tell someone the truth without them thinking I’m crazy but frightening at the same time. This is the experience I wish that I could force myself to forget, but my mind replays the scene each night.

  Christian puts his arms around me. He lifts my chin and softly kisses me. It is so intimate, so tender that I melt at his touch. I respond by gently tracing his lips with my tongue. He pulls away.

  “Let’s go down for a snack,” he says. “I think Marjory has some ice cream in the freezer, if Sven hasn’t eaten it.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Not at all,” he quickly says.

  “You’re the one who pursues me and then when I kiss you, you pull away. I don’t understand, I thought you liked kissing me?”

  “The problem is you do everything right.” He smiles as he sits up. “But as I’m the eldest, I have to be the responsible one.”

  “I have homework to do anyway,” I quickly try to cover-up the hurt I feel.

  Against my better judgment, I put myself out there and got burned. I take off the diamond bracelet and put it on the bed as I stand up.

  Christian attempts to stop me. “Alexandra, believe me when I say that I’ve never loved you more than I love you right now. Each moment this love grows and it’s difficult…”

  I shake my head as I go to the door.

  “I understand.” I don’t say another word as I leave, disregarding his calls for me to return. I do understand. It’s very simple really. He says loves me, but actions really do speak louder than words.

  Refer to Fact #11 – I must avoid the Danes.

  * * *

  A week later, I find myself at home ignoring my Calculus homework and thinking about the stressful happenings of the week. Photos of me are on the covers of all the major magazines, I am being hounded by paparazzi, and, most importantly, Christian has gone home. Marjory told Gramps that it’s just for a couple days, but I know the truth. I’ve pushed him away with my insecurities.

  Deep in thought, I glance at my open closet and groan. Boxes of fan mail fill it, and I just don’t have the energy to deal with them. I decide that I will have to talk to Colin about finding a company to take care of my mail.

  The house is silent other than the hum of the furnace. Gramps has gone to eat dinner with Marjory. I was also invited, but I can’t face her at the moment. She’s heartbroken that Christian left, and I blame myself.

  I decide to get back to my homework when I hear a sound coming from Gramps’ room.

  Confused, I go to the door and call into the dark hallway, “Gramps, I didn’t know you would be home so soon.”

  A man steps out of Gramps’ bedroom, but he isn’t Gramps. His red hair is thinning, and he is wearing a pair of grease-covered overalls over his plump body, but my attention is elsewhere. He’s holding a gun in my face.

  “Alex Singer, I’m Philip Baskle, your new photographer,” he says in a gruff voice. “You’re going to make me the most famous man on earth.”

  Fact #12 – Philip Baskle is a dangerous man.

  Proof – The gun in my face!

  * * *

  “I asked you to model for me nicely in my letters,” my kidnapper says as he drives his dilapidated, white van. “You never answered. You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, but I showed you! You were difficult to catch, but I did it! I’m going to be someone! I’m going to be more famous than you ever were!”

  I cry as I lay in the back of the van next to the hat he took from my head a week earlier and my notorious summer nightgown, which I had thrown away months before. It is apparent this man has been stalking me for an extended period of time. It is a horrifying thought.

  My arms ache from being brutally tied behind me with rope. My ankles are also tied, but they’re so cold that I can’t feel them. I’m wearing a pair of pajamas, without socks, shoes, or a coat, and the van is freezing. A filthy rag serves as my gag. Fearful tears freely fall from my eyes. I wish I would have told Gramps and Christian about the van following me home! I made a critical error in judgment.

  “The photo shoot I’ve planned has never been done before,” Philip continues to rant. “I’m going to have you wear a bikini in the snow. It’s really going to blow everyone’s minds. Then I’m going to blow your brains out.”

  He points the gun at me, making the sound of a gunshot with his mouth.

  I flinch.

  “It’s nothing personal.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I just want to be known as the last photographer to shoot you.” He chuckles morbidly.

  When the sun comes up, he pulls off the main road. I can tell because my body painfully bounces around the back of the van. He turns off the engine. I cringe and more tears run down my face as I hear footsteps walking around the van. The backdoor opens. Philip pulls out a cheap camera. He arrogantly hangs it from his neck as though he’s important. He puts a stained, orange bikini next to me before viciously cutting the rope from my wrists and ankles. The gag is left in my mouth.

  “Change,” he says as he points the gun at me.

  I don’t doubt that he will shoot me if I disobey, so I do as he orders. My body trembles with terror and cold as I take off my pajamas and put on the bikini. I am mortified as Philip watches me change, but the gun is much more frightening, so I try not to think about it. I go to take off my necklace from Christian when Philip shakes his head.

  “I want them to be able to easily identify your body,” he says.

  When I’m finished changing, he gestures to the beach with the gun. At the surf, he cuts the gag from my mouth, and pushes me into the snow.

  “Keep your mouth shut! There’s no one for miles, and I just don’t want to hear any of your pampered princess whining! And don’t even think about trying to run away! I have a car, and you don’t!”

  I look at the icy waves.

  He laughs. “Don’t be stupid. You’d be dead in minutes.”

  Fact # 13 – Drowning in the ocean
isn’t the worst way to die.

  Proof – Fire, knives, guns, bombs, poison, etc…

  Philip barks orders at me, and I try my best to follow them. He pretends he’s a real photographer as he aims his camera. He pushes the button, but nothing happens. He swears and puts down the gun to check the batteries and film.

  I make a drastic decision. I will determine my own demise! While Philip’s distracted with his camera, I leap to my feet and dive into the freezing ocean. I feel a sting in my lower back and leg. Full of adrenaline, I don’t stop swimming until I am a safe distance from the beach.

  The water around me turns red, and I realize I have been shot. Philip swears and threatens me from the shore. When I ignore him, he gets in his van and drives away. Exhaustion forces me to float on my back while I wait for death. It’s just a matter of what will claim me first. Will I drown, freeze, or bleed to death, or will the sharks find me? Regardless, I am relieved to be away from Philip.

  The cold numbs the pain and calms me. My thoughts are unexpectedly rational. I’m grateful to be leaving Gramps in the best possible situation. The money I earned in Europe should cover my funeral costs and give him a financial cushion. With me gone, his social security will go a lot farther.

  Then my thoughts turn to Christian. I try to remember the way his eyes penetrate into mine and his song-like laughter. I try to imagine the way I feel when his long arms wrap around my waist and the feel of his skin against mine. I can accept death, this much I know is true. I dream of it each night, but I will regret one thing. I will regret not trying to make a relationship with Christian work. Maybe if I hadn’t fought so much against him, we might have had a chance.

  My eyelids become heavy, and they close. My parents’ faces appear in my mind. We are swimming in the ocean together. We laugh and play in the waves, just like we did when I was a child.

  “Come with us!” they say as they dive into the water.

  I watch them disappear into the depths. I’m so tired, so very tired. I stop swimming, allowing my body to sink. I raise my hands above my head, and allow the ocean to swallow me. Then there is nothing but darkness.

  10