The Summer of Chasing Mermaids

by Sarah Ockler

  “Why does that bother you?” Christian asked.

  “Because they do all that stuff,” Sebastian said, “but no one even believes in mermaids. They never saw one and they don’t know anything about them. I know everything about them.”

  He’d been chasing mermaids all summer, scanning the shores through his too-big binoculars while we worked on the boat. His enthusiasm would never dampen, though, whether he found one or not.

  I loved that about him.

  Point made, he nestled back into the crook of Christian’s shoulder, nudged him to continue the story.

  “I think that’s enough for tonight.” Mr. Kane stood at the top of the stairs, watching us across the open family room. I didn’t know how long he’d been there, how much of the Tobago legends he’d heard, how much of Sebastian’s frustrations. It didn’t matter, though—he wasn’t here to talk about mermaids. “Let’s get to bed, kiddo.”

  The room was dim, save for the reading light bent over Christian’s chair, and across the blue-gray room Christian and I locked eyes. Sebastian wanted to hear the end of the story, and Christian was so at peace reading it. So content. I shook my head and willed Christian to take a stand, to say no to this one small thing that could open the door for all the bigger things to come. To say no when it counted, right to his father’s face.

  Christian held my gaze, intense as ever. I couldn’t look away, though I burned inside, remembering our kiss from this afternoon. I was still wearing his sweatshirt, still wrapped up in the scent of him. We’d suffered so many disappointments today, so many letdowns. Just this one thing, I thought. Just this one.

  “Mom’s working late tonight,” Mr. Kane said, “so I need you to be a big boy and get yourself washed up and into that bed, pronto.”

  “I already brushed my teeth and washed my face and had a drink of water and peed and put on my pajamas and peed again,” Sebastian said.

  “Great,” his father said. “Let’s get a move on.”

  “I’ll take care of him, Dad,” Christian said. Mr. Kane started to protest, but Christian shot him a firm look. “We’d like to finish the story.”

  It was such a small challenge, a small request, but everyone in the room knew they weren’t butting heads about Sebastian’s bedtime. Still, Mr. Kane backed down, mumbling a halfhearted good night as he retreated downstairs.

  Christian went back to the story, and reluctantly I tore my gaze away, drifting instead to the sea. Waves rolled against the shore, neither calm nor fierce, and I lost myself in the lull of the water, in Christian’s steady voice as he read aloud the tales of home.

  Outside moments later, a spark caught my eye, the glow of a cigarette in the darkness. Mr. Kane was out there, pacing the dunes, his form a black shadow against the sea’s green-gray backdrop. I spied on his ­stolen moment, watched the pinprick blaze of his cigarette trail through the night, imagined the smoke he blew out across the sea. Inhale, exhale. Again. Again.

  Across the room, Christian shifted, closed the book. Sebastian was finally asleep, his mouth open, his breathing slow and even.

  Carefully Christian rose, hefting Sebastian to his chest. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Be right back. Don’t go, okay?”

  Christian turned down the hallway toward the bedrooms, Sebastian’s limbs slack as noodles in his big brother’s arms. His blond head lolled gently, one pink cheek pressed to Christian’s shoulder.

  “Elyse,” Sebastian murmured. He didn’t open his eyes, just stretched out his hands toward me. “Elyse too.”

  Without turning around, Christian paused in the hallway, waiting for me to catch up.

  Together we got the kid tucked in, Christian and I kneeling on opposite sides of the bed. As Christian smoothed the white-blond curls from his brother’s forehead, I leaned in and kissed his pink cheek. In so many ways Sebastian felt like my little brother now too. The youngest sibling I never had.

  It was in my heart to take care of him.

  I wondered, suddenly and warmly, if it was like this for Natalie, too. She was only a few minutes my senior, but older nevertheless, bound by destiny to look out for me. I smiled at the thought.

  Christian was still stroking Sebastian’s hair, and for a long moment neither of us moved to stand, just watched the little one drift off to dreamland. When I finally looked up, Christian was watching me, his sea-eyes full of the same intrigue I’d seen that first night on the boat, a smile to match.

  Only this one was different. Deeper. More intense.

  More real.

  “What you did for him today . . . ,” he whispered.

  I nodded before he finished, but a frown tugged my lips. In the end none of it had worked. They still wouldn’t let him register for the parade. No matter what we’d said or done, no matter what I’d written, no matter how hard I’d banged on the table, it didn’t change the outcome. Sebastian still walked away with a broken heart.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Christian whispered. I knew he could read my thoughts, see them in the grim set of my mouth. “You showed him that not everyone thinks he’s a freak.”

  He’s not.

  He nodded toward the doorway, and silently we rose, leaving Sebastian to his dreams.

  Out in the hallway Christian pulled Sebastian’s door closed quietly, clicked off the hall light.

  I was ahead of him just one step, maybe two, when I felt his hand close around mine. He pulled gently, and I turned, following the tide of him until there we stood, chest to chest.

  With his free hand he swept the hair from my neck, slipped his fingers underneath. He leaned in close, and our lips brushed.

  I shivered.

  Inside, the ember flamed back to life, hot as ever.

  “You”—his voice was a whisper in the dimness, his breath tickling my lips—“are not what I expected.”

  Before I could respond, his mouth covered mine.

  His hand slid down my back, over the curve of my hip, brought me back to that night at Shipwreck. I pressed against him, slipped my hands beneath his T-shirt, our bodies close and warm.

  His whispers turned to moans inside my mouth. I wanted him so badly—to touch him, taste him, feel his breath on my bare skin.

  He pulled away for only an instant, took my face in his hands. When our eyes locked, he nodded toward his bedroom and raised an eyebrow, an invitation I accepted without hesitation.

  The room was white, bathed in moonlight, with huge windows that overlooked the sea. As the ocean roared beyond, we tumbled onto the bed, peeling sweatshirts and tees off as we fell. From one side of the bed to the other we rolled, our kiss unbroken, devouring. When he was on top again, I wrapped my legs around him, pulled him hard against me as though our jeans didn’t exist. His hips dug into my skin, grinding, but his kiss was gentle, sweet and attentive.

  When his mouth left mine, I gasped. His lips fluttered down my stomach, against my hip bone, trailing kisses from the left to the right. His tongue circled my belly button, and every inch below it bloomed with desire. Too soon his lips traced a path back upward, between my ribs, through the valley of my breasts, continuing higher, higher, higher. . . .

  Everything in me froze.

  In an instant his mouth nudged aside the seashell at my throat.

  Gentle, his kiss. Lips and tongue against the pale scar, soft as air.

  Heavy as the sea.

  The heat of him, the tingling pressure on my skin where for so long I’d felt nothing but the cool seashell, was too much. I pulled away sharply, sat up in the moonlight. His eyes were alive, raging like the sea, full of want and something else.

  Worry.

  He shifted back, giving me space.

  “Are you . . . I’m sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes. It took a moment for him to look at me again. “Too fast?”

  I shook my head, but it was too late. He thou
ght he’d done something wrong, and when I reached forward, tried to take hold of him again, he slipped away, off the bed in search of our shirts.

  “I should’ve asked you,” he said. “Out loud. Waited for a yes, especially since . . .”

  His words fell, dropped into the void between us, and my heart followed. It was the first time he’d ever been awkward about my injury, the first he’d ever lost his own words over it. Behind the telltale seashell, my scar burned anew. Instinctively my arms folded over my chest.

  “I’m sorry, Elyse.” Christian handed me my shirt, holding his own in front of the bulge in his pants. “I got . . . caught up.”

  He turned away to get dressed, missed the fevered shake of my head. I watched his tattooed shoulder disappear beneath the white T-shirt, then tugged on my own, not sure whether I should reclaim his sweatshirt. I let it be.

  I felt like an idiot.

  I didn’t want it to end here. Every inch of my body didn’t want it to end here. But like the ever-shifting tide, the moment had crashed upon us, receded.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he said. “Just . . . give me a minute.” And he was gone, down the hall, leaving me alone in his big, cold bed, the moon looking on, embarrassed on my behalf.

  Chapter 26

  Christian and the regatta may have evicted me from my original hideaway, but all my pensive wandering seemed always to lead back to her, my queen of possibilities, and the following morning I found myself stretched out in a familiar spot.

  Lemon had donated some outdoor cushions she’d had in her garden shed, significantly less musty than the ones we’d tossed from the Vega, and I set them up in the saloon and berth. I crawled in on top of them, content to be alone with my endless thoughts.

  But when the boat rocked with Christian’s steps an hour later, my stomach fizzed.

  Hope and desire. Anticipation.

  Christian hopped down through the companionway, looked at me across the saloon. “Oh,” he said softly, a dim smile sliding across his lips. “There you are.”

  He handed me his sweatshirt, the one I’d abandoned last night, though it wasn’t cold today.

  All of last night’s awkwardness vanished. Maybe it had never existed. Maybe I’d only imagined it. Feared it.

  “I texted you to meet up for breakfast, but when I didn’t hear back, I figured you were doing your own thing.”

  I checked my pockets, realized I’d left my phone at home.

  “Scoot over,” he said, slipping off his shoes.

  I sat up and shifted over in the small bed as he climbed in next to me. We sat with our backs against the shelving, heads bent, and he took my hand, warm and comforting. Solid.

  After a long silence, he nodded toward my old poem and said, “I’ve been thinking about plans. A and B and everything after. You never told me your B.”

  I shrugged. Singing was everything to me. It was hard, turning a passion into a profession—I’d only gotten a glimpse of that, and already the competition was getting stiffer, the rehearsals more grueling, the disappointments sharper. But I was ready to work for it with Natalie by my side. We’d always given each other strength.

  I knew there would be setbacks and letdowns. But I’d never considered the possibility that it wouldn’t happen.

  I reached for the seashell at my throat, tugged it gently. The doctors had warned me that the physical recovery would be slow, that I’d still feel rawness and discomfort in my throat, maybe for years. They were right; I had felt that. I’d learned to mitigate it with hot tea and honey, with relaxation, with rest.

  But there was no mitigating treatment for the deeper wounds.

  What happened when the one thing you loved, the song of your soul, was taken from you? What pieces of your old life were you left with, and how could you begin to put them back together? How could you find your way back to the people who’d hurt you the most?

  Outside, the ocean churned and hissed, continued its endless dance.

  Still, I couldn’t answer.

  Christian squeezed my hand. “I wish I had the words for this.”

  I squeezed back. He’d never had a big dream like this—he’d said as much. So he couldn’t imagine what it was like to have his dream taken from him, to know that no matter how hard he worked or what sacrifices he made, he’d never get it back.

  I tried to tell him as much, in so many silent words and gestures, all the expression I had left.

  “You’re right,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t know. Couldn’t. I’ve never had any dream. Never looked for it, never found it, never followed it.”

  Dreamless, I mouthed, more because that’s the word that came to me than because it was right. His story felt like the before to my after, and I thought I’d understood him.

  But he shook his head, eyes brightening with some new thought. “No, not like that. More like, limitless.”

  The ocean shushed before us. I don’t know when the tide came in, but it was there, rocking the boat with more urgency. Farther out, I heard the gulls crying, searching for fish, and I thought about that word. Limitless. Without limit. All potential, destiny unmapped.

  “You probably thought I was crazy,” Christian said, “agreeing to race when my father made the bet.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  “It was crazy. Winning . . . at first, it was all about sticking it to my father. Watching him eat his words. He doesn’t think I can do it without Noah. But there was this other part of me that thought maybe, if I could actually win, he might . . . he’d look at me with something other than . . .” He waved the words away, and I watched his whispers turn to dust.

  Why does he? I asked.

  Christian’s gaze slipped away, settled on a point beyond the starboard window, and I let my hand curl on his knee in a gesture that I hoped said it was okay, that he didn’t have to explain.

  He spoke anyway. “I almost wasn’t his.”

  The regret in Christian’s voice was nearly too much too bear, too raw and revealing in the tiny space of the V-berth. Beneath my hand the muscles in his leg tightened, and I knew he was wrestling with what to say, how much to reveal of his own personal tragedy to the girl who couldn’t talk about her own, even if she wanted to.

  When our eyes met again, his glazed with emotion. Quickly he scrubbed his hands over his face, erasing it all.

  “I meant what I said to your aunt. I don’t want them to sell the houses. Dad might not get it, but it’s the one place that’s been constant in my life. No matter how much money he makes or where they relocate, the Cove has always been ours. Some of my best memories were here.” He held my gaze. “Are here.”

  Me too, I told him. And his smile turned, for just a moment, shy.

  “It’s your fault, you know. That word, limitless.” He shook his head, still smiling. It was hard for him to admit, whatever was coming next, but I knew he’d do it. He leaned in, kissed me softly. Still close, he whispered against my lips. “You make me think things are possible. You make me want things.”

  I waited for the joke, the playful tease about these “things” I made him want. But when it didn’t come, when his gaze remained on my eyes, intense and serious, I knew he wasn’t talking about the kisses, our half-naked bodies tangling on his bed last night.

  He was making me want things too. The kinds of things I didn’t think I could have anymore. Ideas. Plans. Opportunities.

  Dreams.

  Love.

  My heart hammered inside, thrumming with energy.

  “Last night,” he said, still holding my gaze, “I didn’t . . . I don’t want you to think it’s . . . I didn’t mean to—”

  I pressed my fingers against his lips, gently silencing him. I already knew what he meant; his eyes said all the things his words were ­fumbling.

  He nodded silently then, kissed my fingers and held them warm
in his hand again.

  For all of Kirby’s warnings, for all of Vanessa’s defending, for all of the women who looked at Christian with longing and history in their eyes, none of them seemed to really know him, to see beyond the obvious.

  I felt like he’d given me a rare gift, this precious glimpse.

  Being with Christian was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Back home, there had always been boys after the shows, older boys who drove fast and kissed even faster, who talked smoothly with just the right words to leave us bewildered.

  I’d met Julien at a lime at Crown Point, caught up in the way he played the steel pan. It was an informal thing, one of the all-night summer parties the island was famous for, and Natalie and I had wandered over to the music tent to sing along. We hadn’t meant to attract attention, but the band heard us, invited us to perform with them. Soon we had the whole crowd dancing to our Caribbean grooves, everyone laughing and having a great time. I thought they’d riot when the band took a break, but then the limbo dancers started to perform, and there was enough homemade crafts, food, and rum to keep everyone satisfied. Julien, cocky and confident as all the rest, handed me a drink and said, in a deep voice that rattled every inch of me, “Me gyal, you have a sweet voice there.”

  I dragged Natalie back to the beach every weekend that summer, and the night he pressed his lips to mine in a kiss that made my toes curl, we were official.

  Almost two years we were together. And even though I thought I loved him, now I wondered if I just loved the fact that he loved me. That he’d always talked about our future, about how he couldn’t breathe without me, about how my voice drove him crazy. I loved that he couldn’t keep his hands off me, that he’d look at me with such hunger in his eyes. When I stood naked before him, I felt powerful, alive. Adored.

  It was intoxicating.

  Until I went dark after I lost my voice, and the magic between us fizzled out in a month. He said he just couldn’t handle the anger in me, the raw pain so close to the surface. Granna had warned me about him months earlier. “You think it’s love, but it’s desire. Fair-weather boy, that one. First sign of the storm, you watch him run for cover.”