Welcome Home

by Eric Smith

  Miranda hadn’t always known her feet were special. It wasn’t until she was four years old, clutching her dad’s hand and splashing in the tide pools with a girl she had just met, that it first came to her attention. “Why are your feet weird like that?” the girl—red haired and smudged with freckles, reeking of coconut sunblock—had asked. Miranda had peered through the warm puddle and seen her webbed toes as if for the first time.

  She hadn’t known how to answer, so she’d flicked water with her weird foot at the girl’s gaping face and run away.

  “You inherited your special feet from your birth mother,” Daddy had said, once he’d coaxed her out of the gloom that blanketed the sand beneath the boardwalk. She’d hated it under there—it was cold and damp and smelled like a pail of fish—but she had always been stubborn. She would have stayed there all day if Daddy hadn’t offered to buy her a cone and tell her a story. As they sat on the picnic bench outside the DQ, she’d glanced down at the pink bead of melted strawberry soft serve that had dripped onto her big toe, a membrane of skin holding it tight against its neighbor. “It’s a secret, and you must not tell anyone, but your birth mother was a mermaid princess. She fell in love with a common land dweller, and he loved her, too, so much that you were born. But the mermaid princess couldn’t stay on land, so she had to give you to someone who would love you and take care of you. That’s how Mommy and I came to adopt you.”

  Miranda licked a long drip from the side of her hand. “Is that the truth?” she’d asked.

  “It can be a kind of truth, if we want it to be,” Daddy had said. “It can be our truth.” Miranda had heard this, but she would not remember it. She would remember only that Daddy had said it was the truth. Her weird feet weren’t weird at all. They were a mark of her royal mermaid birth.

  And so began the mermaid years.

  Miranda’s adoptive mother, an art school grad who had once harbored dreams of a career as an illustrator before earning her master’s in mechanical engineering, painted blue waves capped with white seafoam on the walls of Miranda’s room. When Miranda was eight, there were seashells on her bedding. When she was twelve, there was swim team practice every day before dawn. Miranda was a star swimmer. She could hold her breath longer and extend her kick farther than any other girl Coach had ever trained.

  “It’s those webbed toes. She’s more adapted to the water than the other girls,” Coach would joke, gripping Miranda’s shoulders with two large scaly hands. The other girls would turn quiet and tense, but Miranda would shake it off.

  “I guess I am,” she would say.

  At night, Miranda would take out a secret journal decorated with the words “Miranda the Mermaid” written with an aquamarine gel pen in her best curly script. Most of the pages were covered with small grids she’d drawn to fill with her times at practices and larger grids in red pen for times at meets and what ribbons she’d won, but a few pages in the back were reserved for drawings. Miranda would spend hours creating detailed images with colored pencils: coral reefs, schools of fish, and a woman with long, soft hair that floated like a fan around her face. Miranda treasured the secret of the mermaid mother because it was hers alone—never spoken out loud, not even to Daddy—and so the secret was left undisturbed, unchallenged, and unexamined, even as she grew older.

  Until the day the letter came.

  Her father was the one who appeared at the door of her room with the ivory envelope in his hands. It looked delicate and small in his large palms, like it was made of eggshells. When he handed it to Miranda, though, it transformed into something big and weighty. Though the outside was completely blank, it was somehow ominous, and she let it tumble onto her desktop, where it landed with a thud.

  “What’s this?” Miranda asked. Yet somehow, she knew.

  “It came from the agency,” he said, staring down at the envelope as if it were an animal playing dead that might spring up and attack. “They forwarded it on behalf of your birth mother.”

  The envelope—clean, dry, common—lay on her desk like a silent accusation. Miranda wanted to yell at her father, How can this be from my birth mother? But she stayed silent. She didn’t need to ask, because she knew. The answer had been there for a long time. Miranda had simply turned her head and looked away whenever the shadow of the truth crept into view.

  That night, with only the plastic seashell night-light illuminating the room, Miranda lay on top of her covers and studied the silhouetted shape of her naked feet. The room was frigid cold—the AC was blowing hard through the vent—but she would not climb into her bed or even pull on a pair of socks. Her feet somehow appeared different than they had appeared every night before that night, as if they had somehow betrayed her and become something strange and unfamiliar while she’d been distracted by other things.

  In the morning, Miranda tucked the letter—still unopened—inside her swimsuit drawer. Her feet were now covered in socks, and as she walked to the breakfast table, she noticed that the socks felt too tight, as if her toes were bound and she ached to stretch them. She poured a bowl of Frosted Flakes and said, without looking up, “I’d like to see a doctor about my feet.”

  Her parents agreed without argument, causing Miranda to wonder if they’d expected this day to come all along.

  It wasn’t until the night before the surgery that Miranda spoke to her father. It was raining hard outside her window, an early summer soaking, and she’d gotten out of bed and crept to the family room. She’d found her father sitting beside the aquarium in his pajamas, watching the plastic mermaid bob up and down in the bubbles.

  “Can’t sleep?” she asked. “Me neither.” She settled down on the arm of the big leather chair he sat in.

  “If you’re scared, it’s okay. You can still call it off. No one’s making you do this.”

  “But I want to do it,” Miranda said. “I’m ready.” Then she added in a whisper, “I need to let go of the mermaid mother.” To Miranda’s surprise, her voice broke on the last word. “But it’s so hard. I’ve held on to her so long.”

  “Have you opened the letter?”

  Miranda shook her head. “It wouldn’t be fair. I need to let go of the lie first.”

  Miranda’s father wrapped an arm around her. He smelled like fabric softener. “I didn’t mean to lie. I’m so sorry.”

  “It wasn’t a lie,” Miranda said. “It was a game.” She said this, though she didn’t really mean it. Like him, she was lying to protect someone she loved.

  Her postsurgical limitations weren’t very restrictive, though she found them almost intolerable. No swimming in the ocean and no flip-flops until her toes were healed. She spent too much time in her room, glaring at the waves on the walls and the still-sealed envelope on her desk. Her father knocked at the door one day and found her sitting, staring at the ivory square. He handed her a few sheets of pale blue stationery and a navy blue envelope.

  “In case you want to write back,” he said, and then slipped away.

  Miranda stared at the paper. Her father was right. She needed to write a letter. But not to the woman whose letter still lay sealed on her desk. She dug into the drawer that held her journal, neglected since the day she decided to see the surgeon, and pulled out an aquamarine gel pen. She would write a practice draft in this book before copying it onto the pretty paper from her father.

  Sitting up tall at her desk, she turned to a page beside the colored pencil drawings of the mermaid world, and the words poured onto the page.

  Dear Mermaid Mother,

  I’m writing to say good-bye. And to say thank you.

  Thank you for the time I beat Brittany O’Neal in the 100-meter freestyle when no one thought I could.

  Thank you for the time Ryan Kimble called me a freak and stomped on my bare foot at the playground, and I didn’t even cry, and Alyssa Anderson said that I was really cool.

  Thank you for every other t
ime I was scared and wanted my parents but they couldn’t be there. Thank you for being there when no one else could be.

  I’ll miss you so much.

  Love,

  Miranda

  From her chair on the boardwalk, Miranda gazed over the navy blue envelope at her bright pink flip-flops. She climbed to her feet. The thongs felt odd between her toes, but there was no pain. Her feet were healed.

  The beach was empty except for one man with a dog and a ball. The season wouldn’t start for another two weeks. The water would be almost unbearably cold.

  Almost.

  Miranda placed the sealed envelope on the seat. The breeze gusted as she slid out of her shorts, folded them, and left them on the chair with her flip-flops and towel. Taking the envelope with her, she climbed through the railings, hopped off the boardwalk, and ran across the sand to the water’s edge. She was in the waves, the letter still in her hand, before she could give the plan a second thought.

  The water was cold—so cold her heart pounded in her chest, but the farther out she swam, the warmer she felt. She dove into wave after wave, her eyes opened to the green murky darkness, searching. She saw nothing but tangled seaweed and the sandy bottom and broken seashells stuck in the ocean floor.

  She swam a long time, until the waves no longer crashed over her head. The water around her shoulders was quiet and calm when she finally stopped to tread water and look back.

  Something in Miranda’s stomach wriggled when she saw how far out she’d swum. She was startled but not scared, though she knew she was farther out than she’d ever gone before. The letter was still in its navy blue envelope, still clutched in her cramping fingers. She tipped her head back to let the water cover her ears and listened to the hum of the sea as the sun warmed her face. Then she drew in a huge breath and swam down, far under the surface, and opened her eyes.

  At first it was as it always was: green water, the sun-brightened surface, the shadowed sea floor. A fast-moving fish too far away to see. As she stared through the gloom, straining to make out its silver scales, Miranda’s lungs began to burn. She ached to kick for the surface. She almost did.

  Then all at once she saw it.

  A castle of coral loomed up from the bottom, its spires reaching through the darkness. Its sudden appearance didn’t frighten Miranda—it was as if she’d always known she would find it. Every color from her pencil box was there in the castle walls—blue, pink, lavender. A garland of aquamarine fluttered from pillars that framed the round door.

  The open round door.

  Like the mouth of a cave cut in rock, the door stood gaping wide, waiting for her to come home. Home to her heritage in the sea.

  Home to her mermaid mother.

  Miranda stared at the open door, marveling at the way light seemed to glow from inside. Her lungs strained, and cold soaked into her bones. It would be warm inside. Miranda swam farther down, kicking hard. She had wanted this for so long, and now it was so close.

  One final time, Miranda turned her eyes up to the surface. Far above, the sun was a smear of gold. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Miranda remembered the letter, soggy and soft, still held in her tight fist.

  She looked at it. Remembered what it said. And let go.

  For a moment it hovered, suspended in the sea right in front of her eyes. Then she kicked as hard as she could for the surface, never looking back at the letter or the castle below.

  Air had never tasted as good to Miranda as it did when she broke through and drew her first breath. The touch of it was warm and soft. Breathing it in felt like coming home.

  Climbing out of the waves a few minutes later, Miranda found her legs were weak and wobbly, as if they were new. She stepped carefully up onto the sand. For the first time since she was very small, she was happy to get out of the water. To let the sea shed from her skin.

  Back at her chair, Miranda slid into her shorts and slipped the flip-flops back onto her feet. She wrapped the towel around her hair to keep the cold drips from running down her neck. Before she sat, she pulled a second envelope from her shorts pocket.

  She propped her feet back on the railing. They glowed white with cold, and she watched as warm color returned to her toes, threaded once again through the thongs of the bright pink flip-flops.

  She turned the ivory envelope in her damp hands and slid a finger under the seal.

  Julie Eshbaugh is the author of Ivory and Bone (HarperCollins, 2016). She used to have trouble staying in one spot, having lived in places as varied as Utah, France, and New York City. Julie eventually returned home to the Philadelphia area, where she now lives with her husband, son, cat, and dog. Her favorite moments are when the unexpected happens, and she cheers loudest when the pitcher gets a hit.

  “The first line of Anna Karenina says, ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ That’s a great line, but I disagree. All families are unique! In my experience, adoptive families are just as varied as other families, with all the love, devotion, sacrifice, guilt, and every other good and bad thing that comes along with being part of a clan. As an adoptee, I’m grateful for what adoption has done for me. I’m also grateful for the opportunity to be a part of this anthology, to help share the many unique stories of adoption.”

  Life: Starring Tallulah Grey

  by Lauren Gibaldi

  I feel him behind me, hovering closely. I hear the soft sound of his arm stretching out to grab me. Before his dead fingers have the chance to graze my skin, I whip around, stake in hand and ready to strike.

  “You wouldn’t,” he sneers, blood still trickling down his lips from his last meal. I didn’t know her, but she didn’t deserve to die the way she did. No one does.

  “I would,” I respond, and in one swift move I punch my stake into his heart, ensuring he won’t strike again. He falls to the ground, and as I wait for the explosion of dust and remains, I stare at him. I watch the entire time, not once giving in to the lump rising in my throat, the strain in my heart.

  “Cut!” Michael calls from his director’s seat. “Perfect! That’s a wrap for today.”

  Exhaling with relief—and feeling that quick transition from character to actor—I reach down and help Oliver up. He’s covered in fake blood and now has my stake sticking out of his chest.

  “Nice stab,” Oliver says, wiping some blood off his mouth and removing the stake.

  “Nice death,” I respond.

  “Well, for now,” he says with a smirk. His character has died seven times since the first season started, including the initial time when he became a vampire. He’ll be back soon enough. That wasn’t even the season finale.

  “Tally, Oliver, great job. You guys are good until Monday,” Michael calls to us. “Wrap for Sebastian and Ariel for this episode,” he announces to the rest of the room.

  “Awesome,” I call back, giving him a thumbs-up. “Shall we?” I ask Oliver, signaling toward the exit. He nods in response, and we walk out of the fake forests of Savannah, Georgia—deep, impossibly green trees and the occasional sound of cicadas, all re-created by an actual Georgia transplant—and into the not-as-magical Los Angeles soundstage.

  We round the back of the studio to our trailers and stop just in front. He raises an eyebrow at me and I shake my head, smiling. Every day he jokingly tries to get me back into his trailer; every day I remind him to keep it professional. I mean, as professional as vampire-slaying, on-and-off-screen lovers can be.

  “Fine,” he sighs dramatically. “What are we doing tonight?” He pushes his black hair back, smearing the fake blood along his forehead. My heart still flips at the “we” because it’s still so new.

  “I don’t know . . . I mean, I’d like to go out, but . . .”

  “Yeah, I know.” He looks down, and then back up. “Wanna try?”

  “It’s a Friday night,” I point out, lea
ning back onto my trailer. It’s the one thing I’ve struggled with since being cast in Thirst. I love it, I love every minute of acting in it, but my life outside TV has taken a dive. Every time I go anywhere, I’m swarmed with paparazzi or fans. I love the fans, and I can handle them—I mean, they make my career possible—but the paparazzi are infuriating. I can’t even buy milk from the grocery store without them making some sort of a story about it. “Is she gaining weight? Is she pregnant?” Oliver has it just as bad—if he’s even talking to a girl, he’s automatically dating her. Once they linked him with his cousin. HIS COUSIN. I mean, it was bad before we were dating. Now it’s worse.

  “Come on,” he says, leaning up against his trailer next to me and taking my hand in his. “It could be an adventure.” He grins, and despite the graying makeup that makes him look dead, I can see the spark in his black eyes. And I know before I say anything that I’m going to give in.

  “Oh, fine,” I relent, shaking my head. “But if I’m chased out of a bathroom again, I’m ratting you out.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what would you say?”

  I think quickly. “That you snore.”

  “Too ordinary.”

  “That you sleep with a night-light on.”

  “Girls would find it adorable,” he grins.

  “That you’ve got a big personality, but a tiny—”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t.” I push myself off the trailer. “Okay, give me an hour to shower and get your blood off me.”

  “Admit it—you love being caked in my blood,” he taunts.

  “You are so weird.”

  Thirst started a year and a half ago, and almost instantly it became a hit. We weren’t sure if it would, with all of the other vampire competition, but somehow ours worked. I think it’s the satirical nature of it. We’ve got great effects and scary moments, but it’s still pretty funny. Like, we know how ridiculous the whole thing is—vampires in high school and all. And it’s been a fantastic experience playing Ariel, the vampire slayer to Oliver’s vampire. They’re doomed lovers of sorts, since she frequently has to kill him. I mean, he’s a bad guy, after all, and no amount of steamy make-out sessions can let her ignore that fact.