Sea of Secrets Anthology

by J E Feldman

  Small and quaint are words I’m trying to get used to now, and I use the word “modest” a lot when I’m talking to my father. I have always been the apple of his eye—a miracle of miracles because he was told he would never be able to father a child. Yet here I am, and he cherishes me, values me as his greatest accomplishment, and so he sees the disappointment in my eyes now when I look back at him. I am disheartened by his terrible life choices, but worse yet, a part of me fears him.

  As a means to make amends, my father has been quick to accommodate my newfound virtuous lifestyle, hence the smaller yacht. He knows I don’t want extravagance; I want modesty, so while this boat isn’t as small as I wanted—my father promised after this trip he would get something even smaller. I was proud of him for trying and glad that as time passed, he seemed more and more okay with downgrading.

  That meant I also had to do some readjusting too, because even in this medium-sized yacht, everything was much smaller than I was used to—and with all the cargo my father had stored below deck, I wasn’t nearly as comfortable as I usually was, though I made sure not to complain, especially because there were some perks to smaller vessels, like the fact that with a smaller engine, John could steer the boat closer to shore. When he signals he’s brought the boat to a complete stopped, I toss the anchor as far as I can and then drop into the waist-deep water. For a second, the cool temperature is a bit of a shock to my system, given the awful humidity of the day, but once my body gets used to it, I dip myself all the way under the crystal-clear water and relish how refreshing it feels.

  By the time I resurface, John has already dropped into the water and has headed toward the anchor. “I could have gotten that,” I say as a wring out my long, chestnut locks.

  “You’re fine,” he assures me as he walks the anchor closer to shore, dragging the boat with him.

  “Are we even allowed to be here?” I ask as I search the immediate area, suddenly a little leery of being in the middle of nowhere. Is this really safer than the alternative? I don’t know, but that foreboding thought sends so many chills up my spine that I instinctively make my way closer to John, his imposing presence always a comfort to me.

  “Of course,” he scoffs, like it’s the stupidest question in the world. “Did you put on sunscreen?” he counters as he makes his way back to the boat and climbs on.

  “Yes,” I lie with a roll of my eyes, though I make a mental note to pretend like I’m just “reapplying” when we get onshore.

  John reappears at the stern of the boat, a large, waterproof container, stockpiled with everything we would need to survive a week on this island, cradled in his arms. He drops it into the water and the resulting splash batters my face. I frantically rub away the stinging sea salt and then turn to yell at him.

  “Hey!” But that’s as far as I get because movement just off the bow of the yacht catches my attention. I rub my eyes again for good measures then I shift to get a better look at the water in front of the boat. “Is that a…?” I take a step closer and startle with glee when a dolphin leaps out of the water. “Cool!” I say as I point in that direction. “John, look!”

  “Pryyemno,” he says, meaning “nice,” and actually sounding as awestruck as I feel, then he motions for me to follow him to shore—the magical moment apparently dismissed in lieu of getting to dry land.

  For a moment longer, I watch the dolphin leap in and out of the water. It’s so close and a part of me wants to stay exactly where I am because with every leap, it seems to get nearer. Can you pet a dolphin in the wild? I’m not sure. A couple of years ago, my father had taken me on one of his business trips to America. He had disappeared for most of the week, leaving me in John’s care, but one day right before we left, the three of us had spent the entire day at SeaWorld. I had gotten to swim with the dolphins, but that had been different. Those animals were held in captivity and trained. This is the open ocean.

  “Petra!” John calls in that warning tone of his—the one that says he isn’t happy I’m blatantly putting myself in harm’s way. I’m literally only five feet away from him in waist-deep water, but to him, that’s too far. For me too.

  I half-swim, half-walk after him, and once we’re settled on the beach—and I’ve “reapplied” my sunscreen, I lie back to dry off in the sun while John fills our CamelBaks with water.

  “There are some caves we can explore,” he says without looking up at me, almost as if he can sense I’m watching him.

  “Okay,” I say, knowing there’s no use in arguing. John has a plan for today and no matter what I say, or how much I protest, nothing will change it. He chooses everything we do very wisely, whether it be to kill time in an entertaining, kid way, or if it’s to put me somewhere he can watch me like a hawk. I appreciate that, especially because in the days before John, one of my father’s “associates” had seen the value in using me as collateral.

  I shudder at the memories of that long ago, terrifying night, and despite the oppressive humidity and sunshine, goosebumps erupt all over my body. Suddenly frozen to the core, I get up and make my way back into the water. It’s comforting to me, and while I’ve never called one place home because of my father’s work, we’ve always lived by the sea—whether in Australia or Africa or South America. Major ports of entry draw my father’s type of business so water has been the one constant in my lonely life; a sole companion whose ebbs and flows has always brought me comfort.

  I dip under the surface, always in awe of how being enveloped by the water can feel so calming, then I surface just enough to lie back and float along with the waves. I could probably stay here all day if John let me, but of course, he won’t, so I stand just as I hear him call for me. It’s time to go cave exploring and I don’t want to keep him waiting. He may be a big, strong man, but he can get crabby and irritable when his schedule gets thrown off.

  As I pull my hair over my shoulder to wring it out, I catch sight of the dolphin again. He’s still leaping in and out of the water around the boat, and he has some friends with him now. Mesmerized, I just stand there watching them. Dolphins are typically friendly, curious animals, but these guys are acting differently—almost as if…I didn’t quite know…

  “Petra!” John shouts, snapping me from my musing.

  “Coming!” I call back, with just as much snark. I walk backward though, so I can continue watching the dolphins. When I’m completely out of the water, I take one last look in their direction, then I hurry over to John so I can get ready for cave exploring.

  The dolphins follow us all the way back to the villa. At first, I think it’s cool, and so does John, but as the miles pass and they flank the boat, their presence begins to make John and I uneasy. Is this normal dolphin behavior? I don’t think so, and in one of John’s gruff mumblings, he makes it pretty clear he doesn’t think so either, but they’re clearly following us. The question is why. I can’t answer that, but for the entire trip back, I watch them from my spot on the deck—part out of admiration and awe; another part with overwhelming uncertainty and fear.

  By the time we make it back to our secluded villa in Isabela, there’s an entire pod of dolphins surrounding our boat. John, who takes guarding my life seriously—and who clearly deems unusual dolphin behavior as a cause for concern, has back-up waiting for us when we dock. I’m rushed into the house before I can so much as get a backward glance at my aquatic companions and it seems as though every man in the house goes out to see the bizarre event. That much I can tell from my room in the corner of the villa.

  Unfortunately, before I can think of a way to sneak back outside, John has already made himself comfortable in one of the arm chairs in the corner of my room. He’s reading a book about Mediterranean cuisine, because when he isn’t busy watching me, he likes to cook.

  With him here, I try to pretend I’m not interested in going back outside and start my nightly routine. Dad and I always have dinner around seven, so I disappear into my bathroom and get ready, as usual, but the entire time I’m thin
king of a way to get back to the beach. It isn’t far, so it’s only a matter of slipping outside either right before or right after dinner, when no one is the wiser. With that thought in mind, I choose my outfit wisely—a t-shirt and shorts with flip flops and a bathing suit underneath—just in case. Then I grab the laptop my father had gotten me for Christmas and I plop onto the loveseat across from where John is sitting.

  As an only child who’s constantly on the move, my laptop has become invaluable. I’m a bit of a nerd, so when I can, I get on the web and learn all about different things that interest me. Without a connection in my room though, I stick to playing Solitaire until dinnertime. Then, at exactly seven, I casually make my way back to the bathroom. I linger in there for a bit, hoping John goes downstairs ahead of me. When I pull the door open, I see I’ve had no such luck.

  “Ready?” he asks, once again without looking up from his book—as though he can sense everything that’s happening around him with some kind of sixth sense.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound as defeated as I feel, then I detour toward the door and start downstairs.

  John quickly catches up to me. “Why so glum, malenʹkyy heniy?” He uses his pet name for me—which means little genius—to lighten the mood, along with a playful tug of my hair. “Was cave exploring not to your liking?”

  “Oh…no…that was fun, actually…”

  “Then why are you so sad?”

  “I’m not.” I glance over at him, his brown eyes soft and filled with genuine concern. “It’s just I…” I decide to go with honesty—a habit I’m trying my hardest to get into, since I know where the alternative can lead. “I just wanted to see if the dolphins were still here…”

  His dark brows arch, and as we make our way down the rest of the stairs, he seems to contemplate that. “Okay. After dinner.”

  I’m so surprised by how easily he agrees that all I can manage is a nod.

  John escorts me to the dining room, but whereas he usually joins me and Dad at the table, tonight he excuses himself. I watch him leave and glance over at my father, eager to tell him about my day, but he looks haggard, which instantly quells my excitement.

  “What’s wrong, bat’ka?”

  My father, who’s so lost in his own thoughts, doesn’t immediately respond.

  “Bat’ka?” I repeat as I reach for his hand.

  When my hand settles on top of his, he focuses on me, as though he hadn’t realized the entire time I had been sitting there with him. He smiles, but I can tell it’s forced.

  “Petra,” he says as he kisses the back of my hand. “How was your day?”

  “Good,” I say, watching him closely. “How was yours?”

  “It was…interesting…” he replies cryptically, then he reaches for his fork. “How were the caves?” he asks, sounding almost back to normal.

  I hesitate in responding because I actually toy with the idea of asking him to explain what he means about his meeting. After a second of mulling it over, I decide against it. Sometimes, being a little subtle and sneaky comes in handy. So I tell him about our day, with all of the excitement and mystery I can muster, and then I end with, “I was so excited about the dolphins that I ran right inside when we got home to tell you, but I couldn’t find you.” I look at him with big, innocent eyes. “Your meeting must have run longer than you intended,” I add as a general observation; not as a question.

  “Not by choice,” he says, still too cryptically for me to decipher any meaning from it. “But what of the dolphins, Petra? Have you gone to check if they’ve left?”

  “We were going to see after dinner. Will you come with me? Is your meeting officially over?”

  “It never truly began,” he says and then stuffs the last forkful of food into his mouth. After wiping his lips with a linen napkin he tosses onto his empty plate, he stands. “Shall we go see if your dolphins are still here?”

  I store that last bit of ambiguous information aside, to decode later. For now, I push my chair back and quickly get onto my feet. “Yes! Let’s go see!” I say with all the anxious enthusiasm that’s been bubbling up inside of me for hours now.

  We hurry outside and are almost instantly greeted by John. The man is like a ninja. As a trio, we make our way to the beach. The sun has almost completely set, but there’s just enough light to see the water for miles. Gentle waves lap at our feet, and seagulls squawk overhead, but the sea is smooth and calm—without a dolphin in sight. I walk along the water’s edge in one direction, and then double back and hurry along the other side of the beach, all the way until it gets to the dock. There are men guarding the boat who make me uncomfortable with their guns, so I hurry back to where my father and John are standing. I look out at the great expanse of water and sigh. There’s nothing out there; zip, zero, nichoho.

  “Are you guys still out there?” I ask into the gentle breeze that sweeps off the sea.

  Naturally, I get no response. Nor do I see any movement to indicate the dolphins have hung around. The pod is clearly gone, which leaves an odd void inside of me. I know it seems foolish to believe they had followed me for a reason—that they were trying to communicate with me in some weird dolphin way, but now I grasp that they’re gone, I realize how saddened I am by their absence.

  “Come, Petra,” my father says, his hand outstretched toward me. “The cook made Kyiv cake.”

  My mouth begins to water at just the mere mention of my favorite culinary confection. “Is there ice cream too?” I ask, even though I know there is—Dad always has the cook prepare my favorite dishes on his business days. It’s a strange arrangement, I suppose, but it’s a tradition I’ll never mind.

  “Of course—” Dad begins, but then John tackles him to the ground, the two of them crashing onto the sand in a heap.

  I stand there, my mouth hanging open in surprise, but then John low crawls over to me and clamps onto my ankle. I yelp, still more out of shock than anything, then scream as he jerks my foot forward, which causes me to fall painfully onto my back. I hit the sand with an oomph and I wheeze when John crawls over me and lowers his massive weight onto my tiny frame—undoubtedly for protection—but from what I have no idea.

  “It’s a bomb!” my father shouts. He runs over and helps John up.

  In turn, John yanks me up so forcefully that I catch air for a moment before I’m jerked against his side. The entire crazy moment definitely has my head spinning, but I have enough wherewithal to search for the issue at hand. The bomb. As John drags me along with him into the water, I finally locate the culprit—a shiny black sphere that looks like an old-fashioned cannonball.

  “Down, malenʹkyy heniy!” he orders as he pushes me under the water, his fingers digging into my shoulder as he holds me right at a point where my mouth and nose are still above the water line, but close enough he can push me under, presumably to spare me from the blast.

  Thankfully, my father seems uninjured and has made his way into the water as well, which is where we wait…and wait…and wait some more. The bomb never goes off, so after another long while, John passes me off to my father—who just as painfully holds me in place—then he slowly proceeds toward the black ball. He is cautious and it takes another several minutes before he gets close enough to examine it. My heart hammers in my chest as the scene unfolds, afraid for John in a way I’ve never been scared before. Perhaps that’s why, when he reaches for the orb, I shove my father’s oppressive hand off my shoulder and prepare to run—to what I don’t know—since there’s no way I could help him if that thing blows.

  “It’s a Magic 8-Ball,” he announces as he palms the thing and then turns to face us.

  As we hurry toward him, my father stammers on about how impossible that could be. How would a child’s toy fly through the air in the middle of a deserted beach and nearly hit him in the head? It was another good question, and one that none of us could answer, but as we walk back to the villa, with me in possession of the Magic 8-Ball, an answer begins to form in my mind. Som
eone, or something, must have thrown it. Perhaps it was the same person who had broken the toy in the first place, since the blue dye had been dried up in such a way that the icosahedron was stuck in one eternal position: the “yes - definitely” face.

  Could it be, I wonder as I drift to sleep later that night, with the Magic 8-Ball tucked against my side, the dolphins had reached out in the only way they could?

  Even to me, that sounds impossible and crazy, but I can still remember specifically asking them, “Are you guys still out there?” to which it seems they replied with, “yes – definitely.”

  As the first rays of sunlight peek over the horizon, I slip outside. I was too scared to leave sooner, when it was still dark out, and especially without John, but the slim bit of light gives me all the courage I need to get going, because I somehow know I have to make this trip alone. I run across the small backyard and beeline straight toward the gate that leads to the private beach, my backpack, that’s filled with cans of tuna fish, a flashlight, and the Magic 8-Ball, bounces around awkwardly on my shoulders as I lean into my run.

  The beach looks differently this early in the morning—scary, and completely uninviting, but I press on, determined to make it to the water before anyone realizes I’m gone. At my pace, the waterline comes into view pretty quickly, and almost immediately after that, I spot the two, dark circular objects right by the surf. They look like Magic 8-Balls. I’m almost one-hundred percent certain of it, and as I get closer, my suspicions are confirmed. They are Magic-8 Balls! What are the chances? Like, none—or a very, very, very tiny percent! Either way, I actually squeal with delight as I slide into the sand right beside them.

  My hands are shaking as I lift the first one up and strain to see the face.

  “You may rely on it,” the message reads.

  I shake it like mad and then I squeal again when the icosahedron doesn’t move—just like the other one. It’s a sign! Then I reach for the other orb. Its message reads, “It is certain.”