by Mimi Cross
Mom looks like she wants to hit something. Then her shoulders slump. “They said discovering the clots was like finding a . . . a series of land mines. She has a few months, maybe less. She’s going to die, Ari.”
“But—” MRI results? Some technician reading an MRI? That’s all it took, after all this time? “They have to operate. Then she’ll come back, from wherever she is. She can’t die! They’re wrong!” My shoulder slams into the doorframe as I spin around and run from the room.
Out in the living room, I dial Summers Cove, then wonder why. Why am I calling? Bo’s dead. And Lilah—this can’t be happening. I still have the receiver pressed to my ear when Jordan bursts through the door, his eyes pools of night. Dressed only in jeans, he has a T-shirt clutched in one hand. He grabs the phone out of my hand and tosses it on the table, pulling me outside.
“What is it? Your Signals, they’re spiking. Cord’s Song, Mia’s, they should have—”
His obvious concern floors me, but I don’t give a damn about any Songs. “It’s my sister. She, she—” I tell him everything, can’t stop the flood of words. When I’m finished, the only sound is my jagged breathing, strangely syncopated with the wash of the waves hitting the seawall. It’s that sound—the sound of the ocean entwined with my breathing—that makes me think of Bo, that makes me suddenly ask Jordan, “Why are you here? Why don’t you hate me?”
“I do.” A searing melody invades my head, Nine Inch Nails in every sense, pinning me in place. “You must know by now I’d like nothing better than to empty you.” Abruptly the music stops. “But I loved my brother, and he would have wanted—forget it. You have another question. Ask it.”
But I hesitate. It’s as if one of the cold waves has made its way up from the sea and is trickling down my back.
“How—how can I ask you now, ask any of you, for anything?”
“Ask,” he demands. His voice is a nighttime seaway, tempting me to travel to a dangerous place.
“Will you? Will you do it? Will you Deepen her?”
“Not me,” Jordan says quickly. “My father.”
“What do we do first?”
“First, you tell her. Everything. Everything you know about Sirens, the little you know about Deepening, as much as she can stand to hear—”
“She won’t understand. Not a word.”
Something gleams in the depths of his eyes. “Don’t expect her to be as enthusiastic about the idea as you are.”
“You don’t get it! It’s her mind. She won’t understand, she can’t—”
“Arion.” The wild sea of his gaze impossibly comes to stillness, and holds mine. “Words are limited. They’re—containers, incomplete by themselves. Since your sister’s accident, have you ever really known what she can and cannot understand?”
UNDERTAKING
The next day, Jordan’s handsome face is free of its usual scowl as he carries Lilah to the top of the lighthouse. The rest of us trail behind them in a silent, snaking line—Cord, Mia, and Professor Summers; my mother, my father, me—all of us spreading out as we wind our way up the spiral stairs, until each of us is alone with our thoughts.
One by one, we emerge from the watch room, stepping out onto the deck and into the waning light of a blood-red sunset, the wind hitting our faces, lifting our hair. Everyone gravitates to the rail, to the view, to the ever-unfamiliar sea. It feels like someone should say something meaningful. Like we should throw something over the edge. Rice. Flowers. Ashes.
The ocean. If it attracts me like this—me, who has a love-hate relationship with the sea—what does it do to the Sirens? Spread at our feet, a relatively thin railing of wrought iron between us, does it Call to them like some roiling Romeo? And what about Lilah? What is she feeling? I wish I knew.
To an outsider, it might look as if she’s had too much to drink, the way she stares at Jordan, eyes wide as the sky. The way Jordan supports her so carefully. The aura of instant intimacy that surrounds them, even as he sets her on her feet—a stranger couldn’t be faulted for thinking a few drinks have played a part; after all, it’s cocktail hour.
But this is far from a party, and none of us are strangers, not anymore. Bo is dead, and now, as we arrive back at the keeper’s cottage, the sky losing its light, early evening pressing in on us, the talk is of nothing less than Lilah’s life.
Jordan leans against the mantle looking down at Lilah, who doesn’t appear to register his presence at this point, and is gazing into the fire. Still, for some reason I imagine them connecting, becoming a pair. Breaths come in pairs . . . except for the first breath, and the last.
My head is a mess of emotions. I take a deep breath—Cord waggles his eyebrows. Part of his indefatigable efforts to make me feel better, this comic intimation only makes me want to cry. And if not for the almost inaudible susurrations of Song that he and Mia breathe into my ear at every possible opportunity, that’s probably what I’d be doing instead of passing a tray of sliced salmon and crackers to Mom.
Mom, whose current state of calm seems almost pharmaceutical in nature, is sitting with Dad and Professor Summers. He’s telling my parents that Bo is out with friends. That he’s sorry he can’t be here.
The necessary secretiveness of Sirens won’t allow the Summers to tell anyone that Bo is dead, at least not yet, and before I left the Cove yesterday, they’d started to explain just what they will say. But I’d excused myself and gone back to Bo’s room, burying my face in his pillow.
Lilah’s gaze shifts from the fire to the windows, and something about her eyes—some subtle change—convinces me: she actually sees what’s out there.
“Look,” I whisper to Cord as he hands me the tray of hors d’oeuvres that no one has touched. “She sees the ocean, she sees it. It’s so ironic, it’s like the only thing she can really grasp about her surroundings is the sea.”
“She seemed to grasp Jordie pretty well when he carried her up to the top of the tower.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Cord replies with a seriousness I didn’t know he possessed. “I take it you didn’t tell her yet. About Deepening, about us.”
“No, I didn’t. I’m grateful, so grateful. It’s just, what’s the point of telling her a bunch of stuff she’s not going to understand? Plus, it’s not like she can respond, or say anything back.”
But Cord isn’t listening. His attention is on Lilah. Now it shifts to Jordan.
The two boys exchange a look I can’t decipher, their Siren eyes swirling. I shift my weight. Will Lilah’s eyes become even more beautiful? Show every imaginable shade of blue and green? I imagine my parents staring at her heightened beauty with disbelief. But then again, they probably won’t stare, at least, not into her eyes.
“Arion, may I speak with you?” I follow Professor Summers outside. “I’ve discussed the arrangements with your parents. Of course we can’t tell them everything; revealing our true nature for instance would most likely be counterproductive. It appears as if they may need a little more time to adjust to the idea of me treating your sister. I can’t say that I blame them. They’re desperate, but I’m a scientist, not a doctor. However, based on what I’ve discerned of Lilah’s condition, time is not on our side. I’m leaning toward being slightly more persuasive.”
He’s going to Siren Song my parents. I nod. “Whatever it takes.”
The professor returns my nod. “It’s paramount that we leave as soon as possible. I suggest we go tomorrow evening. Our absence won’t arouse suspicion; the Institute knows that extended travel is necessary for me, in order to make new discoveries and acquire new plants and animals for our collection, for my studies.”
My face grows hot. Is that what Lilah is to him, a new specimen? The only person he’s Deepened—that I know of—is Beth. Is Lilah just an experiment to him?
“I understand,” I say, swallowing hard.
The professor glances away, then back to me, as if he’s growing impatient. “Your sister will
be safe with us,” he assures me.
Us. My heart constricts. The definition of the word is so changed now, so horribly altered.
“I’ve told your parents that Lilah will be spending some time at a rehabilitation center that uses—alternative therapies.”
“Mom loves any kind of therapy,” I say. “You’ll get zero objections from her.”
“Good. I’ll choose one of our centers where the communication is known to be sketchy, on the Indian Ocean.” He looks up, as if he might find further inspiration in the sky. Fitting.
“Dad will definitely think that’s a good idea. He’ll wish he was going himself.”
The professor nods again. “We’ll be in touch—but not often. We’ll return in June—”
“June? But that’s—”
“Yes. It’s a significant amount of time.” He glances at the door of the cottage. “I’ve got to get back to the Cove. I’ll phone your parents tonight. Why don’t you come over in the morning? We’ll be able to speak more freely and—”
“Say our goodbyes. Yes. Thank you.”
And before the professor can say anything else, I duck into the house—
And sit by my sister.
MONSTER
But it isn’t until that night, after dinner, that I try to talk to her. Slipping into her room, I sit down on the edge of the bed.
Lilah’s lying in the grainy late-evening light, so silent, so still—but her eyes are open, so I know she’s not sleeping.
I push her bangs back from her forehead. “Lilah. There are . . . things I need to tell you.”
Of course, she doesn’t answer.
I chew the inside of my cheek. Why am I doing this? She won’t understand. She can’t.
“You’re going to live, Lilah, you know that, right?” Maybe it’s my imagination, but for a second it seems like . . . but no. There’s no change in her expression.
“Lilah, I don’t know if you can understand, but in case you can . . . Professor Summers, the man who was here today? Well, he and his family, they’re . . . they’re something called Sirens.” The words are choking me; I have to keep clearing my throat, trying to find the right ones. “Sirens are . . . these amazing beings. They can fly, and swim underwater—they can breathe underwater. And they can sing like you wouldn’t believe. And you, not only are you going to live, and be . . . healed, but you’re going to be a Siren, like Jordan, and Mia and Cord.” A sob catches in my throat. “Like Bo. He was their brother. He—he was killed. There was—there was someone named Nick. He—”
Light flickers in her eyes—then it’s gone. A time-lapse playback of a day, the sun traveling across the sky, leaving evening in its wake.
“Lilah?”
Nothing.
Then suddenly—her raven brows draw down.
“Lilah!” Spinning around I slide to the floor and kneel next to the bed, my face close to hers. “Can you understand me?”
She focuses on me, just for a second, and then, as if an invisible hand has yanked her hair—she turns her face away, squeezing her eyes shut. A single tear slides down her cheek.
Nearly capsized by a wave of emotion, I grab her arms, hanging on like I’m a little kid again, and I want her attention.
“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? How long? How long have you—”
She laughs, but it’s a horrible, vacant sound, as if her throat is full of ghosts.
Then she turns toward me— But her eyes are empty. They don’t see me.
“No!” I cry out. “Please! Come back!” I lean over her—but Lilah is gone.
Is she in pain?
She’s always been in pain, I realize, inside. She was in pain long before the accident—the revelation comes hard and fast, like a blow. I just don’t know why. All I know is that, sometimes, she’d tried to make me feel her pain too.
But right now, that doesn’t matter. I just want her back.
“Mom!” I shout. “Mom, you need to come in here!”
“Stop.”
The sound is a dry scraping in her throat, but it is her voice. “Oh my God, Lilah—”
“What. The hell. Are you saying?”
“Oh my God, you’re talking, you can talk! And your eyes—” Her eyes are no longer blank. They’re sharp. Focused. And filled with hate.
“Of course. I can. You idiot.”
“Wha—” I break off, staring at her.
“I just. Don’t. Want to. I don’t need to. We don’t use words.”
“We—what? Lilah, let me get Mom—”
“Shut up. She knows.” Lilah sits up.
“She—she knows? She knows you can speak? What did you mean, ‘We don’t use—’”
“As if you could understand.”
“Understand what?”
“When he comes, I’m going with him this time, for real. Fuck the haze that fills my head half the time. Fuck the blood clots. And I’m not stupid—I know what he did was awful. Leaving me, and . . . and the other things. But he needs to . . . do things sometimes, certain things. I don’t care, I understand. He’s above everything. What he did—it doesn’t matter.”
I desperately want to know who he is, but I try to follow her line of thought instead, hoping maybe it’ll keep her with me. I speak very carefully, very softly now.
“And what did he do, Lilah?”
She continues in a sort of dazed state, and I’m so afraid she’ll just stop and slip away. I crouch silently next to the bed.
“He and Tommy—I thought they were playing. They didn’t know each other, but I thought, okay, it’s a guy thing. We’d taken the boat for a lark—it was his idea. He talked them into it. And so, they were having fun. Roughing each other up. Whatever.”
Tommy Burns. One of the fishermen the police think stole the boat that Lilah was on—the boat that was smashed to bits, destroying any evidence of what happened that night.
“But then they disappeared. They were gone for so long—I finally went to find them. They were down below. Tommy was—passed out.” She stops and looks into some invisible distance. “Or maybe Tommy was sleeping. Anyway, he said, ‘Do we need him?’ And I . . . I just said . . . no. I said: ‘I only need you.’ Then he asked if I was sure. He was smiling. His smile, it’s so beautiful . . .”
She’s drifting, and I recognize the look on her face. It’s like she’s back in San Francisco, staring out the window at the bay. I squeeze my hands into fists until my nails dig into my palms.
Eventually she continues, voice dreamy. “He leaned over Tommy then—he moved so slowly, but fast too. It was like, one minute he was whispering in Tommy’s ear, and the next—he was standing beside me again. And Tommy . . . his eyes were open, like, he wasn’t passed out anymore. That’s when I thought that maybe . . . But he looked okay, you know? Lying on his back, face turned to one side, like he was . . . thinking, and just wanted us to go.” She shrugs. “So we went. We went back up without him. The waves were getting bigger by the second—it was wild. Exhilarating! But then . . .” Lilah’s head cocks a little to one side like she’s puzzled. “He grabbed Jack.”
Jack Sims. Tommy Burns. Two fishermen—guys in their twenties—who grew up together, who worked for Dad. Who, almost without a doubt, died that night. And whose bodies were never recovered.
“He—he kissed him. He kissed Jack.
“It took me a minute, but then I was like, okay. Okay, Jack’s kind of cute. I was thinking, the three of us. Thinking, that’s what he wanted. But the timing—it kind of sucked.” Her laugh is one quick jerk of a saw blade through metal. “The storm was on us. And suddenly—
“Jack was gone. It was . . . a wave. A wave washed him overboard.”
It’s like she’s just deciding this, just now deciding that a wave washed Jack Sims over the side of the boat, and watching her decide—as if she has some control over what happened, even now, some power—I can’t stop myself. “Who? Who, Lilah?”
But I already know the answer. I’ve known since he
pulled me from the boat that bobbed so dangerously against the breakwater. The boy in the baseball cap, the one I saw but didn’t see. Nick.
The way Logan seemed so familiar when I met him. And the night we went out to eat—I had that flash of recognition. But it faded fast, and I let it. Unless—
How far reaching is a Siren’s spell? How long lasting?
Lilah goes on now, like she hasn’t heard my question.
“And then it was just us. Finally. I wanted him so badly. Like when we met. And he wanted me. He said nothing would interrupt us this time, no one.
“But then everything was hurting. I was—sick, I guess. My throat, my chest, there was—such pain. Pressure. Then—blackness.”
Horrified, I clutch her arms, shaking my head, unable to speak—
“That’s right. Saying nothing is easier, isn’t it?” Her gaze turns sharp again, hard. “Aquaphobia. Was that your way of trying to show your support?” She laughs, a wild, high-pitched sound. “Along with your sympathetic looks, and the pathetic hair brushing—as if we were like that! All you ever were was in my way! God, I was so glad when you left San Francisco. I could finally breathe.”
I try to shout for Mom. Nothing comes out.
“I told you, you can shut up, she knows. Obviously when I found out they were going to drill into my head and fuck with my brain I had to break my silence. But I told her: she was the only one, the only person I’d talk to. ‘Selective mutism’—Mom loves to play therapist, you know that. I figured if that’s what she wanted to call it . . .” She purses her lips for a second. “She didn’t tell, but she wouldn’t leave me alone either. Constantly in my room, wasting my time with her questions. I didn’t tell her about him, of course. I knew she wouldn’t get it. She doesn’t know what love is. Mom.” The word is a snarl. “She started lying to me. Telling me I was ‘unresponsive’ for hours at a time. She’d come talk to me in the evening. Tell me she’d tried for half the day to get me to say something, to ‘acknowledge’ her, but that I only stared out the window. Well, duh, I had to watch for him, didn’t I? Had to be ready when he came. God.