Shining Sea

by Mimi Cross

  “She said that some mornings she came to wake me up and I wouldn’t ‘wake’—that’s how she described it. I didn’t believe her. Then the scan—but she lied about that too. She said I needed to have it done, that we did, because another MRI would show that there was nothing wrong with me. She said—” Lilah sits a little straighter, almost like she’s listening to something.

  “She said?”

  Lilah jerks to life. “She said shit. She told me a bunch of lies. And then the goddamn doctors with this blood clot thing—and now you, with your, what? Sirens?” She’s already shaken me off, and now she rubs her arms as if my embrace has caused her pain.

  “It’s true.” Tears run down my face. “Everything I said is true, and the guy you met—”

  “True?” Her wild laughter scurries around the room. “Then I guess that means you’d let your imaginary monster friends turn me into one of them. I’d rather die, thanks.”

  “They’re not monsters! Not at all! Although . . .” My sobs hiccup to a stop.

  “Although what?” Hatred burns in her eyes, and I realize—she’s always hated me. Like she just told me. I was in her way.

  But there’s pain too, right alongside the hatred. It bruises her, softens her, and all at once she looks so young. Her pain must be worse now. Unbearable.

  I know what it’s like, to want one of them.

  “Lilah, the guy you met—”

  But suddenly I stop.

  Lilah. She can talk. She can think.

  And Mom. Mom knows.

  My veins begin to fill with ice—thin ice that creaks and groans, and starts to crack.

  “Although what?” she repeats, unaware of the tectonic shift occurring inside me.

  “Although they have some strange dietary habits,” I say coldly. Something corrosive is seeping into my gut, taking the place of pity. I bite my tongue so it doesn’t come up—the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. Still, I can’t hold back.

  “So, you think you’ll see him again?”

  “I know I will, and if I’m going to die from a bunch of ‘land mines’ in my head? It’ll be in his arms.”

  “No. It won’t. He’s dead, Lilah. Nick Delaine is dead.”

  Her mouth opens—closes. But she doesn’t ask me how I know his name, or anything else. She only says, “Then I want to die too.”

  “Well, you’re not going to.”

  “Why? Because I’m going to become a Siren? That guy Jordan is a total freak, by the way. Acted like he knew me.”

  “Nobody knows you,” I say from some hollow place inside.

  “I won’t stay in this world without Nick.”

  I look at her then, knowing just how crazy my sister is. Is it because of Nick, because of what he did to her? Or was it the accident, the shock of it?

  Or has Lilah always been—off? I think of the things she’s done to me over the years. The way she nearly broke my arm on the playground. How she let her boyfriend “practice” on me—that’s how she defended him later, as if there was any defense for what he’d done, for what she’d told him to do.

  I shrug now. And I say, “I guess it’s up to you.”

  “Not entirely,” Mom says, appearing in the bedroom doorway.

  Dad is right behind her.

  BACKBONE

  “You heard her,” Mom said to Dad. “His name is Nick. The boy that—did this to her.”

  Mom’s words turned us to stone—that’s what it was like. Like we were stone statues in that claustrophobic closet of a room.

  Then Lilah’s eyes became slits—she looked like she wanted to kill Mom.

  And Dad, bewildered, said, “A boy? How could a boy—” He broke off then, but I heard the rest of his thoughts like he was still speaking: Cici, what are you saying? A boat did this to her, not a boy. You’ve told me that over and over. This is my fault.

  He’d had little more than a week to try to assimilate the idea that his daughter was dying. Mom had told him about the blood clots when she phoned. But she hadn’t told him that Lilah had been talking to her for nearly three months.

  Maybe she thought Lilah would tell him herself.

  But Lilah didn’t tell Dad anything, because less than a minute after he showed up in her room, she was gone again. She simply closed her eyes. I watched my father watching her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Making sure she was alive. Then he started crying.

  Mom steered him to the living room. I floated after them like some small phantom ship.

  Dad stopped crying after a while, and they began talking. I listened to them go around in circles. That’s when I learned that Lilah has been talking for three months. “Or . . . longer maybe,” Mom said. “Now that I think about it.”

  “You mean you weren’t thinking about it before? Is that what you’re saying? Did you think of me? Of telling me? Did you think I might want to talk to her? To you? To the doctors?”

  Then he asked, “Was she—was she speaking before Ari and I left?”

  And my mom whispered, “Yes.”

  Dad’s face—it hurt me to see it. I drifted away into the kitchen. They didn’t notice.

  “But then you were gone,” I heard my mom say. “You were here, and I was there, with her. I was there for her. I started rethinking the implant procedure even before I found out.”

  “Great; thinking and rethinking. Thinking enough for both of us, huh, Nancy?”

  I didn’t have to be in the room with them to know that at that point, my mom had a deep V between her eyebrows. She doesn’t like anyone calling her by her real name, but when Dad does it? That’s when you know: the argument has turned into a fight. But since big blowouts aren’t Dad’s style, he shuts down. It may seem like he’s throwing a gauntlet—“Nancy” instead of “Cici”—but he’s really just slamming the door in her face. He always walks away at this point. And then it’s The Silent Storm. The Storm lasts a day sometimes. Or a week. Maybe it’s always been there, some violent weather system undermining their marriage. Eroding it.

  But it was because of the silence—that’s how I knew, how I know, Dad never made the connection. If he had, he would have said something, right then and there, would have attached the name “Nick” to Nick Delaine. But he didn’t, and why would he? The accident took place in San Francisco. And as far as Dad knows, Lilah never even met Nick Delaine. He died before she had the chance.

  Dad. He can’t be mad at Lilah. She’s obviously sick.

  But Mom isn’t sick—she’s just a liar. She lied to Dad. And she lied to me.

  In the morning I walk down the beach to Summers Cove. The tide is out, leaving a cold expanse of sand behind, wet and unwelcoming. The wind is from the south, blowing in my face. The sky is gunmetal gray.

  Cord comes outside to meet me, and I tell him about Lilah and Nick. Tell him about what Lilah called “the haze” in her head.

  “It’s possible he had her in the first stage of Deepening. The storm, the wreck—he was interrupted. But how he even—”

  “She met him here. She must have.” I allow Cord to lead me into the house. “Can you—will she be okay?”

  Thankfully Mom and Dad hadn’t heard the whole conversation, hadn’t heard the word Siren. But even if they had heard, they wouldn’t have had a clue. So the Summers’ secret is still safe.

  I know I should feel sorry for Lilah, and I do. But I’m her sister. She could have talked to me. Then again, she hated me. Hates me. And I . . .

  I have a hard pebble of pain in my chest.

  Cord still hasn’t answered my question. He ushers me into the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the table, motioning for me to sit. Now he begins to hum softly . . .

  “Mom should have told us . . . Maybe . . . maybe I could have done something . . .” My eyes close as I let his Song inside. There’s a sort of trust growing between the two of us.

  I wish—I’d trusted Bo.

  “You did do something,” Cord whisper sings in my ear. “And now we’re going to do someth
ing. My father is. It’s gonna work out.”

  Cord’s voice fades—the same way my questions fade—as one by one, the other members of the Summers family drift into the room. Soon they’re sitting at the kitchen table, talking about the upcoming trip to India, and the northeaster. But to me, the storm was a lifetime ago. The revelation that Lilah is still essentially herself, that she’s lied to me this entire time—on top of losing Bo—has leveled me. The voices of the Sirens are the only thing keeping me going now.

  Even Professor Summers’ arctic tone gives me a strange sort of comfort.

  “We have several agreements in this family, agreements that, apparently, Bo chose to ignore. And you—” He turns on Jordan. “Your ‘method’ of delivering Arion to safety—you could have started something unstoppable.”

  “But I didn’t,” Jordan responds, his tone as frigid as his father’s. “And what I did do—I did it for Bo.”

  “Regardless. Relationships with humans are—”

  “What about you—you and our mother?” Cord protests. “It’s because of you that Bo—”

  “Are you saying I’m a hypocrite?”

  Their mother—I wonder if she would think it was wise for Cord to challenge his father this way; Professor Summers seems like an unforgiving man. I try to imagine what his wife must have been like. Bo’s mom. I asked about her more than once. Bo always said he’d tell me her story when I was ready to hear it.

  “Not yet. Not until . . . you’re like me.”

  But I’ll never be like him now. Like he was.

  Lilah will.

  I try to find some solace in the idea of Lilah becoming a Siren as Professor Summers continues to berate Cord. She’ll be able to see what Bo saw, beneath the waves. She’ll fly on angel’s wings. She’ll never cry tears again.

  The thoughts are cold comfort, like the professor’s voice. He’ll Deepen her. Bo’s father. That he’ll be the one is somewhat reassuring. It also makes my skin crawl.

  “Lilah will need all the information we can give her in order to adjust to her new—situation,” Professor Summers says, as if reading my thoughts. It’s eerie how intuitive they all are. “The legacy will be different, of course. She will not be a Siren by natural birth . . .” The professor trails off. Maybe he’s thinking of Bo. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out exactly what’s on my mind.

  But how can he? I’m trying desperately to hide my true feelings now.

  My heart hammers. My sister. She’ll always, always be in danger.

  And not just because the seas are home to other Sirens.

  After Mia left the keeper’s cottage at the start of the storm, she went to Summers Cove. When she arrived, she found a crowd of people at the top of the drive. Logan was correct, the media was far from satisfied with the coverage of the drowned kayakers, and not only was TV Twelve waiting on Smith Street along with reporters from the Rock Hook Herald, but there were vans from several major networks as well, plus journalists from Portland.

  The most surprising member of the party, and possibly the ringleader of the media blitz, was a man named Troy Grayson, a detective from New York City who’s somehow connected to the case of the missing boys who rented the Lucky.

  Mia hadn’t meant to Call Jordan, drag him into the fray, but she’d panicked, and her Signals had spiked. Jordan landed on the bluffs above the farthest cottage, and kept close to the woods. He’d been cautious, listening for Nick. When he’d finally approached the top of the drive, he’d been just as surprised as Mia to find a media circus poised to invade the Summers’ privacy.

  The reporters were spilling down toward the three cottages by the time Bo arrived. They nearly saw him in his Full Expression—the Summers’ worst nightmare. Apparently after we’d argued, he’d Risen, with the idea of leaving the area. But after traveling only a short distance, he returned. At that point he, Jordan, and Mia were effectively caged on their own land.

  Mia told me that when Bo heard my Call, “He went wild, he would have done anything. He didn’t care who saw him. Luckily Jordan and I were able to garner the attention of the group by throwing the papers a few red herrings. We offered to show the TV crews where we’d found the kayakers and managed to get everyone to walk south on the beach. Bo was able to slip away.”

  And slip away he had. Bo was dead, gone forever. I see him again now, fighting with Nick on the seawall. Nick Delaine. He devastated us all.

  Snatches of Song wash over me as the Sirens bathe themselves in a continual hum of sound. Jordan’s low voice reverberates against my breastbone.

  How could I have chosen this life for Lilah? But there’d been no other choice, and I can’t let the Summers see my fear now. They’re being generous, saving my sister.

  And actually, the life of a Siren might suit Lilah just fine. After all, they are practically professional liars. Not that I’ve told any of them except Cord what I learned last night. It’s too much of a betrayal to share, and they’ll find out for themselves soon enough. She called them monsters, but she . . .

  “She won’t want to come back,” I say, mostly to myself. Then I blurt, “And what about you? How can you come home in June, any of you, how can you come back at all? The national seashore will be opening in July—tourists will be all over the place, on the beach, in the woods, here, at the Cove—and even when summer is over, how will you—”

  “Think the northeaster may have created a solution to your pet peeve, Girlina.” A streak of green flashes through Cord’s eyes as he shoots a look at Jordan, who, to my shock, grins.

  “Things will work out,” Mia says bluntly. Her pale-blond hair has never looked so icy.

  But they aren’t working out. Your brother is dead.

  “How?” I reply. “How will you even know what’s going on here? You’ll be in some undisclosed location, teaching Lilah how to be a Siren—” I suppress a shudder. There might be danger lying ahead for Lilah, but danger is better than death.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I say. “Professor Summers, thank you. Cord, Mia . . . Jordan.” Bo. “Thank you for doing this.”

  Mia’s mouth quirks—she’s detected my mixed emotions. After all, she’s only human, I can almost hear her thinking.

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I will them to stop. I’ve had enough salt water for a lifetime.

  In retrospect, it’s easy to see that what Dr. Harrison told me was true. After Lilah’s accident, I suffered from depression. It had been an inky curtain, draping me in darkness, causing me to lose interest in everything I loved. Then I started concentrating on playing guitar, and writing songs. The writing opened doors inside of me. I can’t let those doors close. Bo is gone, and that means despite the twisting cramp in my gut, I need to focus on keeping the black-eyed dog at bay.

  I. Will. Not. Cry.

  Thanking the Summers again, I start toward the door. If all goes well, they’ll pick up Lilah sometime tonight, so, I’ll see them again. But this is my real goodbye.

  Hurrying now, wanting to get away, I hike across the sand, and in a moment, stand beside the giant jetty that divides what’s really one long, sandy strip into two. It hadn’t been a stretch to convince my folks. This was where I’d fallen.

  The cut in my calf throbs as I picture Bo at the water’s edge, where I first saw him.

  My heart hurts too, as I struggle over the prehistoric backbone of boulders, the wall that hid the Summers from so many people, but not from Nick Delaine, and not from me.

  FALL

  At school, Alyssa stops me in the hall, giving the teal turtleneck a quick once-over.

  “Is that new?” I shake my head. “But you look different,” she insists.

  Staring pointedly at her slutty black cat Halloween costume, I raise an eyebrow.

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Don’t talk to me.” She starts to walk away, when one of her feet skids out from under her and she stumbles. Haltingly, she turns to me.

  It’s like watching a moonrise over the water, the way the fear and confu
sion slowly fill her face, her skin paling, then blanching further.

  She glances furtively down the hall. “What—what was he trying to do to me?” she whispers. Her voice is a tracery, barely there. Then she jerks like a puppet whose strings have been pulled—and stares straight ahead.

  Maine Medical hadn’t known what to make of Alyssa’s symptoms. The story she told on Monday when she came back to school after being out for nearly three weeks was that she’d been dieting and had fainted. But will she stick to that story? How much does she remember?

  Now she rolls her eyes again. It’s almost like a tic. “Fine. Don’t talk to me,” she repeats. Then she walks away.

  Stunned, I stand still for a second. Then I think, Such a good idea. How about—

  I don’t talk to anyone?

  I’ve already been lying low, eating lunch in the library. How hard can it be to keep on hiding? Just look at the Summers. They hide in plain sight.

  Mary calls. Logan calls. Even Pete and Bobby call. But their efforts to get in touch with me . . . feel like intrusions. Everyday voices carrying across airwaves—how can that possibly matter? There is no call I want to answer, no call I need to answer.

  There is no call I can’t resist.

  There is no Call . . . at all.

  Dad gets an answering machine for the cottage.

  I smash my cell.

  It never worked here anyway.

  Nothing works.

  PACIFIC TIME

  Mom is in San Francisco. Again. Why is she always leaving? Pointless to ask, because I don’t believe anything she says now.

  And actually, I know why she’s out there; I know all her beats. Why she’s out there—Art—and why she’s not here—Your father. She had, I remember now, told me these were the reasons she was going. This time. I just hadn’t listened. But Dad’s rattling reminds me.

  “Mom’s going to be out in California for a while,” he says, searching through the pots and pans as if he’s misplaced something, giving me time to digest what he’s said.