When We Believed in Mermaids

by O'Neal, Barbara

  “It was my father’s doing,” I admit. “He thought I looked like a kitten when I was born, and he nicknamed me. My mother still calls me Kitten sometimes, and Dylan used to as well. But everyone else calls me Kit. I was quite a tomboy.”

  “Tomboy? I do not think I know this word.”

  “Not very girlie. I didn’t like dolls or dresses.”

  His hands are stacked, just the fingers, quiet. “What did you like?”

  “Surfing. Swimming.” Something in my spine loosens, and I lean forward, smiling as I remember. “Searching for pirate treasure and mermaids.”

  “Did you find them?” His voice is lower, his dark eyes very direct.

  I look at his generous mouth, then back up. “Sometimes. Not very often.”

  He nods very faintly. It’s his turn to look at my mouth. My shoulders, the square of skin showing in my dress. “So was it Katherine to start or Kitten?”

  “Katherine. It was my father’s mother. And I, sadly, look just like her.”

  “Sadly? Why do you say such a thing?”

  I shrug, easing backward, away from that swirling thing growing in the air between us. “I don’t mind. But I was not my sister or my mother.”

  He tsks. “I saw that photo of your sister. She looks small. Wispy.”

  “Yes. Never mind this conversation. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know.” He grins almost mischievously.

  I laugh lightly. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Perhaps just a little.”

  “Now you. Tell me something. Why do you have your name?”

  “The whole name is Javier Matias Gutierrez Velez de Santos.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I know.” He inclines his head, easing the arrogance. “My father is Matias, and my mother’s brother was Javier. He was killed by a jealous husband before I was born.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Is that true?”

  He raises his hands, palm out. “Swear. But I was never the boy who would be killed that way. I had big glasses, you know, thick.” His hands went to his eyes to illustrate the shape. “And I was a bit fat, and they called me cerdito ciego, little blind pig.”

  Before he even finishes the sentence, I’m laughing, the pleasure coming from somewhere in my body that I’d forgotten. “I don’t know that I believe you.”

  “I swear, it’s true. Every word.” He glances over his shoulder, leans closer. “Do you want to know the secret of my transformation?”

  “Yes, please,” I whisper.

  “I learned to play guitar.”

  “And sing.”

  He nods. “And sing. And then, it was like a magic spell. I could sing and play, and nobody called me the little blind pig anymore.”

  “I believe that story. Your voice is beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes glitter. “Usually it doesn’t send women running away.”

  “No. I’m sure.”

  He touches my arm. “Will you listen again sometime?”

  That swirling thing expands, engulfs us, and we’re enclosed in a world of our own. His thumb rests on my inner arm, and I see that his irises are not as dark as they first seemed but lit with amber. “Yes,” I say quietly, sure I don’t mean it.

  “Good.”

  We make one last departure when the ferry stops at Rangitoto. Ordinarily it would just be a pickup, but another ferry has been waylaid, and this one is going to do double duty. We have to wait for an hour for everyone to come off the mountain. “You’re welcome to disembark and explore a bit, if y’like,” the steward says over the loudspeaker. “Be warned we’ll be leaving at sixteen hundred hours.”

  Rather than sit in the hot sun, we opt to explore. I’m wearing walking sandals, and Javier is in jeans and good shoes, so we don’t go far, just up to the visitors’ center and a small lagoon where birds hop and twitter and gather. I hear long, fluid whistles and a squished little squawk, and around us are plants I’ve never seen. My mother would love it, and she’d probably be able to identify many of them. I’m drawn down a path shaded by tree ferns and land ferns and a pretty flowering tree. A bird overhead seems to be engaged in a long whistling conversation, and I grin, looking up to see if I can find him, but there are only more ferns and leaves and tropical-looking things.

  My heart suddenly turns over. How remarkable that I’m standing here in this place. “It’s amazing!”

  The rustle of wings alerts us, and Javier touches my arm, pointing to the bird who’s been making so much noise, black with a thick brown saddle over its shoulder. I admire it in wonder, mouthing Wow to Javier, who nods.

  We wander back to the main dock area, where people, dusty and sunburned as they come down from hiking, are gathering for the trip back to the city. “Do you like to hike?” I ask Javier.

  His lips turn down. “I don’t know. I do like walking. Do you hike?”

  “I love it. Being outside like that, all day, just the trail and the birds and the trees. I live by the redwoods. They’re incredible trees.”

  “Mm. Would you want to hike to that peak?” He points to the top of the volcano. It’s not an actual invitation but a query on preference.

  I look to the top, shrug. “It would be fantastic.”

  He nods, measures the height. “I might not care for that.”

  And for the first time, there is something I’m not sure I like about him. No surfing, no hiking. I’m used to more vigorous men.

  Then I remember the way he swam, with sure, strong strokes, and realize he’s fit enough. Perhaps people in Madrid are not as interested in climbing mountains and challenging waves as those in California.

  We walk toward the pier and lean on the railing there. A gaggle of teenage boys, all part of some tour group, are jumping off tall concrete pilings to the water below, egging on the others.

  “Did you see the trees across the street from the high-rise?” he asks.

  “No.” It’s hard to look away from the boys and their dangerous game. I wonder who’s in charge, but it doesn’t really seem as if anyone is.

  Chill, I tell my inner ER doc. Not everything is a disaster.

  Javier, following me as I edge farther up the pier, says, “I walked there yesterday. It’s a little park or something, and the trees are old and full of character. As if they might walk around when no one is watching.”

  I look over at him, snared by the fairy-tale image. “Really?”

  Two boys are shouting, drawing our attention, and we watch as they scramble to a higher piling and leap off, yelling. I’m tapping my index finger on the railing that separates us from the water. Below us, the boys surface and laugh, and others are scrambling to the higher piling. Tourists and hikers laze against the railing, taking sips of water from bottles, smearing on sunscreen, eating.

  A very tall boy with messy black hair dripping on his back gets to the top of the piling, joking and laughing with some of the others.

  I see it before I see it—his foot sliding out from under him on the wet concrete, his body tilting, shifting, arms flying out—

  And his head hits the edge of the concrete, visibly splitting right in front of me.

  “Get out of the way!” I yell, and I’m kicking off my shoes and shedding my dress practically before the boy hits the water with an excruciating splat. I run to the end of the dock and dive toward the place he went in. The water is cold and murky, but late-afternoon sun illuminates the shape of his body. Another body is in the water with me, and we meet and yank, both of us swimming toward the surface. Blood from his head pours out in a dark cloud.

  We break the surface. The other rescuer is another boy from the group, a strong swimmer. “Head for shore!” I yell, and we swim together, dragging the deadweight of the body between us toward the seawall, where others meet us and haul the injured boy upward.

  “Help me up!” I cry. “I’m a doctor.”

  And there are hands hauling me too, and I’m beside the boy, giving him mouth-to-mouth until he chokes and expe
ls a gutful of water, but that doesn’t raise him to consciousness. His head is bleeding heavily. “Give me your shirt,” I order the other boy, and he tugs it off and hands it to me. Squeezing out the excess water, I press it to the cut, holding it there as I check his vitals and his pupils, but his eyes are so black it’s hard to tell. He needs a hospital, fast.

  A man from the ferry appears with another guy in a uniform, maybe coast guard. “Thank you, miss,” he says. “That was amazing. We’ve got it.” Two forest-ranger types are running down the beach with a stretcher, and I see a boat with a cross on it. The crowd parts for the paramedics, because that must be what they are. I keep my hands on the cut, and one of them nods. “You’re a lifeguard?”

  “Once. Now I’m an ER doctor, back in the States.”

  “Good work. You probably saved his life.” He takes over holding pressure, and they load him onto a stretcher.

  I stand up and knock the sand off my knees, and a group of people starts clapping. I shake my head, wave a hand dismissively, and look for Javier, who is standing to one side with my dress and shoes in his hand. I take in a breath and blow it out, hands on my waist. It’s a classic calming pose. As he reaches me, I glance down at my ordinary bra and panties. “Glad I wore the good underwear.”

  He smiles, offering me my dress. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” I tug the fabric over my head, my heavy wet braid knocking to one side.

  “You disappeared before I—”

  “Instinct. I was a lifeguard for a decade.” I smooth the dress down. The panties will dry soon enough, but the underwire on the bra is going to be a misery. For a moment, I wonder if I should walk up to the ladies’ room and delicately remove it, but the entire beach has seen me half-naked already. “Give me some cover, will you?”

  He glances over his shoulder, still holding my sandals, and moves his body to block me from view. The seawall is behind me. I reach beneath the dress, unhook the bra, and tug it off my arms and wad it up. “Is my bag anywhere?”

  “Here.” He’s looped it over his shoulder so it’s hanging down his back, and now he slides it down to give to me.

  I toss the bra inside, take one shoe and brush it off, slide a foot in, do the same on the other side, then pull out a bottle of water and take a long, lukewarm swallow.

  Only then do I inhale deeply and let it out in a slow breath, looking up at Javier. I’m used to emergencies, but this came out of nowhere, and I’m a little giddy. “Are you impressed?”

  He lifts his aviator glasses and licks his lower lip, reaching out to brush my cheek. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He takes a breath now and lets it out, throwing an arm around me. “You frightened me. Let’s find a drink, hmm?”

  “Great idea.”

  We settle on the top of the ferry again, toward the back against the rails, and Javier leaves me to go down to the snack bar. In his absence, I watch the vast sky. Clouds are gathering on the horizon, moving like they’re on fast-forward, and before he returns, they’ve rushed over the sun, bringing a pearly gray light to the scene.

  He’s carrying two beers when he returns, and we clink bottles. I’m unsettled and restless and conscious of his body alongside mine. The beer is cold and delicious. Refreshing. “Thank you.”

  “You’re a doctor.”

  “Yes. ER in Santa Cruz.”

  “ER?”

  “Emergency room.”

  “Ah.” He sips his beer and watches a family of tourists settling on a row of seats, and I watch too. The mom is hassled, directing her three kids to put their hats back on, to stop tossing a ball among them, to sit down and stop leaning over the rail. The dad is bent over his phone. “That would account for your speed.” He makes a soft sound, looks at me. “One moment you were standing beside me, and the next you were in the water.”

  “Here’s the thing—it wasn’t really that sudden. I was worried about those boys, and you’ll notice I was in place when one fell.” I smooth a hand over my thigh, which feels restless. “I’m a surfer, and I was a lifeguard, and you see the injuries in the ER all the time . . . so while all of you were enjoying the spectacle of youth and energy, I was imagining all the things that could go wrong.”

  For a moment, he looks at me, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. “Will he be all right, that boy?”

  “I don’t know. He hit his head pretty damn hard.”

  “Does it make you afraid, knowing what you know? Stop you from doing things?”

  I settle sideways so I can look at him more easily, leaning my back against the railing. “Not physical things.”

  His eyes glitter. “What things, then, hmm?”

  I look away, over his shoulder, thinking of my rules about men, my lack of travel, the empty spaces in my life, and suddenly feel a welter of tears at the back of my throat, which is not me at all. I feign nonchalance with a one-shoulder shrug. “I already knew bad things could happen.”

  “Ah, the earthquake, yes?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Is that what led you to the emergency room?”

  “Maybe? Probably.” I pick at the label of my beer. “I always wanted to study science in some way, but that was a big event.”

  He touches my forearm with one finger. “Were you injured?”

  “Scratches and bruises. Nothing much.” I feel suddenly breathless at the pressure of so many memories rising up after so long. My sister, Dylan, the earthquake. I lift a hand. “Enough. Your turn, Señor Velez. I’ve been talking about myself all day.”

  He smiles. The wind blows his hair over his forehead. He’s such a masculine man. European, so polished, but so very male. His big hands. His broad shoulders. His strong nose and intelligent brow. “I am not as interesting as you are.”

  “That is not true.” My body is starting to relax a little after the adrenaline rush. “Tell me why you really came to New Zealand.”

  “Not just to visit?”

  I shake my head, go with a gut feeling. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re right.” He looks out toward the horizon, back to me. “A very good friend of mine, one of my oldest friends, killed himself.”

  Damn. The lake of my memories ripples, threatens to spill. A flash of Dylan’s dead, still self washes out of the lake, but I’m a master at ridding myself of those images. I sit up straight, taking refuge in my professional training. “Javier, I’m so sorry.” In compassion, I wrap my hand around his. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

  He turns his palm upward, captures my hand close. “We had been friends since we were small. Very small. I felt I should have seen. Done . . . something.” His face darkens as he focuses on the horizon. “I just . . .” He sighs. “After, I found it difficult to take up my work, and Miguel invited me to come here for a time.” He brushes his thumb over my fingernail.

  “Suicide is especially difficult for survivors,” I say, and it’s too much my ER voice. I force myself to be more human. Personal. “You must miss him terribly.”

  “I keep wishing for it to make sense.”

  “It doesn’t, always.”

  “I suppose you see it often, in your work.” He gives me a sideways look, still holding my hand.

  I swallow back another confession. “Yes.”

  “Is it difficult?”

  He’s raw and seeking a comfort that doesn’t exist, at least not a comfort I can offer. “It’s unsettling when a person dies violently in any form.”

  He waits quietly, and I have opened the box, this heavy box I’ve been dragging around with me. “Drugs and alcohol. The stupid, stupid things people do.” I shake my head. “So many kids. And gangs. Good God, sometimes they’re so young they don’t know how to kiss, and they’re carrying guns.”

  “Mm.” His thumb edges over the top of mine.

  Into the quiet, I say something I have only thought, never spoken aloud. “I’ve been thinking about leaving the ER. It’s wearing me down.”

  “What would
you do instead?”

  I focus on the shape of his fingers, the tidiness of his nails. Well-tended hands. “I have no idea.”

  “Something else is calling you.”

  “Maybe. My interest as a teen was in marine animals, but it might be too late to return to that. I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t even the job as much as the place. Maybe it’s time to escape Santa Cruz.” I feel disheartened, as if I’ve wasted a lot of time. “Tell me about your friend. If you want to.”

  He takes a breath, lets it go. “It’s all a tangle still. It hasn’t been very long, only a month. He had a bad time. His wife left him, and he was drinking too much, and—” He shrugs. “There are seasons of darkness, yes? Loss and sadness all around.” He tightens his grip. “But if you are patient, the circle turns, and then there is happiness all around, everything good, everyone happy.” He flings a hand out, palm up, as if scattering glitter. “My friend, he just forgot that happiness is part of living too.”

  “That’s a lovely thought.” I smile sadly. “But I’m going to admit something terrible”—and I know I am doing this to skirt around the other things I could be spilling—“but aside from when I was a child, I don’t know that I’ve had those happy times.”

  “Never?”

  I run through the years of my life mentally, trying to find a cycle that was particularly outstanding. “Not really. I mean, I was glad to get my degree and get out of school and go to work, but . . .”

  A small frown wrinkles his brow. “Perhaps we are not talking about the same thing. I mean those times when your family is well and you have work you love and maybe you fall in love and feel good. Those times.”

  “I’m happy right now.” I sip my beer, look at the water. “I’m in this beautiful place and enjoying the company of an interesting and”—I raise one brow—“quite good-looking man. I’m not dealing with work or my mother or any of my daily things. That’s happiness, right?”

  The ferry is beginning to move, and a gust of wind makes me close my eyes and put my hand in my hair. When I open them again, Javier has raised his glasses to look at me. “That is a little happy. Not big, not the kind that fills you up and makes you want to laugh.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know that I’ve had that.” It’s unnerving to realize it, unnerving how much I’ve revealed to this man. And yet I can’t stop. Something about him—his kindness or his warm voice or something I can’t even name—softens the carapace I’ve carried around for so long.