When We Believed in Mermaids

by O'Neal, Barbara

  My husband is sitting on the sofa with his hands clasped in front of him. I’m trembling as I sit down in the chair nearby, not right next to him as I usually would.

  For a long time, he says nothing. The music is still playing, quiet Frank Sinatra that makes me think of my father, a piece of information that I would previously have squelched. “My dad loved Frank Sinatra.”

  “The actual father or the one you made up? The one who was killed in a fiery crash or—”

  “You have a right to be angry,” I say. “But you don’t have a right to be cruel.” I raise my chin. “My actual father died in the Loma Prieta earthquake. It wasn’t fiery, but it was violent.”

  He drops his head in his hands, a gesture of such anguish that I reach out to touch him before I hold it back.

  “There are good reasons,” I say quietly. “I don’t expect you to understand that right away or to forgive me instantly, but in light of the fact that we have made a good home and a good marriage together, I would ask that you at least hear the truth before you make any judgments.”

  “You lied to me, Mari.” He raises his head, and I see that his eyes are red and shimmering with unshed tears. “Or Josie, was it?”

  “I’m still Mari. Still the woman you loved this afternoon.”

  “Are you, though?” He makes a little sound. “You started off lying to me and have lied to me for nearly thirteen years now. Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”

  Slowly, I shake my head. “No. I killed the woman I was before for good reasons, Simon. You would not have liked her at all.” It takes everything I have to keep my voice from trembling. “I hated her. Hated myself. The opportunity presented itself, and I just took it. I had to kill her or die.”

  “Were you really an addict, or was that a lie too?”

  “Oh, no. That part is absolutely truth. It was what made me so wretched. My mother was also an addict, but Kit says she’s clean now too.” I look at my hands, the rings sparkling on my wedding finger. “She quit when she thought I was dead. So I guess it made two of us sober.”

  He doesn’t respond. My chest aches at how much I’ve broken him, but I can’t think of what else to say.

  “The thing is,” he says, “that we are the culmination of our experiences. You can’t be Mari without being Josie too.” He looks at me. “You can’t be Sarah’s mother without being Kit’s sister.”

  “But I did just that.”

  “You made it all up!” he shouts. “None of it is true. Tofino, your dead parents. All lies. How do I even know who you are?”

  I bow my head and toe a spot on the carpet where a yellow flower winds around a blue wall. “I know you’re too angry to hear it right now, but I wish you would give me a chance to tell you the whole story.”

  His jaw shows his immovability, his struggle for control. “I don’t know.” His voice is utterly cold as he meets my eyes, and I know how those who’ve fallen out of favor with him must have felt. I’ve been cast from paradise into the wilderness. Banished.

  And yet I see the sorrow in his eyes too, and I know how much he values self-control. He will be furious if he reveals how I’ve broken his heart. I make a decision. “I’m going to go stay with Nan or at a hotel or something.”

  “What?”

  “Give you some time to”—I struggle for the right words—“sort through everything.”

  His jaw hardens. “I’m so disappointed in you, Mari.”

  A blister of anger rises through my terror. “Life is not all black or all white, Simon. Your life has been so easy.” I fight the impulse to weep, to fling myself on his mercy. “You’ve had everything given to you from birth. You’re handsome and wealthy, and your parents took really good care of you. Kit and I . . .” Emotion crowds my voice. “We only had each other until Dylan came.” I can’t help the tears that spill over my face, but I’m not going to be weak, not now. Not after all I’ve had to do to get here, to stand here. “It was not a good childhood.”

  “And yet there’s Kit, who seems to have done all right.”

  It’s fair. And unfair. “Yes,” I say, and find a place of calm. “We protected her, me and Dylan. As much as we could. It wasn’t always enough.”

  Maybe he hears the despair, the loss, some hint of the reality that was my life as a child. “I will listen to your story, but I can’t do it right now.”

  He’s very close to tears. I see the effort it takes for him to hold himself together. He will hate it if I witness his breakdown. “I’ll give you some space. Give me a few minutes to get a bag.”

  One of the hardest things I’ve done in my entire life—or should I say my lives?—is to go into the bedroom I’ve shared with my beloved husband for more than a decade and take out a bag and pack it, knowing I might not ever be back here. To keep it together for my children. I can’t think about that, not yet.

  I tuck into each of their rooms. Sarah has put herself to bed, as she does, and she’s fast asleep, fountain pen in her hand. I kiss her forehead, lightly so as not to wake her; turn off the lamp; and tiptoe out.

  Leo is still playing Minecraft. He looks up guiltily. “I thought it might be all right, since you were talking with—”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  He turns off the game. “I’m off to bed now.”

  “Wait. I need to talk to you for a minute.” I sit on the edge of his bed and pat the plaid duvet.

  “Okay.” He plops down beside me, his skinny arms brown from all the swimming he’s done this summer.

  “I’m going to take Kit down to Raglan to surf in the morning, so you guys are on your own for a few days. Look out for your sister.”

  He nods. Presses his lips together. “I heard you and Dad fighting. She’s your sister, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Can you wait that long?”

  “Yes.” In his hands, he rolls his shirt up into a tight ball. “Dad is really mad. Are you getting a divorce?”

  I shake my head, kiss his hair. “He is mad. We just have to talk things out, okay? Sometimes grown-ups have conflicts too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Love you, Leo Lion,” I say. “Be good.”

  “Have fun surfing.”

  “Dude.”

  It makes him laugh, and I leave his room and go down the back stairs to the kitchen. The dogs are asleep on the tiles, and I want to take one of them with me, but that wouldn’t be fair to them. Instead, I head out into the garage, toss my bag in my car, and climb into the driver’s seat.

  And there’s really only one place to go.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Kit

  The imprint of my niece’s hands on my shoulders stays with me as Javier and I walk to the ferry. It’s a mild night, with stars twinkling above the water and the dazzling lights of Auckland thinning to each side as the landscape moves into housing. I can see the waves of hills the city is built upon, each carrying its own spray of lights. “This place is beautiful,” I murmur.

  “Yes,” Javier says.

  A cocoon of quiet muffles my feelings, my thoughts, my words. I have nothing to say as we board the ferry and sit down inside, watching the dark water move by. He never pushes. He doesn’t hold my hand, which I couldn’t bear right now. He only sits quietly beside me.

  As we dock, I ask, “Are you singing tonight?”

  “I could.”

  I nod. “I’d like that.”

  “All right.” For a moment, his eyes search my face, but instead of asking if I’m okay, he simply brushes a lock of my hair back from my temple. “She is a lovely child. It makes me wish I could have known you then.”

  I think of myself on the beach, digging my feet deep into the sand while Dylan built a fire for all of us, and the lava in my belly gurgles. Urgently, I push the image away. I can’t bear even one more teaspoon of emotion. “Her experiments are wonderful.” I touch my heart. “I was just like that. A little odd. So passionate about the things I cared about. It makes
me feel protective of her.”

  I’m sick that my pursuit of the truth might lead to disaster for my sister. After so much time, so much effort, it seems wretchedly unfair. It’s still awful that she faked her own death, but—

  I don’t know.

  In my purse, my phone buzzes, and I yank it out urgently, worried about what transpired once we left. It’s from Mari. Be ready to go surfing at 6 am. We’ll be gone all day.

  “Sorry,” I say to Javier. “It’s my sister.” I type, I don’t have the gear, so I need to rent.

  I have access to everything. What’s your board these days?

  Short board, doesn’t matter.

  See you at six, in front of the Metropolitan.

  Cool. I pause, then type, Are you ok?

  No. But none of this is your fault. See you in the am.

  I look at Javier. “We’re going surfing in the morning.”

  “Good.” As the ferry comes to a stop, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. I take comfort in his grip, which feels like it will keep me from flying away into my thoughts or falling into the bubbling power of my tangled emotions, where I might be burned to cinders.

  Cinders. I smile, thinking of my old dog. “I had a dog named Cinder when I was a child,” I say. “He was a black retriever, and he was with us every minute of every day. Did you have pets?”

  “Yes. Many. Dogs, cats, reptiles. A snake once, for a little while, but he escaped, and I never saw him again.”

  “What kind of snake?”

  “Ordinary. He probably lived in the garden till the end of his days.”

  We walk up the hill toward the Spanish restaurant where Miguel plays, and I realize I’ve mapped out some of the routes, from ferry to apartment, apartment to market. I’d like to expand my reach, see what lies beyond the park full of magic trees. Go to the other side of the bridge, see what the lights to the north are, but I suppose I’m out of time. “I guess I have to get back to my real life.”

  “So soon?”

  I twitch a shoulder. “My mother is staying in my house, taking care of things. I left my job without a lot of notice. And I’ve done what I came to do.”

  He nods. His hand is still holding mine. Ordinarily it feels sweaty and claustrophobic to hold hands with someone, but his fits mine better than most. I almost pull away as I think that, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be leaving.

  Before we go into the restaurant, he stops and faces me. “If you stay a few more days, we could explore a bit together. You could have a true holiday, enjoy getting to know your family.”

  Light from the doorway cascades down the center of his nose, catches on the curves of his mouth, illuminates the column of his throat. “Maybe.”

  “Think about it.”

  “Okay.”

  When we go in, Miguel spies us and hurries over. He’s wearing a turquoise shirt this time, the color making the most of his dark hair and warm skin. “Hola, hermano!” They give their man hugs, slaps on the back and then away. “You must be Kit,” he says, offering me his hand.

  I accept his handshake. “I’m happy to meet you.” In my mind are the eyes of a little girl, haunting me, making me ache. “Javier has told me a lot about you.”

  He closes my hand between his own. “As he has told me about you, though he could never have fully expressed your beauty.”

  I laugh at the extravagant compliment. Javier tsks good-naturedly.

  “Are you going to sing?” Miguel asks. “We have missed you. But of course, we do not wish for your date to run away. Was it so terrible you couldn’t bear it?”

  “Pay him no attention,” Javier says, his hand at my back. “He thinks he’s clever.”

  “I had pressing business last time,” I say. “So rude. This time I look forward to hearing every word.”

  Javier swings his arm around my shoulders, kisses my temple. “It will be my pleasure to serenade you.”

  “Is that what it will be, a serenade?”

  His eyes go sleepy. “Every word will be words of love,” he murmurs close to my neck. “And they will all be for you.”

  Again it’s extravagant, but our little idyll is nearly over, so I let it slide past my barriers and settle in my blood, warming me. I lean into him and let him kiss my forehead, and only when I am settled at the small cocktail table near the stage do I see the eyes on us, envy and curiosity and eagerness. “Everyone is staring,” I murmur.

  “Because they wish to know who that beautiful woman is with Señor Velez,” Miguel says, giving me a wink.

  Then they’re taking the stage, and the crowd goes crazy, whistling and clapping as Javier picks up a guitar. He lifts a hand and settles in a chair before a microphone. The two men begin to play, the guitars weaving in and out of each other, rising and falling, and I think it must be flamenco.

  A woman sits down next to me, slim and middle-aged, her perfume spicy in the beery room. She leans in, offering her hand. “You must be Kit. I’m Sylvia, Miguel’s wife.”

  I give her a frown. “You know my name?”

  She smiles. “We are his family. He talks.”

  “Ah.” It makes me uncomfortable, but I take her hand, nod in acknowledgment. A waitress comes around, bringing beer and shots. “Right?” she asks, bending close. “Ale and tequila?”

  I’m startled but lean close enough to say, “Yes, thank you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She settles a glass of wine in front of Sylvia and a glass of water.

  “It’s her job to care for the musicians and their parties,” Sylvia says. “And Javier is . . . well, himself.”

  Himself. I glance at the stage. At the people leaning toward him so eagerly.

  The music shifts, and they dive into another instrumental piece. This one sounds familiar. It’s exhilarating, full of thumping on the guitars and speedy transitions. I’ve never been a musician, but it’s thrilling to watch them.

  Thrilling to see Javier in his natural habitat. He and the guitar are both woven of flesh and wood and strings and notes, all coming together to create enchantment. His fingers fly over the strings, up and down, strumming, slapping, strumming some more. His hair falls on his forehead, and his foot taps on the floor, and he looks up at Miguel to see where they are, and the two dive into the next section, and—

  I feel something in my gut. Wild and deep, in tune with his strumming hands, aching and pulsing. It takes on color, a rich yellow, the color of sunlight, and it begins to spread through my body, every single part of me becoming points of light that pulse in time with his strings. It makes me dizzy and makes me feel alive.

  “Wow,” I say aloud.

  Sylvia laughs beside me. “Yes. Every time.”

  The music rises to a crescendo, and then they fall silent. Javier tosses his hair from his forehead and begins rolling up his sleeves. He looks toward me and raises a brow. I touch my hands to my heart, and he smiles.

  And then, as last time, he pulls a microphone close, adjusts his guitar, and leans in. His voice is rich and full of layers, caressing the words one by one, the notes weaving in and out. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I love the way he sings, earnestly, intently. He never looks at me, but I feel his attention, plucking those points of connection through my body, first yellow, now orange.

  Next to me, Sylvia leans over. “Do you speak Spanish?”

  I shake my head.

  She interprets,

  “In the whisper of the waves, I hear your name

  In the caress of the sunlight, I feel your lips

  In the hands of the wind, I feel your touch

  Everywhere, in everything, there you are

  I will not forget you, sweet love.”

  I close my eyes because it’s almost too much. His face, his hands on the guitar. But even as I shut the visuals out, his voice weaves through me, and I see him bending over me as we kissed the first time, and his hands gliding over my body, and the way he laughs at my
jokes.

  His song trails off, and he picks up a bottle of water to take a drink. The room erupts in clapping, cheering. Javier waves a hand, looks at me, gives me a nod.

  And it’s like that for all the time he sings. Beautiful love songs, songs about loss, all the music plucking my heart, piercing my soul. I allow myself to fall into the flow of it, allow it to carry me away into a world that’s more bearable than the one where I’ve caused my sister’s life to come tumbling down around her, where I might well have deprived two children of a family that was, until my arrival, perfectly whole.

  When he finishes, I lean into his neck and say, “We don’t have much time. Would you rather sit here or go back to my bedroom?”

  He chooses my bedroom.

  At midnight, I’m lying on my stomach. Javier lies next to me, tracing the dip in my spine with light fingers—up, down, up, down. It’s hypnotically soothing. “Tell me about your broken heart,” he says, “this one broken heart that has kept you away from love for the rest of your life.”

  “Oh, it’s not that dramatic. I haven’t had a lot of time to fall in love.”

  “Psssht. Love does not need time.”

  I turn my head to look at him. My carapace of protection has disappeared, and I don’t even know where it is at the moment. “His name was James. I met him when I was very lonely, after the earthquake.” Easily, I trace the round of his shoulder, trail a finger down his biceps. “He had a girlfriend, but we started working together at Orange Julius.” I pause, remembering. “I had the worst crush ever. I could hardly breathe when he was in the room.”

  “I am a little jealous.”

  I smile. “He broke up with his girlfriend, and for a whole summer, we were inseparable. We taught each other everything, really. No one was ever home at my house, so we just hung out there and explored each other.” On my back, Javier’s touch has shifted to an open palm, moving up and down. “I was so very much in love. It filled every part of me. And really, it was the first time in a really long time that I was happy.”

  “And?”

  “And—his ex-girlfriend started threatening me. My sister heard about it, and she got into a fight with the girl. Josie broke her nose.”