Brine (7 page)

ISHMAEL FOLLOWED DIANE ONTO THE PORCH with the ice bucket. The space was expansive, with a hammock at one end and a long table with benches on either side. Candles were scattered about in hurricane lanterns, their wicks safely sheltered from the evening breezes. At the other end of the porch, an arrangement of wicker furniture with cozy cushions and plush pillows beckoned.

Lena was right. The breeze had picked up. The porch felt amazing.

“Well, this is just delightful!” Diane said.

Maggie started pouring champagne into a glass.

“Goodness!” Diane exclaimed. “Not like me to pass on champagne, but there’s a hot shower with my name on it.”

“Help yourself,” Maggie said. “I’d be delighted to have Ishmael all to myself.”

Diane disappeared back into the house, and Ishmael nestled into a chair, preparing all the questions she had in her head. This was the moment she’d been waiting for: she wanted to make sure she used her time wisely. She realized she was still holding the ice bucket and leaned forward to set it next to a stack of books on the coffee table. The top title caught her eye.

“Finding Your Inner Fish
,” she read aloud.

“Fabulous title, isn’t it?” Maggie said as she filled a second glass. “An old friend gave me that book. I thought it would be about how we’re all fish at heart. But it’s more paleontology. Fossils and comparative anatomy and what-not.” She held the green bottle daintily at the top of the skinny neck and dropped it in the ice bucket. Passing a glass to Ishmael, she added, “Which is fascinating in its own right, but not exactly what I’d hoped for. Certainly more Hector’s cup of tea than mine.”

Maggie smiled at Ishmael. She held up her glass. “To Ishmael. My only granddaughter. For making the long trek to come see her old grandmother.”

Ishmael felt strange, toasting herself, especially since her grandmother was standing and she was seated.

Maggie reached down to clink her glass and then settled into a chair across from Ishmael with a light sigh. Her long braid lazily draped down the armrest like a silver serpent at ease with its mistress. Maggie sipped her champagne and looked out beyond the porch.

Ishmael followed her gaze. Even though the breeze had picked up a bit, the creek was as still as a sleeping dog. Only if she paid close attention could she see the slightest shifting as it breathed with the current. The oak trees swept their moss-covered branches out over the marsh, gracefully poised as if they were presenting the creek to onlookers.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it? The lacy bit hanging from the branches is called Spanish moss.” Maggie said. “They’re all dancers to me, those oak trees. Flamenco. Frozen mid-dance. I see the moss as those wonderful fringed shawls they wear.”

“Is that why it’s called Spanish moss?” Ishmael asked.

“No,” Maggie said, maintaining her reverie. “But it should be.” She gestured to a certain tree with her glass. “That one. See how she just finished. She’s in a deep bow. A curtsy to the creek.” She took a sip and then turned back to Ishmael.

“I always hoped you’d make the trip to come see me. I’ve dreamed of this moment many times. I wanted to meet you in the flesh. Pictures were never enough.”

“So why didn’t you come to see me?” Ishmael felt the twinge of anger in her voice. She blurted out the question without thinking. She regretted her tone, but not the question.

“I can see you’re just like your mother—very direct. I’m glad.”

“I want to know everything you can tell me about my mother.”

“Well, then. I won’t bore either of us a moment longer with small talk.”

Maggie shifted straighter in her chair and set her glass down. “For starters, I know what happened to you in Baja,” Maggie said.

Ishmael was speechless, flustered.

“I know you had a tail instead of legs that night,” Maggie continued, “and I know you escaped those fishermen and swam home in your aquatic form.”

Maggie sat back in her chair.

Ishmael knocked over her champagne; the glass caught an edge and shattered. Ishmael moved instinctively to clean it up, but then paused mid-reach and looked up, hypnotized by her grandmother’s words. Maggie remained statuesque in the chair, not bothered at all by the mess.

“How could you possibly—?” Ishmael asked.

“Our kind stays connected. News gets passed along.”

Lena appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands with a towel. “You two doing alright out here?” She looked down at the puddle. “Don’t you go cutting yourself on glass now, Ishmael.”

Lena yelled into the house, “Hector, can you bring us a broom?”

Hector appeared from inside the house with a broom and dustpan. He must have slid in the back door. He seemed to just keep appearing out of nowhere and everywhere. As he cleaned the floor, he grinned at her.

“Maggie making you nervous?” he asked.

Diane was right.
Damn
. There was certainly something arresting about him. He reminded her of someone, some famous actor or something.

“You want another glass, Ishmael?” Lena asked, returning to the porch with paper towels and a spray bottle. She handed the cleaning supplies to Hector and started sweeping.

“No. I’m fine. Sorry to make such a mess.”

“Oh, please. Not to worry. Let’s get you another glass,” Maggie said, rising from her chair. “I’m not going to celebrate alone.”

Hector finished cleaning while Maggie retrieved the champagne glass that had been meant for Diane. Hector directed one more smile in Ishmael’s direction before following Lena through the doorway. After passing the refilled fresh glass to Ishmael, Maggie returned leisurely to her wicker throne. Ishmael sat back and rubbed the fuzz of hair on her scalp, her mind spinning.

Maggie sat still and waited calmly, giving Ishmael the space to speak. The afternoon light streaming through the screens gave her an ethereal glow. Ishmael looked to her grandmother, not sure what to ask first.

“Listen, if you know about what happened—like,
seriously
, you know about Baja—then by all means, fill me in. Because I’m at a loss for an explanation.”

“Ishmael, let’s just get this out in the open before we’re interrupted again.” Maggie sat even straighter in her chair. “You’re what you might call a
mermaid
.” She said the last word with reluctance. “I think that term is foolish. I only use it to get the point across. Basically, you were born of aquatic parents and—”

“Hold up—
what
? Both my parents were mermaids?”

“Well, clearly Richard wasn’t a mer-
maid
,” Maggie said. “They came to shore to birth you when your mother was nineteen. She returned to the ocean when you were six because—well—she missed the water. She needed it.”

Maggie relaxed as if she was relieved at the revelation.

“She returned to the ocean?” Ishmael asked.

“Precisely.”

Just like that, confirmed. Ishmael stared blankly at her grandmother for a moment.

“Because she
missed
the water?” Ishmael finally asked. Maggie nodded.

Ishmael forced a loud exhale.
But she didn’t miss her only child?
“So my mom didn’t drown,” Ishmael said, watching her grandmother closely to observe every facial cue.

“Oh, you never really believed that, did you?” Maggie asked. “Richard told you the truth. It was a stretch, sure. A big stretch, in fact, for you to hear the truth at such a young age, but he gave you the truth regardless. That way it was always there for you to believe or not.” Maggie leaned forward. “Ishmael, your mother is very much alive.”

Ishmael felt the tears forming in her eyes, but with the warming of her heart came the swirl of skepticism. She sat forward and looked straight at Maggie.

“Alive
? Are you sure?
My mom
?”

“Yes. My daughter.”

In that moment, relief and love overcame any anger or doubt Ishmael had been holding onto. She sat back. She trusted her grandmother’s tone; she felt the words to be truth. And she realized she’d always felt the truth deep inside.

“I mean, I had a feeling, but I wasn’t sure.” Ishmael took a deep breath. “I certainly didn’t really think—I don’t know. Wow. Where is she? Can I see her?”

“I’d hoped you would be excited,” Maggie said.

“I’m not sure excitement’s the right—yeah, I guess I’m excited. But also confused. My whole life so far has been based on lies.”

Maggie sipped her champagne. “Richard told you the truth. That should be good news.”

Ishmael stood. “I think I have to decide for myself whether this is good news or not. I mean, I was
six
when my dad told me about my mom. And he certainly never brought it up again or gave me any more concrete details.”

“Please, sit down,” Maggie insisted.
“Relax
. Drink your champagne. And—don’t take my bluntness as a lack of compassion.”

Ishmael remained standing. “Oh, you’re compassionate all right. My mother must have gotten that from you.” She stopped and sucked in a long breath. “Look—I’m sorry, Maggie. It’s just, all the years of not knowing . . .”

“Anna left you with your father. You were safe and secure. You lived a very nice life, far better than a lot of children get.”

Ishmael wasn’t sure she liked her grandmother’s tone. She paced for a few moments and then finally sat back down.

“Why didn’t she ever contact me?” Ishmael questioned.

“The ocean doesn’t exactly have phone lines or a postal service. She’d chosen the water over the land—”

“Over her daughter, you mean.”

“As I mentioned earlier in the kitchen, your mother’s an extraordinary swimmer. And a remarkable diver, I might add. She’s much more useful in the water.”

“So that’s it? She chose the ocean over her
family
?” Ishmael asked.

“Oh, Ishmael—it’s much more complicated than you can imagine.” Maggie sighed. “Frankly, I was expecting you to be a basket case when you first arrived. And now, I see that you are.”

Ishmael scowled and turned away, the adoration she had felt for her grandmother earlier that afternoon dissolving.

“Leaving was a strong, natural instinct for your mother,” Maggie said.

“Where is she?” Ishmael asked curtly.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know
?” Ishmael gaped at Maggie. “You’re telling me my mother’s alive, but you don’t know where she is?”

“That’s a big ocean out there,” Maggie said, gesturing toward the water beyond the porch. “Your mother likes to roam. She’s— migratory is probably the wrong word. Let’s say she’s
nomadic
.”

“So even if she is alive, it doesn’t matter,” Ishmael said. “Because there’s no way I can possibly find her.”

“There are those who know her whereabouts—I’m just not one of them. She and I don’t have any sort of close relationship like you would imagine. I didn’t raise her.”

“Great. So we have a tradition in our family of mothers deserting their daughters.”

Maggie leaned forward. “I came to land pregnant with your mother
fifty years ago
and took her back to the water once she was born. I never deserted your mother—I simply wanted her raised in the water. Where I thought she belonged.”

“So you gave her away and never saw her again?”

“I thought I would visit her more often.” Maggie looked away. “But it wasn’t possible.”

Lena arrived in the doorway.

“We’re done in the kitchen and I’m heading up to read my book. I made up the cot for Allen. He keeps saying he needs some kind of power nap—whatever that is. I asked him, ‘Why you wanna power your way through a nap?’” Lena paused for a moment. “I think he got what I was saying. He’s snoring like a bear in winter. Y’all hear that?”

Ishmael recognized the familiar snores of her ex-lover from around the corner of the wraparound porch. She caught herself somewhat wishing that Allen was sitting beside her, lightening the mood.

“Well, it’s the perfect time of day for a nap,” Maggie said. “Diane’s in the shower. Y’all all good out here on the porch?”

“We’re fine, Lena. Couldn’t be better. Thank you for getting supper all prepared.”

“You know I don’t mind. Especially while your grandbaby here.” Lena jerked in the doorway and squealed. Hector appeared behind Lena, smiling.

“Hector Cruz, you better not be messing with my bee-hind! You wanna spanking? I’ll show you a spanking! You come here. Come here this instant!”

Hector laughed and dodged Lena’s playful swings in his direction.

“Hey, send El Padre down to the dock when he wakes up,” he said.

Hector scampered down the steps and across the front lawn toward the dock. Lena huffed and disappeared back into the house, her heavy steps on the staircase audible.

El Padre? Ishmael was stunned. How did Hector know Allen’s nickname? Her dad had given Allen that nickname...

Ishmael’s eyes grew distant as realizations about her dad flooded her mind. She imagined him—raising his daughter alone with the secret that his wife was both alive and a mermaid, lying to the few friends he had, fabricating stories for the cops after his wife had presumably disappeared.

“Was my dad heartbroken? When she left him?” Ishmael finally asked.

“They both were. Neither of them wanted to be apart,” Maggie answered.

“But why didn’t we go with her?”

“Your mother wanted you raised on land. Your father stayed with you to carry out your mother’s wishes.”

“But how could she be so stubborn? I mean, she practically ruined my life.”

“Ishmael, Anna wanted you to go to school, learn to speak English. Read and write.”

“But, my dad—so he was what, a merman?” Ishmael asked.

“As I’ve said, I’m not fond of that term. I prefer to use the terms aquatic males and aquatic females,” Maggie responded, glancing over the champagne she was about to sip. “Your dad was supposed to tell you everything when you turned eighteen. But then you started dating Allen and—well, things got a bit trickier after that.”

Maggie put the glass to her lips and tilted it.

Ishmael was embarrassed. If her grandmother knew about Allen, what else did she know?