The Summer of Chasing Mermaids (18 page)

Kirby rolled her eyes.

“I'm serious,” Vanessa said. “We're just friends. Capital-
F
friends.”

Kirby shook her head. “But you two are
supergood
friends. Like, communicating-with-just-a-look good friends.
And
you have a physical thing going on.”

“Had. We had a physical thing. But no. It wasn't even a thing. It was just kissing. Just . . . something to do sometimes? It never meant anything more than fun.”

“Then why aren't you together?” Kirby asked. “You have fun fooling around. You're great friends. What's missing? Why is he such a player?”

I bit into my chocolate, tried not to squirm, tried not to think of all the kisses he'd left on my lips, burning a trail to my heart. As passionate as they were, as blazing hot, they still hadn't been enough to make me presume anything between us. To make me think he wanted
anything more than fun. We hadn't even been alone since discovering Noah's fish prank—Vanessa and Sebastian had shown up every day after that to help, and we worked so hard on those days that the nights left little energy for socializing. Even his texts were mysterious; morning messages were usually just boat details, but nightly for weeks he'd messaged me those two simple words: “sweet dreams.”

For all I knew, Christian was just biding his time until I was ready for the “grand tour.” Or maybe he'd been spending his nights grand-touring with other girls. Calla. Gracie. Jessica Boltz. The endless tide of summer girls who'd watched him at the marina, at the café, on the beach, dancing at the club.

I closed my eyes, tried to picture something else. Starfish. Seagulls. Mermaids. Boats. Tattoos. Christian.

All roads lead back to Christian Kane.

I opened my eyes, inhaled some more chocolate.

“We talked about it,” Vanessa said. “But we both agree we're strictly friend zone. I mean, we're so different, we want different things out of life, all that. Like, I've always been more . . . some might call it opinionated.”

Kirby cracked up, pointing at Vanessa with half a chocolate bar. “Understatement.”

“I blaze my own trail, Mom says. And Christian's just . . . well, all that stuff with his daddy.” She waved her words away, clearly not wanting to air the Kane family secrets. “We're just different that way.”

I thought about what Christian had said that night of our first
kiss, about not having a plan A. He'd told me he'd always followed the path his father had set out for him, and maybe Vanessa was right—he hadn't blazed his own trail. But like so many other things, that, too, was changing. I sensed it that night after the bonfire, the way he'd looked at me after reading my “Plan B” poem. The way his eyes smoldered when I'd asked him what he wanted.

Maybe there was something about Christian that Vanessa didn't know. Something new and young, just breaking out from the darkness into the light. And I'd been there to see it. The first one. The only one.

I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped myself in a hug.

I thought of Christian's strong arms around me in Devils Elbow. His lips skimming my jaw, my neck. . . .

“We're close, definitely,” Vanessa said. “But we don't have that spark, you know?”

“What spark?” Kirby asked.

Vanessa pressed her hand to Kirby's abdomen. “You know that gooey, falling-down feeling you get, right about here, when you're dancin' with Noah?”

Kirby pushed Vanessa's hand away, but she couldn't hide her smile.

“
That
spark,” Vanessa said.

“So you don't get jealous about the other girls?” Kirby asked. “I get crazy jealous when Noah even
smiles
at a customer. And he's just doing his job!”

“Told you.” Vanessa shrugged. “Nothin' to be jealous of.”

Kirby considered this, then looked at me. “What if he hooked up with Elyse?”

Vanessa caught my eyes. I recognized the look instantly; it would pass between my sisters whenever they were talking about something Dad or Granna wasn't supposed to know.

Slowly I shook my head. No
,
I hadn't told Kirby anything about what was going on between me and Christian. I didn't even know if there
was
anything, really, and I didn't want to get her worked up over something that might not even exist.

With her eyes still locked on mine, Vanessa said, “Maybe a ­little.” It surprised me—both the admission itself, and the matter-of-­factness of her tone. “She's the only one who makes him smile that for-real smile of his. I haven't seen it so much since we were kids. And now, every time he says her name, it's like the damn sun is risin'.”

This time it was my smile that wouldn't hide.

“Just remember, Elyse.” Vanessa grabbed my hands, her face etched with concern. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “You can't put a condom on your heart.”

This set everyone to laughing again, and inside, I felt something loosen. Warm. It was another ember, small but sparking to life again, and I held on to it, made it glow.

“What else did you get?” Vanessa crawled back over to Granna's box, took out the rest of the fairy-tale books. There was a letter from Granna too; Vanessa handed me a thick, white envelope. I tossed it on the bed to read later, in private.

“Oh. My. Silky. Stars.” Vanessa's mouth hung open as she pulled a length of fabric from the box and stripped off its plastic dry-cleaning bag.

She rose to her feet, let the silk flow down the length of her, swirled with gossamer silver thread and delicate beading. It shimmered like moonlight on the water.

The dress.

It was the deep, midnight blue of the far-off ocean, the blue that lured explorers to seek out the world's oldest secrets, the blue that turned black in the shadows and bright as the Caribbean Sea in the sun.

There was only one other like it in the world. It belonged to my sister Natalie.

Granna had ordered them, custom-made for Carnival last March. She'd been waiting for us in the dressing room that day, smile as proud and excited as I'd ever seen it.

“This is it,” she'd told us. “A shot at your dreams.” Behind her a sheet like a white sail billowed over a clothing rack. She untied the ropes; the sail slipped to the floor. And the dresses, twin mermaids, shone before us.

With our hair in luscious waves, swirls of the sea painted on our glowing brown skin, Natalie and I dressed in silence.

“My beautiful singing mermaids,” Granna said. “Today you take the world by storm.”

Natalie twined her fingers with mine, the tremble of excitement faint beneath her skin.

“Are you ready?” she whispered, and I squeezed her hand once, so proud of her, so grateful that of all my sisters, she was my twin, my shared heart, my shared dream.

“Yes, love,” I said. “I am ready. . . .”

“This is almost as gorgeous as you are,” Vanessa said now. It came out in a whisper, the kind reserved for great works of art or monuments or memorials.

The dress was a bit of each.

The last time I'd felt its cool silk against my thighs, I had an entire brilliant life ahead of me.

Yes, love. I am ready. . . .

I froze as the memories washed over me, slow at first, then all at once, and my throat tightened. The dress was a time capsule, everything my old life was supposed to be.

All the potential.

All the promises.

All the failures, fate's cruelest twist.

Afresh, the sharp swords of the past pierced my heart.

Chapter 22

“Elyse!” Lemon flung open
my bedroom door, tears in her eyes, and I rushed back to the present. Three in the morning, Atargatis Cove. Disjointed, disintegrated. “Were you . . . I thought I heard . . . singing?”

The sound of my voice—my old voice, the old me, rich and buttery and beautiful enough to give anyone chills—floated in the air, but my lips were closed. The laptop sat on my bed next to the mermaid dress, the video of my final performance looping.

Whoever shot this version had put it on YouTube. It had more than a million views, hundreds of thousands of likes.

“Okay, baby. Okay.” Lemon sat on the bed next to me, gathering me in her arms. “Don't try to avoid this pain. You've gotta feel it.”

I thought about the sharp rocks at Thor's Well, spilling my blood into the mouth of the sea.

I wondered if Lemon really believed that pain was necessary.
Everything in me hurt so much, I didn't even know what was real. Did it hurt now? Or was it just a memory of hurt?

Soon after I'd first been told I'd never speak again, never sing, likely never utter a sound greater than a hoarse whisper, I decided I didn't believe them. I was so certain I'd beat the odds, find a way to heal through sheer will alone. I spent my mornings with private tutors, ­finishing school from home. In the afternoons, I listened to my favorite music for hours, drank hot tea and honey, rested, followed the doctors' orders precisely.

One month. That's how long it took before I
really
freaked out. I was so angry, so filled with rage. But when my body tried to scream, I felt only pain. Emptiness. A raw, tearing ache, again and again and again.

I was still angry when I'd come to the Cove, still filled with confusion and resentment and fear and grief. I'd feel the frustration surge up in all the little things, like finding a funny video online and wanting to call Kirby over to check it out, only I'd have to get up and go look for her, physically touch her to get her attention. Things like knocking on the table to ask someone to pass the salt. Repeating my words, again and again, while people stared at my lips, trying to make sense of them, more often than not ending the conversation because it was easier than deciphering.

But those were the easy targets, the healthy ones. I could channel the frustration and anger there, let it simmer, watch it bubble over in my bed at night as I clutched my pillows and begged the tears to come.

They never did. But it was better than thinking about the
real
damage. The fact that losing my voice meant losing my future. My dreams. My plan A, plan B, all the way to plan Z. For me there was never anything but singing, never anything but traveling the stages of the world, my beautiful sister at my side.

It'd been more than four months since I lost my voice. All things considered, I thought I was doing okay. Maybe Granna didn't think so. Or Dad, or my older sisters, or Granna's nosey neighbors, or the island therapists everyone had wanted me to see.

But these last few weeks at the Cove? The time I've spent with Christian on the Vega, fixing up that old boat? Getting to know him and Sebastian, Kirby, Vanessa, Lemon?

I'd almost thought it was possible to be happy again. Not now, but in the someday-maybe haze of tomorrow.

Even without a voice.

Granna's package undid all of that.

After Vanessa found the dress, I'd made up some excuse, some sudden headache and exhaustion, ushering them out with extra chocolate. Desperate for an explanation, I'd opened the letter.

There was a video message from my sister, a clip she'd recorded onto a thumb drive, slipped inside the envelope. I could only watch a few seconds of it before turning it off, my sister teary-eyed and concerned, wanting to tell me some big important news that I just didn't want to hear.

Granna knew I wouldn't watch it through. That's why she'd sent the letter too. It was their plan B.

Elyse, that Bella Garcia? She thinks Natalie has real potential. Maybe she can make it big.

Natalie.

With a solo career. That's what the lady say.

My sister, twin dream maker, best friend, the harmony to my melody.

This is some good news for her, first in a long while.

A solo career. Solo. Career.

Natalie is going on tour with Bella Garcia, just like she always talked about.

Just like
we
always talked about. Until we didn't, because one of us couldn't. Now Natalie was going to see the world without me. Our package deal, repackaged for her alone. Solo.

It was as if I'd slipped underwater all over again, some great weight dragging me under like an anchor. Granna's words echoed in my head, over and over and over and over.

There were no words to make this okay, no declarations or appeasements to make this right.

I was a bad person. Horrible, not to be happy for my sister. Not to be supportive.

Singing lessons on Bella's recommendation were one thing, but hearing that Natalie was going on tour without me, after everything . . .

Deeper the swords pierced.

Ripped out.

Stabbed again.

Sliced and carved and bled.

I thought maybe, you seeing your dress again, you could remember.

The last time I wore it, I was singing with my sister, singing for our future.

How much it means to her, this opportunity. How special this is.

Singing for our lives. Our hearts. That single soul Granna so believed we'd shared.

I know this is hard, baby. But it's hard for Natalie, too. She wants to share this joy with you.

As we once shared everything else.

I know you love her, Elyse . . . you miss her like she miss you.

As easy as the words had come to Granna—support your sister, be happy for her—I knew it was hard for her too. I knew it hurt Granna and Dad and my older sisters that I hadn't spoken to Natalie, that I couldn't share in my sister's joy. That our family was down by a sister, that I'd taken refuge in another country. Save for a few Skype sessions, I'd effectively cut myself off.

All of this I could see. I could write it down, underline all the mistakes I'd made, highlight my faults.

Maybe it was selfish.

Maybe it was normal.

I didn't think to ask permission.

I just wished that one time, someone on the island of Tobago, someone rocking on the front porch of the main house of d'Abreau Cocoa Estates, someone lying on the
Atlantica
under the blue moon, someone practicing all of our old songs in front of the bedroom mirror, someone someone
someone
knew how hard it was for me. That they'd give me one word of acknowledgment, one moment of space, one bit of understanding as to why this whole thing might hurt. Why I might need time, an undetermined amount.

On a shelf above my bed sat my sea glass jar. The one I'd kept in the Vega. The one I'd stopped filling. Not because I'd stopped treasure hunting with Lemon, but because I'd forgotten about it.

I'd stopped counting down the days.

This is important, baby. Please try to be happy for her.

Important? If anyone knew how important this was, it was me. I wanted to be happy for my sister, I did. I wanted to send her a note on the days of her big shows, flowers and champagne to her dressing room for each and every performance. I wanted to call her, to hear her ideas, to hash out lyrics, to harmonize the chorus, to whisper encouragements, to calm her nerves.

But I couldn't call, couldn't harmonize, couldn't even whisper.

And whenever I thought about sending her a text or a letter, the only words I could find were the wrong ones. Not
Good luck. I'm sending good thoughts. You'll knock 'em dead. I love you.

No. It was one thing, over and over and over again.

Baby, it should've been me.

Now I looked up at Lemon, eyes hot with the tears I couldn't seem to shed.

“My brave girl,” she said, taking my face in her hands. “It takes a strong woman to lose everything, then stand naked in front of the mirror and face herself again. You need time, honey. And I don't mean time for it to go away. I mean time to learn how to live with it. This is a pain you'll always carry.”

I took a deep breath. Though it wasn't what I'd wanted to hear, it did feel like truth. Like something she'd experienced herself.

“That doesn't mean you won't find joy again,” Lemon said. “A ­woman's heart is infinite. There's room for both.”

Kirby was standing in the doorway, and when Lemon put her arms around me, my cousin slipped in silently, her eyes glazed with tears.

I reached forward, closed the laptop.

Cut off my voice. My past.

Kirby sat on my bed with her mother, and wordlessly they held me, the sound of their breath calming me as the sting of Granna's letter faded.

“See those stars? That's what we need.” Lemon pointed to a bright constellation overhead, still glittering in the violet sky.

Since the three of us were already awake, we'd headed out together for church, arriving at Thor's Well earlier than usual. The sky was still quite dark. It was clear, though, littered with stars that were
only just starting to blink out for the approaching morn. There wasn't enough light to risk climbing down near the Well, so we settled onto the wooden viewing platform above, spreading out a blanket. From a thermos, Lemon poured hot tea into three mugs.

Following her lead, I lifted my steaming mug toward the sky. Starlight tea, she'd called it. Not ready for drinking until it had been fully infused with the light of our celestial guides.

“That's Lyra,” she said of the constellation. “It was said that Orpheus could charm stones with the music of his lyre. He played to drown the calls of the Sirens, allowing Jason and the Argonauts to pass through the seas without crashing to their deaths.”

“That's pleasant, Mom,” Kirby said. “Let's hope Lyra's a good-luck charm on race day.”

I gave in to a shiver, careful not to spill my tea.

“That bright star, there at the top?” Lemon said. “Vega. She's practically our neighbor. Celestially speaking, that is.”

My eyes widened.
Vega?
I mouthed.

“Christian's boat is an Albin Vega,” Kirby said.

Lemon raised an amused eyebrow.

Coincidence?
I wanted to know.

She laughed. “You girls know how I feel about that word. Tea's ready.”

I leaned back against the platform rail and closed my eyes. My hands enveloped the hot mug and brought it close. My sister Martine was a master tea blender; she'd always said that proper tea drinking
was a full-body experience—hands, head, heart, and soul.

“Elyse,” Lemon said gently. I opened my eyes, and she set down her mug, her gaze weighted with determination. “Voice and speech aren't the same thing. You've lost your ability to speak, to sing. But the only thing that can take your voice away—your true
voice
—is you.”

“Talk about T-shirt slogans,” Kirby said. Lemon hushed her, but Kirby only laughed. Through the starlit steam that curled between us, Kirby said smartly, “ ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.' Eleanor Roosevelt.”

Lemon tugged on one of Kirby's curls. “That's my bookworm.”

“Some guy from Portland drove in a truckload of donations the other day,” Kirby said. “All these old tomes of quotations and classics and rare books. There was even a first edition
Moby Dick
. The guy had no clue what some of his stuff was worth.”

Kirby went on about the donation, how excited all the librarians were, how she'd suggested putting together a whole display of books about the sea and getting the local kids to paint paper murals, and maybe even seeing if Lemon could include some of her artwork. The staff was all for it.

As she and Lemon chattered about the library, and the sea whispered secrets at our feet, I reached up to my throat, wrapped my ­fingers around the seashell necklace. The one that I'd told Sebastian held my voice. Behind my fingers the scar tingled.

New possibilities, perhaps.

Guidance.

Friendship.

Starlight tea.

And behind all of that, next to the pulse of blood in my veins, the faintest flicker of something I'd long ago lost.

Hope.

I want to be here,
I thought.
Whatever the past held, whatever the future is to bring, right now, I'm exactly where I belong.

I released the shell. Released my breath. Welcomed the approaching new day.

Inside, my heart warmed again, the embers glowing. I thought of Natalie, her voice, her tears. I missed her. She'd be leaving the Caribbean for a new life on the road. The oceans of the world would become her seas, just as the Pacific was slowly becoming mine.