Waterborn (The Emerald Series Book 1) (2 page)

C
aris
.

I ignored the voice. I didn't want to wake up, not yet. This dream was too nice, too real. The kind of dream that when you woke up, the only thing you remembered was the feeling it evoked and none of the details. I knew even in my dream state that I wanted to remember the details.

"Caris?"

My eyes opened through a haze of confusion. A tickle on my chest brought my head off the sand, and I found myself staring into the blue, beady eyes of a crab. His claw snapped in the direction of my nose and I leaped to my feet. A dozen crabs scurried for safety. They escaped through my dancing feet but not before something crunched under my foot, pricking my heel.

"Ugh." I slowly lifted my foot, revealing the cracked crustacean underneath. "Sorry." I winced in sympathy. It looked like a baby crab.

Laughter floated on the wind and my head snapped up, eyes searching for the source. The beach was empty except for an older couple walking hand in hand too far down for me to hear. I looked over my shoulder and found my dad jogging toward me, his brow creased over soft sympathetic eyes. He'd been looking at me like that often lately, as though I were the victim of some unspeakable disease.

"What are you still doing out here?" His voice carried a hint of alarm, as though I’d been caught somewhere I shouldn't have been. The sky was now a dusky gray, evidence I had been out here longer than I’d intended.

"I’m sorry." I brushed the sand from my legs and the back of my shorts. "I must have fallen asleep." Gone comatose was more like it, as if a spell had been cast over me. Maybe it had. The wind and the waves had lulled me into a state of hypnosis. I shook my head.

"I've got most of your boxes already in your room."

He sported a v-shaped patch of sweat under the neckline of his t-shirt, and I instantly felt a pang of guilt. I'd fallen asleep and left him to unload the car by himself.

"You should have gotten me to help you," I said around a stifled yawn. I lifted my hands over my head and stretched through a twinge in my back. Lumpy sand didn't make the most comfortable bed.

"There wasn't much." He draped his arm over my shoulder and he guided me back toward the house. "And your room has a better view than mine does. I think you'll really like it."

I resisted the urge to look back at the Gulf. My spine tingled and I imagined the water had eyes and was watching me. When we were inside the house, I sprinted up the stairs certain something chased me.

The whole upstairs was mine. Boxes containing all of my worldly possessions were piled haphazardly across the floor. My record player, as the first order of business, found its home in the center of the built-in bookshelves, and my vinyl collection was housed on the shelves next door. The rest of the shelves were destined to remain empty. My dad and I had argued, but I had finally agreed to leave my books in storage. My iPad would have to suffice, and though I had nothing against technology, like my music, I preferred it the old-fashioned way—paper and print over digital.

It took all of twenty minutes to empty my two suitcases of clothes, most of which I hung in the closet—a handful of dresses, jeans, and some tops. Any non-hanging items were stuffed on the shelves. One pair of broken-in cowboy boots stood next to my ever-growing collection of flip-flops and Toms. Placing my laptop on the desk across from the bed, I was done, with the exception of a stack of rolled up posters. I wasn't sure I wanted to hang them anymore. I'd been allowed to choose the paint color for my walls, and I’d chosen the third color from the top on the paint card:
Return to Paradise
. It matched the first strip of deeper water right off the shoreline. Part of me didn't want to cover it up, so I hid the posters away in my closet instead.

The last thing that found its summer home was a picture of my mother. My dad had given it to me when I was five. A four-by-six photograph nestled in a frame made out of seashells. The photograph was in black and white, but my five-year-old self's imagination had filled in all the colors—silver hair flying in an invisible breeze through a bright blue sky, deep violet eyes creased over a magical smile, and skin like peaches and just as smooth. I’d never asked too many questions about her. Even though I had been only five, I’d understood that if she were dead, something horrible must have happened. I hadn’t known anyone else who didn't have a mother. I could still remember the pained look on my dad's face when he'd placed the frame in my hand, as though he had been giving up a part of himself he would never get back. He had told me her name was Rena.

It had been during my princess phase, and staring at her picture, I’d decided she was a princess. To me, she would always be a princess, and I was convinced that somewhere she had found her happily ever after.

And that's all I knew about my mother: her name was Rena and she was a princess.

I put the picture on my bedside table underneath the lamp where I could roll over in the morning and see her against the backdrop of the beach through the window.

The ethereal tunes of Bon Iver spun on my record player as I organized my bare necessities in the bathroom. The view outside my windows was a constant distraction. Nearly every room in the house had a view of the Gulf, and like my dad had said, my room had an exceptional one. Even my bathroom had a porthole window conveniently placed by the toilet.

The French door leading to the balcony opened with a resistant squeak. I paused long enough to fill my lungs with fresh, warm air. The decorator had thought of everything, and I maneuvered around a high table and a set of chairs before I reached the railing. I hadn't realized I'd worked up a sweat until the breeze hit my skin. Goosebumps rose on my arms despite the balmy temperature. White sand glowed under the dark sky as though it had trapped some of the daylight. The moon wasn't quite full, but it was bright enough to cast a spotlight over the water, creating a path that I had the oddest compulsion to follow. I could see my mother living there, in a magical place of moonlight and water.

My dad’s footsteps on the stairs roused me from my imaginings.

"How's it going up here?" he called as he made his way out to the balcony.

I waited until he was standing beside me, forearms resting on the railing. His hair was still wet from the shower he had taken and curled on the ends.

"Good. All done. What about you?"

I already knew the answer. After admonishing me to pack light, he’d proceeded to fill up two-thirds of the car with his "essentials."

"Not even close," he said, hiding a grin.

"That's because you're a pack rat," I teased before turning my gaze back to the night sky.

"It's something isn't it?" His voice held a bit of the awe I felt and I wondered how he could have stayed away all these years. I already never wanted to leave.

"Yeah, amazing."

Better than I’d imagined. Being here sparked new questions, and I knew the longer I was here the more I would want to know about my mother and what had happened to her. Why my dad had left, exiling himself from a place he'd loved growing up. The princess story my child mind had concocted wouldn’t hold up here in this place. I sensed my dad wasn't ready to fill in all the unasked questions, but I asked anyway.

"Tell me about her."

Other than the day he had given me the picture, he never talked about my mother. It was like, other than the picture, he purposefully erased all reminders of her from his life.

"She smelled like this, the beach. And not just any beach. This beach." His chest expanded as though she was right here in front of him and he could breathe her in.

I knew what he meant. I had once bought a candle that called itself "sea breeze." It was cloying and had clogged my lungs like cheap perfume. Somehow I had known the smell was all wrong, artificial, nothing like the intoxicating scent of the real thing. Maybe a part of me remembered something about her after all. I hoped that was true.

I waited for more, another morsel of knowledge, but none came, and though I wanted to demand he drop me another breadcrumb, I sensed his distress and let it go, tucking the one crumb I had away, hoping to find more later.

"Pizza's here. Thought you might be hungry," he said, putting an end to the moment.

"Starved." I followed him downstairs. I was starved all right. Starved for answers that were too slow in coming.

After inhaling three slices of pepperoni, I decided to call it an early night. My new comforter was stiff over my body and smelled of plastic wrapping. I was oddly restless despite feeling tired. After about an hour of tossing and turning, I turned off my record player and opened the balcony door wide to the night air. I drifted into that place of half sleep, visions of crabs and snapping claws unsettling me. Something else sparked in my semiconscious mind; the taste of salt and the warm pressure of a dream kiss. The soft fall of hair on my cheek. A laugh riding the wind. I fell asleep to the sound of that laugh.

T
he house was smaller
than I remembered. The light from a single lamp shone through the window, and I followed the faint glow. I stood at the sliding back doors, afraid to go in my own house. I had promised myself I wouldn't come home without him.

Laughter floated through the house. Something else I’d missed, the sound of my mom's laugh. I hadn't heard it much before I had disappeared into the Deep. Not much to laugh about with Jamie dead. And I did have to admit now that he was dead. He would have come back were he alive. He never would have chosen to leave us, to leave Erin and the baby she’d been carrying.

Sliding the back door open was the equivalent of zipping up a body bag.

I blamed the goosebumps that rose on my arms on the blast of cool air that greeted me. The smell of bacon assaulted me. My nostrils flared at the scent of real food. For the first time in months, hunger gnawed at my stomach.

My mom and Maggie were sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of wine between them, blissfully unaware of me standing in the doorway. I didn't even know how to get their attention. Part of me didn't want to. I could turn around and make my way back to the beach. They would never know I’d been here. At least my mom looked happy. She smiled at something Maggie said before doubling over in laughter. I should feel relieved my mom had found a way to laugh in the wake of so much loss. I should, but I didn't. I was jealous and maybe a bit resentful. She had always been much stronger than me. But none of this was her fault. It was mine and Marshall's, and I would have to deal with it.

I tried to clear my throat. I had to do something to let them know I was here, but I couldn't force a single sound past my lips. When had I become such a coward?

I thought it was the smell that finally drew their attention. The scent of the Deep clouded around me, weighing me down, as though I wore too many clothes even though my shorts were threadbare and ripped in several places. Maggie's gaze wandered to me. She held her glass suspended halfway to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. My mom's laugh died with a trickle, and I thought she knew before she even turned around. Her eyes were round with surprise and I heard the slight hitch in her breath. She nearly kicked her chair over in her haste to get up. It scraped across the floor, a screech in my sensitive ears. When her arms came around me, I held myself still. It wasn’t until I heard my name that I was able to move.

"Noah." Her voice held a note of question, as if she were afraid to believe I was really here.

My arms wrapped around her, stiff at first. The sweet smell of her shampoo clogged my nose, but I breathed deep anyway. Her shoulders shook in my awkward embrace and I squeezed tighter. Maggie glared at me from where she still sat at the table.

"Damn you Noah for making me worry."

My mom's words were muffled against my chest. She pushed away and brought her hands up, cupping my face. I manned up and met her gaze, bracing myself for the blame and accusation I knew I would see, but there was neither, only a sad forgiveness that I didn't deserve.

And without losing her smile, her hand reared back and connected with my face in a hard, stinging slap. "Now go take a shower. You smell like dead fish."

I
walked
down the hall to my room, feeling like an idiot for wanting to grab the wall for support. The floor offered no shift or sway, its stiffness awkward under my toes. I ignored the pictures hanging on the walls. I didn't need any reminders of my failure. I wasn't likely to let myself forget. My eyes strained as they adjusted to the artificial light. I fought the urge to duck under the ceilings despite their height. They were ten feet tall but still felt tight and suffocating.

Clean t-shirts and shorts lined my drawers. I pulled out a pair of shorts printed with giant green palm trees and a plain white t-shirt. My bathroom smelled like citrus, which meant my mom had been cleaning my room, waiting for me, expecting me to come home. I decided it was best not to look in the mirror until after I had a shower.

Now that my skin was dry, it was covered in thick layers of salt, and pieces of seaweed, and other things I’d picked up in the Deep. When I splayed my fingers, a fine membrane of skin shone under the bathroom lights that connected each finger to the other. I wondered if they would retract now that I was on land or, if like the webbing on my toes, the condition was permanent.

I fingered the toothbrush and squeezed out a glob of toothpaste. My taste buds rebelled against the minty sting. I rinsed my mouth, then held it under the faucet, gulping.

I had missed showers too. Weird how easy it was to forget what the habits of being on land were like. At first, the spray from the nozzle was too loud, too hot. I let it run all the way to cold before using half a bottle of shampoo, and still, remnants of seagrass and salt clung to my hair. Under the smell of melon and cucumber, the Deep lingered like a phantom, calling me back.

Not surprisingly, my shorts were too big. They hung precariously on hipbones protruding to sharp points. No way was I looking in the mirror now. It would be too depressing. I'd trained with Jamie once he'd joined Marshall, spending hours on the beach pushing through rigorous exercises, running sprints, flipping four-hundred-pound tires, and grinding through endless amounts of push-ups until my arms and legs were limp with exhaustion. Jamie would laugh if he could see me now. I was easily twenty pounds lighter, with stringy muscles that wouldn't stand up to a strong wind. Even my t-shirt hung on me like a dress. I needed food and lots of it.

I fished through a drawer for an elastic band and pulled my hair away from my face, leaving the tail of it hanging down my back.

When I walked back into the kitchen, looking more or less presentable and smelling a hell of a lot better, Maggie turned from the stove. My mouth watered at the sight of the plate in her hand, piled high with scrambled eggs and what appeared to be a pound of bacon. She slid the plate towards me over the table then settled herself against the counter, arms crossed in front of her chest, leveling me with a no-bullshit gleam in her eye. She was one of those people who should be family but technically wasn't. Magnolia was my mom's best friend, had been for as long as I could remember. She’d been born a regular human with no gills in sight. She was also a voodooist, but mostly she designed jewelry, and she liked to display her wares.

"Do you have the slightest idea what you put your mother through? Do you know where she is right now?"

"I'm guessing these are rhetorical questions." My voice came out raw-edged, like I needed to clear my throat or take a long drink of water. I knew I was being an asshole but I wasn't here to defend my actions, because the way I’d left my mom was indefensible. And I was only here now because I'd heard something that had made it impossible for me to stay away.

"For Erzulie's love, Noah. You just left. Without saying a word." She leaned over the chair on the opposite side of the table from me as if by invoking her Loa's name, all could be made right. Her spirit of love hadn't been able to help my brother. Instead of meeting her eyes, I stared at the gazillion necklaces she wore.

"And now I'm back." I stuffed the last three strips of bacon into my mouth so I would quit talking. I was only making things worse.

Maggie huffed out a breath before turning to rifle through the junk drawer. She pulled out a pair of scissors, and I had to admit, I was a little startled until I realized if she were going to stab me she would have just slid a knife out of the butcher block sitting on the counter.

"Are you?" Her bare feet padded across the tile floor, the abundance of pearls she wore, most of which I had supplied, clinked together with every step. Maybe she did intend to stab me.

"Yes." I watched her out of the corner of my eye until she stood beside me and grabbed my hair, positioning the scissors at the base of my neck.

"Leave it," I said, pulling away from her. She sighed and stomped her way back around the table. I waited for her to put the scissors back, but she kept them clutched in her hand. The cold look in her eyes unnerved me, especially since she was armed.

"Your mom is in her room crying. Same place she's been every night since you walked out on her." Each word was accompanied with a threatening jab of her hand. I actually scooted back after one wild gesture swept too close to the end of my nose.

I was forced to look away. I'd rather face mindless days in the Deep, and the dangers that came with them, or Maggie's righteous anger than the thought of my mom crying over me. I swallowed a couple of times, blinking away the sting in my eyes.

How long had I been in the Deep? I was afraid to ask.

"You're too skinny," my mom said when she reentered the kitchen. I tried not to look at her red-rimmed eyes. She placed a plain box the size of my fist on the table.

"What's that?" I choked out just as Maggie set down a glass of water in front of me. I took it and downed the contents in one breath. I did not want to open that box.

"It's a birthday present." My mom slid onto the chair beside me.

"It's my birthday?" That would make today the twelfth of May. It had still been winter when I’d left. So I had been in the Deep for four months.

"Three weeks ago." My mom brushed a stray piece of hair off my cheek. How could she still look at me like that? Like I hadn't abandoned her. She ran her hand down my arm and patted mine as if I were ten years old and not nineteen. Five months then. No wonder Maggie was pissed.

I’d like to say my hands weren't trembling, but they were. I knew what was in the box. Jamie had left it behind before he'd left, just in case well, just in case he didn't come back.

Inside the box was a thick leather bracelet with a single pearl braided into the pattern. The pearl was different than the one I wore—a lighter shade of green infused with a shot of silver. It swam out of focus and suddenly the kitchen seemed short on air. My chest hurt from the effort to breathe. Jamie would kick my ass for leaving her to go look for him. I closed the box then looked up at my mom, the words "I'm sorry" stuck somewhere in my throat. No, that wasn't accurate. The words churned in my stomach like a nest of writhing eels.

"Welcome home," my mom said and smiled at me, and I knew then that all was forgiven, that even though I couldn't talk about it yet, and maybe never would, she understood.

My stomach rumbled, and for the first time in a long time I smiled—just the crack of one that kind of hurt.

"How about a sandwich?" Maggie was already opening the refrigerator, scissors nowhere in sight.

It was good to be home.