Wrecked (9 page)

“Well, you’re a lucky girl, to have survived something like that,” the woman murmured.

Miranda glanced up sharply. Lucky? Was she kidding? It was the opposite.

As if in response, the woman placed her hand on Miranda’s shoulder, and Miranda gasped in surprise. The woman’s fingers were freezing, and caused an involuntary shiver to run up Miranda’s spine. “How ever did you do it?” the woman asked. “Live, I mean,” she added, as if there was any confusion.

Miranda paused. It was the same question that had been asked, in various forms, by everyone from the police to her grandmother to Dr. Dorn, the psychiatrist. And she’d always answered the same thing—that she didn’t know. But she did. She knew that someone had helped her. “I was saved,” Miranda said simply.

An inscrutable expression flashed across the woman’s face. “Saved by whom?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Miranda said lamely, kicking a few pebbles on the sidewalk. After so many weeks of barely talking to anyone, she felt rusty, half a second behind when she should be speaking. “Some boy,” Miranda said. “I don’t know where he came from.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Her shoulders and legs felt tight, and she couldn’t wait to get back to the island, so she could head out and get back to swimming. The water was the only place where things began to make sense, where she could actually allow herself to think back to the accident, to try to put together the moments that had caused her survival and Fletch’s death. Sometimes, in the water, she
felt so close to that feeling of safety she’d felt in the moments before she passed out, but it always seemed somewhere just beyond her reach. But she felt like if only she swam faster or farther . . .

“Well, you’re lucky to have been saved,” the woman said stiffly, interrupting Miranda’s thoughts. Miranda smiled, embarrassed to have even said anything. “And your name is . . . ?” she asked curiously.

“Miranda,” Miranda said. “Ma’am,” she added. Everyone in South Carolina automatically said ma’am and sir, but it was something that had never come second nature to Miranda, even after living on the island for over a decade. But the salutation, along with its accompanying polite gestures, like thank yous and introductions, went far, and maybe
that
was what this woman was waiting for.

Thankfully, Miranda spotted Eleanor exiting the automatic doors. “I have to go,” she added, knowing she was breaching etiquette by not asking the woman for her name.

“Nice to meet you, Miranda.” The woman nodded and strode into the hospital, the train of her dress slithering behind her like a tail.

“Who was that?’ Eleanor asked curiously.

Miranda closed her eyes and massaged her temples, a move that relieved stress according to one of the crappy magazines she’d read in the waiting room at physical therapy. Didn’t help.

“Who was that?” Eleanor repeated, more sharply this time.

“I don’t know, she stopped to talk to me,” Miranda said, walking ahead of Eleanor. “Where’s Roger? I’m not really feeling great.”

Eleanor immediately placed the back of her hand against Miranda’s cool forehead before bombarding her with questions. “Do you need a doctor? Do you think it’s some sort of virus? Do you think it has something to do with Fletcher? Should we call Dr. Dorn?” Eleanor asked breathlessly. She rummaged through her purse, pulling out a silver pillbox. “Do you need one?” she asked urgently.

“No!” Miranda shook her head. Eleanor was even more adamant about pushing pills than Dr. Dorn. In the hospital, Miranda had gotten prescriptions for sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication, which Eleanor had filled immediately, and which she offered to Miranda at any opportunity, even though Miranda never said yes. She didn’t want to dull her pain. If anything, she wanted everything to feel sharper.

“Let’s go,” she said, stalking toward the parking garage, wishing, more than anything, that she could be the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

F
OR THE PAST TWO WEEKS, HE
’
D BEEN WATCHING HER
swimming. Always from the distance, from just beyond a wave. She’d come at twilight, and she never saw him. She always did the same thing—dropped her crutches on the sand, shimmied out of her shorts and sweatshirt, and ran full-speed into the surf, not stopping to test the water or ease in slowly. Then she’d dive under and pull herself up to the surface, kicking and stroking until she got toward the rocky jetty at the other end of the beach. Then she’d tread water, sometimes calling the name Fletch or Gen angrily into the wind, before swimming back, heading back to shore, and leaving without looking back.

He had the heart-shaped pendant with the words “forever and a day” etched on the back. He’d been wearing it doubled
on his wrist and every time he looked at it, he thought of her. She was so beautiful, so sad. In that moment when she was in his arms, he’d known that he’d do
anything
to save her. He wondered who gave it to her. A parent? A boyfriend? One of the people who went down in the shipwreck? He was vaguely jealous of whoever it was, because whoever it was had gotten to speak to her, to know her. He’d give anything to have that. He wanted to know if she even remembered him. He wished that she did, but he knew that was practically impossible. She’d barely been conscious when he’d saved her.

And yet, sometimes, she stopped midstroke and glanced in his direction, a searching expression on her face. He’d always duck below the surface, terrified he’d been spotted. Because, what could he possibly say if she saw him? They were of different worlds. But even when he promised himself that he’d spend an entire day below the surface, he always ended up going. It was as if the girl was a siren, pulling him Up Above.

Until the day he couldn’t.

It had begun like any other afternoon. He’d swum through In Between, faster and faster, feeling the way his lungs began yearning for oxygen, feeling the Up Above winds churn the water, when his hand had hit the surface, unable to break through. He’d hit again, harder, but the surface had become impenetrable.

Panicking, he’d swum back Down Below, desperate to breathe. He felt dizzy and his thoughts were blurring together.
It was harder and harder to stroke, and he wondered if this was how it felt when humans were drowning. It was horrible.

His lungs burning and his head pounding, his first thought was that it had been a fluke; a capricious tide that would soon right itself. Down Below, he searched for his older brother Valentine, hoping that Valentine would agree; but he already suspected there was more to it than that, and that it most likely centered on his prior misdeeds.

But Valentine had simply shrugged when Christian told him what had happened. “So you can’t Surface. So what?” he’d asked. It was the reaction Christian had been expecting from him. Valentine had surfaced only once, on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, two years ago. Since then, he’d had no interest in exploring the world of Up Above. Prior to his Surfacing, Christian thought Valentine was small-minded. Now he thought that Valentine was smart. If only Christian could have done the same—gone up to the Surface, surveyed the view, and come back down, content to live the life befitting a Down Below betwixtman—serving Sephie, and living in relative peace, without any suspicion or question of his loyalty.

Christian had hesitated. He hadn’t told Valentine about the girl. Not only would his brother not understand, but he’d be angry at Christian’s betrayal of Sephie’s rule. He’d suddenly scrutinize Christian’s every move. There’d be a rift between the brothers. And yet . . .

“What did you do, brother?” Valentine had asked, more urgently this time, his jaw clenched.

“There was an accident,” Christian had begun.

“What? Where? On the Surface?” Valentine had asked shakily.

“Not today. My Surfacing,” Christian had said, glancing around. Of course nothing was there. Although it was all under Sephie’s rule, Down Below was so vast that merfolk kept to themselves, only occasionally interacting and meeting. It was better that way.

“Stop,” he’d said. “We can’t talk about this. Not here. It’s not safe.” He’d grabbed Christian’s wrist and pulled him toward the In Between, a no-man’s-land that wasn’t protected under Sephie’s rule. Being there meant that conversations weren’t about to be overheard, but it also meant that they were helpless against anything that crossed their path. In Between was a necessary evil to get to Up Above. It was dark and portentous and made Christian’s skin crawl. It certainly didn’t feel safe.

“Did any of the humans see you?” Valentine had asked, his jaw clenched in concern.

Christian had shaken his head. “Her eyes were closed,” he’d added, almost to himself, still thinking of how, fathoms above, the girl must be swimming. Her closeness had made his heart ache.

“Whose eyes?” Valentine had asked urgently.

Christian had paused. “The girl I saved,” he’d said finally. There was no going back from there.

“Tell me what happened,” Valentine had said firmly, his eyes darting from side to side, keeping a watch for any potential enemies. So Christian had told him everything: About how she’d kept crying out, about how she’d struggled before falling asleep in his arms, about how he knew, even before she realized it, that her heart was breaking, about how there was something about her large eyes that had called to him.

After he’d said everything, Valentine had been quiet. The silence had frightened Christian. His brother always had something to say.

“I’m going to the Surface. Stay here,” he’d commanded in a voice Christian had never heard before.

Christian had waited, watching as Valentine stroked to the surface. Minutes, or maybe hours, went by. Christian had debated whether to follow him, or whether to head back Down Below. Instead, he’d stayed, suspended in time.

Finally, Valentine had returned, his mouth set in a grim line.

“I Surfaced,” he’d said simply. “There was no barrier. I think it’s you. You’re banned.”

Banned. The word had caused a chill to fall over Christian.

“I think you need to tell Sephie,” Valentine had said, echoing Christian’s thought.

Christian had gulped, trying to come up with excuses: His lesson had already been learned. He’d never go to the surface again. He’d behave. He hadn’t known he’d done anything wrong. But Christian had nodded.

“I’ll come,” Valentine had decided. Christian felt grateful and guilty, all at once. Valentine shouldn’t be dragged into this.

Together, the two made their way to the gilt-gold gates that surrounded Sephie’s kingdom. It was one of the few permanent structures of Down Below, a place generally made up of the destruction from Up Above. From the hulking shipwrecks that would disappear from decay after a few decades, to the coral reefs that would be reshaped and re-formed hundreds of times over, nothing Down Below was meant to be permanent.

Sephie greeted them at the gates, alone, as if she were expecting them. She was wearing a shimmering white gown made up of hundreds of tiny orbs that almost obscured her sparkly silver tail, a sign that she was pureblooded mermaid. Her white-gold hair was pulled up at the nape of her long neck, and her violet eyes were shimmering brightly, almost a beacon in the watery darkness.

“Do you know what the word Christian means Up Above?” Sephie asked, her eyes wide.

“I . . .” Christian gazed helplessly at Valentine. He’d been expecting to ask to see Sephie. He certainly hadn’t expected for her to seek him out.

“Simply put, it means a person who believes in a savior,” Sephie said. “Of course, that’s a simple definition, and the humans Up Above could give you all the nuances and true details.” She arched her eyebrow. “But it’s an apt name for you, because it turns out, you are, indeed, a savior for some.”

“What do you mean?” Christian croaked. Valentine shot him a look. He was supposed to confess, he knew that, but he hadn’t expected this. This was worse than being punished. He felt like he was being lured into a fishermen’s trap, unable to find a way to escape.

“I mean you rescued that pretty little dark-haired girl. Although I’m not sure if she even appreciates the favor. She’s very sad. Which is why now, it’s up to you to right this mistake.”

“I didn’t . . .”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t save her? Didn’t meddle with the storm? Didn’t mean to? Which one, Christian?” Sephie turned her gaze to Valentine. “And you may go. I don’t want you getting any ideas from your wayward brother.” She laughed a sharp cackle as she reached out toward Christian, digging her fingernails into his arm. Christian squirmed and Sephie laughed.