Brine (10 page)

ISHMAEL AWOKE AT THE DARKEST HOUR, hot and sticky beneath the thin sheet. The ceiling fan whirled overhead, but the night air was still and dank. She rolled to her side. Diane was sound asleep in the next bed, passed out and breathing heavily. In the soft moonlight coming through the windows, Diane’s lips were slightly parted, and the dark cherry tendrils of her hair were splayed across the pale pillow.

Ishmael flopped onto her back again and yanked the covers off her legs, hoping to cool off. No wonder: she was still fully dressed. She dragged herself out of bed and searched her bag blindly for something lighter to sleep in. Her thoughts drifted to her grandmother’s words about being a special breed of mermaid. What exactly had Maggie meant by that?

Knowing there was no chance of going back to sleep, Ishmael snuck out the front screen door. The night air chilled the sweat on her skin, and goose bumps rose on her arms as her bare feet slid across the dewy grass. She smelled the lurking sweetness of flowers in the yard, their fragrance held static in the breathless air. Without clouds in the sky, there was enough light from the waxing moon to guide her across the lawn. She headed for the dock.

The lights inside Hector’s apartment were off, but a floodlight shone down onto the floating dock with a tawny glow. A scattering of moths and beetles swarmed at the incandescence. The insects tapped their hard exoskeleton bodies against the glass of the bulb with an erratic rhythm, their jerky flight the only movement interrupting the stillness of the scene.

Ishmael moved down the ramp toward the floating dock and stood beneath the glow. Spotlighted and barefoot, she was transfixed by the black water before her. She was tempted to jump, but the creek was also eerie, slithering dark below her with a vitreous sheen. The thought of being wrapped in its slippery blackness made her shudder. She couldn’t stop thinking about what her grandmother had told her about the risks of transmutation.

She turned to leave, but a premonition stopped her. She suddenly recalled the display on Diane’s cell phone. Today’s date. This was supposed to be her wedding night.

In another life, she was cutting a cake, dancing her first dance with her new husband. In another life, she was now Mrs. Nicholas Paulo Santorini IV. She thought of herself holding Nicholas’s hand, with primped hair, jewelry, makeup, an elaborate dress.

“Ishmael Santorini,” she whispered.

Her voice cracked the stillness of the night air. The sound filled her with anguish.

“Look at me,” she said to the sky. “What am I doing? Who am I?
What
am I?”

Maybe she should’ve left Nicholas a message. She’d dialed his number on their
wedding night
. That had to be more than a coincedence

No, that had been
ridiculous
. A drunk dial and a moronic move.

Her brow creased, resisting the urge to cry. Nicholas was a good guy. He would’ve been a good husband. Surely, they would’ve been happy. He would’ve taken care of her. God, she was so confused. She dropped her hands and shook her head. She exhaled heavily and gazed around.

No.
No
. She’d made the right decision. She’d said yes to Nicholas for all the wrong reasons. With Nicholas, she had been sitting on someone else’s pot of gold, living out someone else’s dream life. She’d been so gutsy that night in Baja. Fearless. Where was that woman now?

She stripped off her clothes, dropped them in a pile on the dock, and dove in. Before she could be afraid, she began to swim, keeping her legs together, using her arms. She felt it: she sensed the wrapping in her lower body, the absorption of one leg into the other, binding them together with a thick skin like scar tissue.

She felt the tugging between her toes. Her lower half lengthened and stretched. There was a slight cramping as her body morphed, but she welcomed the ache. She hovered in the water, undulating her tail underneath her, taking a deep breath, settling into this new form.

She leaned back, lifting her lower half underwater, treading with her hands to keep steady. Her fluke rose above the surface and eased her mind of any doubt or worry. This was the first time she’d truly observed the tip of her own tail. It was dark, but she could certainly tell that her fluke was not the long and flowing tail she had thought a mermaid would have. Instead, it seemed to be some sort of specialized morphing between a porpoise and perhaps a giant bluefin tuna.

It was beautiful. Powerful. Her new strength was liberating.

The water was warm, and Ishmael swam as fast as she could, streamlining her arms at her sides, propelling herself through the water like an arrow shot from a bow. She raced along until a thought slowed her: what, exactly, was possible with this tail? With all this power, could she swim as fast and as skillfully as a porpoise?

She smiled at the thought, kicking hard, thrusting her glorious tail against the water, propelling herself to such a speed that when she surfaced, her entire body was launched out of the water. She soared through the air, feeling the wind on her face, wanting to scream at the excitement that flooded her, the overwhelming exhilaration of flying totally unrestricted, wild and free, through the air.

Her body felt heavy again as gravity caught up with her, and she plunged toward the water, crashing chaotically back into the creek. The skin of her upper body stung from the flop, but without hesitation, she tried the stunt again. And again. And again. Eventually, she was able to gain enough control to breach the surface and lift off into the air, soaring, and then dive back underwater, tucking her head and keeping her arms at her sides, fully beginning to utilize the agility of this new form.

She wasn’t sure how long she had moved in one direction down the creek when she instinctively stopped. Glancing around, trying to get her bearings, she saw that the light of her grandmother’s dock was only a small shimmer in the distance: it was time to head back. She certainly didn’t want to get lost in this darkness. She swam fast underwater, holding her breath, testing her lungs, pushing herself in this new aquatic form, finally surfacing when she could barely discern the hull of Hector’s big boat protruding beneath the water.

She rose from underwater, pressing the trapped air from her lungs with a proud, puffing exhale, exhilaration at the realization of what was possible for her. Her bristly scalp crested the surface, and the briny water dripped pleasantly down her face, caressing the creases in her skin and tickling her eyelashes until she actually giggled. She was proud of herself. She lay back on the surface of the creek, suspended in the dark water, bathed in the shine of the floodlight.

Her buoyant body held itself effortlessly afloat; she gratefully tasted the salt on her lips. She looked up at the stars, trying to take in the magnitude of all that was happening to her. Her breath was heavy from the swim, but she was giddy with excitement. Finally, she closed her eyes, savoring the moment, and drifted into a blissful meditation, feeling as weightless as if she were levitating.

Her eyes sprung open. She’d heard a noise. She looked to the dock and saw a figure perched in the darkness.

It was Hector, and he was looking right at her.

Ishmael was dizzy with the sight of him. His silhouette was only partially illuminated by the glow of the floodlight, his sable hair loosened messily from what had been a ponytail. His shirt was off, and he sat on the ramp that led down from the dock to the floating one. He rested his forearms on his thighs and leaned into them. His rippled torso curved beneath his strapping shoulders, producing in Ishmael thoughts of wrapping her arms around him, pulling him in close. They were alone, and the night and the water only increased the intimacy of the moment.

“What—you doing?” he asked. His voice sounded strange.

“Ah—I was hot,” she said. This was no time to be caught off guard. She looked around. Had he seen her? All of her? “I decided to take a swim,” she added, attempting to sound calm.

“AC at my place. You should’ve come.” He paused and swayed ever so slightly before adding, “I thought you’d come.”

Ishmael hovered in the water. Normally she would’ve been quick to respond, but she had a fluke for feet and that fact panicked her. Hector continued in her silence.

“I was hoping—you’d come—to my place. After your little chat—with Maggie—on the porch.”

He was still drunk.

“Hey—when did you get here?’ Ishmael said, wondering if he had seen any of her tricks down the creek.

“Long enough.”

Hector stood. The sticky night air, combined with the gleam of the dock light, made his skin glow with sweat. He tripped on Ishmael’s pile of clothes on the dock and kicked. The clothes scattered. He spun, imbalanced by the sudden movement.

Ishmael hovered low and pretended to use her arms to tread water. It was dark except for the one dock light: maybe he hadn’t seen her turning flips down the creek. Maybe he hadn’t seen her tail. Damn, she hoped not.

“You stole my idea,” Hector said.
“I
go for swims when I can’t sleep.”

Ishmael wasn’t sure what to do. Her clothes were on the dock at Hector’s feet, and the only way she knew to get rid of this body was to let her skin dry out.
Shit
. She hadn’t thought this through.

Hector walked over to a piling and snagged a bottle. When he turned into the light, Ishmael saw that he was taking a swig from a near-empty handle of whisky.

“That was—” He hiccuped. “Quite a show.” He glared at Ishmael, and she noticed for the first time how bloodshot his eyes were, how vacant. Hector wasn’t drunk—he was wasted.

“Tell me how long you’ve been standing there.”

“Long—
enough
.” He hiccupped again. Hector’s voice was garbled, his eyes half shut. “So is this what you and Maggie—had the little chat about?”

“What little chat?” Ishmael stalled, looking desperately around for a way out. “About what?”

Hector pointed at her with the near-empty bottle, and what was left of the whisky sloshed inside.

“The
chat. The one about—” He swayed and accentuated his next words with emphatic jerks of the bottle. “A-bout you being a mermaid.”

“I—ah—I’m not sure—” she stuttered.
Shoot
.

“My dad--” He lifted a sluggish finger. “Did you know--ole Joe couldn’t even
talk
?” He paused, looked around, and then came back to life. “That asshole—typed stuff on my mom’s arm.” He mimicked typing with his fingers, still clutching the bottle in one hand. He laughed. “Freaking mermaid Morse code.”

Ishmael tried to think back to the trailer park, to remember Joe and Maria, to comprehend what Hector was saying.

“Your parents—they did it. Hell, they changed. Just like
that
!” He tried to make his fingers snap in connection with his words but couldn’t muster the coordination, remaining mesmerized by his fingers for a stint. “It was our family,” he said, finally looking up, “we got the shit end of the stick. We got
trapped
!” He spit the last word and lifted an arm to wipe the drool with the back of his hand.

“Hector—I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Let’s—ah—”

“Fuck you, Ishh-male.” The words sloshed from his mouth. He looked straight at her, eyes burning. As he stood in the light, she could see he was sweating profusely—his moist hair clung to his neck and face.

“Look, I’m sorry—”

“FUCK YYOOU!” He tilted his head back and shouted the words to the sky.

Hector threw the bottle against a piling, and the glass shattered. Ishmael was far enough away, but she covered her face with her hand; when she looked up, shards of the bottle covered the dock.

Hector turned and pressed one hand into a railing to steady himself. His hand slipped on the railing, and his knees bent underneath him, collapsing his legs. Only his armpit, wedged awkwardly atop the railing, caught him from falling into a heap.

He looked around, dazed. The jolt of the fall had awakened him briefly. His eyes were wide for a moment, staring blankly, but then his head rolled sloppily again on his neck. Ishmael could see his face in the light of the dock. He looked like a totally different person than the handsome guy she had talked to that afternoon.

He looked exactly like his dad.

Ishmael cringed at the sight.

“Turn off!” he yelled. Hector grabbed the air for something. He looked at the light and cursed. Ishmael realized he was trying to somehow reach for a switch to turn the dock light off.

“I left—the light on for yooou—Ish-may-elle.” He pronounced her name in a sing-song voice and said the words without looking at her. “Left the light on—for you—Ish-may-elle-Mor-gan. Left it onnnn—so you’d come down here—swimmy-swimmy.”

He pushed off the railing, muttering curses, and started to make his way off the dock. He didn’t look in Ishmael’s direction, as if he had forgotten she was even there. Ishmael swam closer, knowing she needed to be alert in case he decided to return. The dock was covered in glass. She looked up at Hector’s trawler. The boat towered high above her. Perhaps she could use her tail to launch herself up onto the deck. She had to get rid of this tail.

She kicked with her tail and sprung futilely upward toward the deck of the boat. Her wet fingers slipped from the slick surface, and she fell back into the water with a loud plunge.

Before she could even hesitate and doubt herself, she kicked forcefully again, thrusting herself out of the water. Her hipbone smacked against the hull. She pulled her heavy tail up onto the deck of the boat with the adrenaline-pumping strength of her arms, breathing heavily. Her body was dripping, and she lay on the deck, looking up at the stars.

There was a loud splash.

She glanced around, listening, holding her breath. She heard nothing else and rested her head back onto the deck.

Wait. Had Hector fallen?

Rolling onto her stomach, her heavy tail flipping like a massive rubber pancake behind her, she peered through a slit in the railing of the boat. She could barely see in the darkness, but she was sure that Hector was no longer on the dock. Believing and not believing, she examined the water for any sign—a bubble, a ripple. He wasn’t swimming or even thrashing in the water. He must have tripped. Hit his head. Knocked himself out and then fallen in the creek. Hector was drowning.