Brine (2 page)

SHE BENT OVER AND RESTED BOTH HANDS ON HER KNEES, her chest heaving. She listened, but heard nothing—the old man hadn’t followed her. Her relief lasted only a moment.

There was no electricity in the village, no phones, no radios. The old man had used lanterns to light his house, wood to fuel his stove. The nearest city could be miles away. Waiting until morning was a risk. Escaping across miles of unforgiving desert was not an option.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Waves rumbled from rolls of mercury into crashing, white tantrums. On the beach, there was a scattering of
pangas
with their motors lifted out of the sand, fueled and ready for the fishermen to leave at dawn. The tide was too low now, but she could wait, hide in the rocks. No—moving a boat with a motor and full tank of fuel by herself was impossible. She wasn’t even sure she could pull-start the motor if she got the boat in the water. Plus, stealing a boat would certainly rouse the men from the huts. She had to be more realistic.

She laughed. Was swimming away realistic?

“This is crazy,” she whispered. But she knew there was no other way.

She took a deep breath, charged into the foaming surf, and dove beneath a curling breaker. She resurfaced, the icy water making her gasp.

“Hard part’s over,” she said, her voice stilted by the cold. Her foot brushed something slimy, and she lurched and squealed. She closed her eyes.

“Still a good plan, Ishmael. You can do this.”

She paddled with her arms and frog-kicked her feet to get beyond the breaking waves. The reflection of the moon on the water was dimpled and golden, like the rind of a lemon. She swam toward the horizon, ignoring the doubts flooding her mind and her fearful imaginings of what was out there swimming with her. Using only her arms to propel her, she let her feet drag behind. Wasn’t that how it happened before? She could barely remember. The past few days—or was it weeks?—were a blur of bizarre memories.

She knew she could swim farther and faster if only her body could somehow return to that other form. That . . . aquatic form.

The last vivid recollection she had of her mother flashed through her mind.

Anna had come into the kitchen, tears still wet on her face, and kissed Ishmael on the forehead.

“Why don’t you go for a swim, Mommy?” Ishmael had asked.

Life got Ishmael’s mother down at times, but in the water, Anna had a way of reviving herself. Ishmael had spent a great deal of her childhood playing on the shore while her mother swam off in the distance. But that day long ago, when Ishmael looked up from her sandcastle, there was nothing but endless water. A lifeguard showed up. Then a man on a four-wheeler. Boats. A helicopter. Cops stopped by daily for weeks. Reporters called. Flowers were delivered. Sympathy cards. Casseroles.

The incident was reported as “an accident.” No way it was suicide, her father had said. Wiping tears from his daughter’s face while he tucked the covers around her, he’d told Ishmael that her mother had swam off into the sunset as a mermaid.

A mermaid.

Wasn’t that just something a dad told his daughter to take away the sting of a mother’s death? She’d never
really
thought he was telling the truth, had she?

Until now.

She felt the twisting sensation in her legs. It hurt, but she welcomed the discomfort. She was scared, but she couldn’t deny that she was also relieved. Relieved and curious. This time she was more alert.

The skin below her navel and down her legs suddenly felt padded, like she’d been zipped tightly into a warm sleeping bag. The bulk was burdensome, but she sensed that it made her more buoyant. Her feet fanned out; the webbing stretched like putty, connecting the gaps between each toe. She felt as if she were wearing thick stockings and someone was carefully pulling them off, somehow lengthening her flesh with each tug.

With her two legs joined, she gained strength from her lower half; she felt more power and control. What had been her feet and toes was now one massive flipper. It amazed her how easy it was for her to maneuver this new extension of her body, how instinctual.

She reached down with her hands and felt the thick skin beneath her belly button. She patted this new skin down her body until she reached what had been her ankles. There were no scales. She was not a fish. She was a woman with a tail for legs and a fluke for feet.

“Whoa. Wow. It
worked
.”

Kicking her tail, she propelled herself out of the water and into the air so that she lifted and arched. She felt a brief exhilaration but lost control, unsure of how to handle this new body hurtling through the air. She flopped back into the ocean with a clumsy splash. Choking, she brushed clumps of hair from her face.

“Okay, so I’m not ready for
that
move yet.”

She flexed her abdominal muscles and lifted her lower half so her tail was visible at the surface.

“I don’t believe this. This is insane.”

She dropped her tail back down and realized that she could easily move her fluke beneath her so that she hovered like a hummingbird in the water. She was able to steer herself up and down with mere flicks of this new appendage. She trailed her hands across the surface and laughed at the phosphorescence in the water, giddy with astonishment.

“Okay, Ishmael. Now what?”

She glanced around, hoping for some sort of answer or guidance. Finally, she tilted her head back and looked up to the masculine face on the lunar surface above her.

She couldn’t go back to Nicholas. He said he loved her— enough to put a gigantic diamond on her finger—but did he love her enough to take her seriously? He didn’t exactly think outside the box. He would never believe this.

But Allen might.

Bastard
, she said, slapping the water. She hadn’t spoken to Allen in years.

She looked down at her left hand. The engagement ring was gone. She felt both guilt and exhilaration.

She tipped her head back with a sigh and admired the comfort her tail gave her as she hovered effortlessly in the water. With a strong kick, she dove underwater, and her tail breached the surface gracefully. She kept her arms extended out before her to help with balance. She felt the water stream past her and sensed her wake trailing behind her like a long, billowing gown. Her breath was heavy when she reached the surface. Water dripped from her face, causing her to blink. She puffed the droplets off her lips with heavy exhales, but she was feeling more confident in her ability to negotiate this new form.

She dove again, and this time she kept her arms at her sides and used only her tail to propel her forward. She was wobbly at first, but quickly she found a way to relax her arms and balance in the water without twisting or rolling to one side. She could feel strength all the way down her spine, her body surging forward with the movement initiated by her tail.

Not prepared for this kind of exertion, she surfaced often for air. Adrenaline pounded through her veins and drove her forward. She wasn’t sure exactly where she was, but she suspected she was still in Baja and home was to the north. She swam fast, checking her position when she surfaced. Her pace was astounding with this tail, possibly even reckless. She paused with heavy breaths, making sure the land was directly to her right. She planned to hug the shore in order to stay the course.

With this speed, she hoped she’d reach the States before sunrise.

THE WAVES CARRIED HER TO THE LAND. There was no way she could swim to shore against an opposing pull. She was bone-tired, grateful for the incoming tide. The pebbly sand beneath assured her she’d made it. Resting her head on the soggy pillow of the shore, she blinked her eyes at the familiar lights of the 101. Only one car passed. No one was around at this perfect hidden hour. Night owls were tucked in bed. Joggers’ alarm clocks were yet to chime.

She pushed up onto her elbows and inched forward, dragging her fluke behind her, grunting at the task. Just when she thought she was in the clear, the sea rushed in, showing her the little progress she had made. She plopped back onto her face, the sand crunching in her teeth as she rolled onto her back.

Light pollution. There were so many less stars here than there had been in Baja.

Baja. She’d just swum back
from Baja
.

She rolled onto her belly. No one could find her like this.

She spun onto her back again. This was the way to get herself out of the water: she’d roll herself to dry land. A clumsy movement, but at least she could make progress with each flop of her hulking lower half.

After countless turns, she paused, a bit dizzy. Chest heaving. She closed her eyes. A gracious moment of rest. She could’ve happily slept there.

As her breath slowed, her body dried in the gentle breeze coming off the ocean. Like a heavy blanket pulled away, she felt the thick skin of her lower half returning to normal. When she sensed that she could move her legs separately, she pulled the two apart. An interesting release: like when she was a young girl and her father would bury her in the sand and she would pry herself out of his mold.

She reached down and felt the thick tail skin dissolving, thinning to a slimy egg-white layer. She propped herself up on her elbows. In the dim glimmer from the nearby lights of the parking lot, she watched thicker clumps of skin slough away. The process was disgusting and fascinating. Her toes began to re-form like buds on a limb in spring. She was a wax sculpture remolded. She wiggled her toes, a movement so foreign and yet so easy.

Could she stand? So soon?

She spun onto her belly and pushed up onto all fours, her body aching with exhaustion. Headlights swept a distant hillside road and revved her adrenaline. She put one foot into the sand and pressed her hands to standing. She wobbled a bit, amazed. Like a newborn foal, her strength and balance came quickly.

Once out of the sand, she picked up the pace to a trot, her bare feet tender on the concrete. She hid behind a bush and waited for a lone car to pass. Checking both directions, she darted across the 101 and crouched in a thicket. She paused, holding her breath and listening. Coast was clear. She raced across the train tracks in the direction of the coffee shop.

A metal fire escape to the rear of the shop led up to Allen’s apartment. The latch was broken on the window at the top of the staircase. Hopefully Allen hadn’t decided to get that fixed.

She looked up at the window: his lights were off. Allen was an early riser, but she had no idea what time it was.

Wait—what the
hell
was she doing? What was she going to say to him? She’d been missing for god-only-knew how many days, she was naked, and she was about to climb through the window of her ex-boyfriend’s apartment?

She chewed her nails for a moment and then slammed her hands down by her sides.

No No No
. No backing out now. She was here. Nicholas’s apartment was miles away, perched on a high cliff in a gated community.

Allen would believe her. Father Allen Wilson? Of course he would—a perfect blend of spiritual and grounded. He would help her figure this out. He’d been a priest for a stint in his earlier life. Listened to confessions, offered prayers. He’d have answers.

Her hand grasped the railing, and the rush of the cold metal encouraged her to take the first step. She climbed the staircase and reached out from the landing at the top. The window slid open.

“Allen
,” she whispered, poking her head inside.

Nothing. She climbed through the window and repeated his name again. Silence. She crept toward the bed on tiptoe and dropped to flat feet. The room was empty and the sheets were tidy. She glanced around, looking for clues, and caught a whiff of incense burning in the corner, the spicy stick only half-spent. Allen must be down in the shop. She hadn’t seen any lights on downstairs, but maybe he was in the storeroom, organizing the latest shipment of supplies before the morning rush.

She looked around the all-too-familiar apartment. A few old surfboards were tucked up in the exposed rafters; artwork, shells, postcards, and photographs adorned the walls. A wooden sculpture of the Madonna stood in a corner, the rustic Virgin’s palms open to welcome the lost and weary.

She walked across the room and stood by the phone. She had to call Nicholas. He must be a wreck. He would be ecstatic to have her back, to know she was alive.

She reached for the phone, but her hand snatched back.

Her wedding invitation peeked out of a stack on the counter.
Holy shit!
They’d invited Allen?

Granted, Allen was a bit of a community icon. And practically all of southern California had been on the guest list. Who invites that many people to their wedding? Who has that many friends? Certainly not her.

She picked up the phone and held it to her ear. The dial tone whined in the background as she muttered to herself, practicing.
“Hey, babe. It’s me . . . I know, but I can explain . . .”
Forget that. She couldn’t explain.

“Hey babe, it’s me . . . I’m in Cardiff at the coffee shop. . . . Yeah, Allen’s coffee shop . . .”

Well, she could forget that too.

The door to the apartment opened. She exhaled, looking across the room, and placed the phone back on the cradle.

“ALLEN. HEY.” Her voice was scratchy. “I can explain.”

He came closer. “Ish—what the—what are you doing here?”

Now in his late forties, he’d aged impressively, a chiseled structure beneath his tan skin. Only a few gray hairs were visible in his sun-drenched, russet hair. He had that weathered surfer look she loved.

“You smell like peanut butter,” she said, drawing her hand away from the phone.

“I was—on a walk,” he said. He pointed over his shoulder to the door of the apartment as if that explained. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She gave a weak smile. “PB&J for breakfast. That’s still your thing?”

“Ish, what happened to you? I’ve been so—” He swallowed his words. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

Yeah, ah—about that. Can I have a sip of water before I answer that? I’m parched,” she said, stalling.

She moved into the kitchen, too tired to care that she was unclothed. She took a glass from the cabinet and turned the faucet on. She stood over the sink and chugged the water, exhaling heavily as she set the glass down.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “How—why are you here?”

She was already refilling and gulping greedily. She turned and faced his gaze.

“I know I have a lot of explaining to do,” she said. She offered a faint smile. “I’m not sure I understand it all myself. But I couldn’t go home. Small park. Nosy neighbors. This was the only other safe place I could think of.”

She walked the few steps to the bathroom and retrieved a towel from a hook, wrapping it around her body.

“Can I take a shower?” she asked.

“Whatever you need. . .where are your clothes?”

“I’m not trying to put you in a difficult situation. I really—I just—had nowhere else to go.”

“Look, of course I’m glad you’re back—you’re alive—you’re here, but—” His voice pulsed with emotion. “But Ish, you’re engaged.”

She nodded. “I almost forgot.” She looked at him and smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

“Okay. You got me.” She shifted her stance nervously. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

“Decision’s been made for you,” he said. “The wedding was canceled.”

“Man, how long have I been gone?”

“Seventeen days.”

“Someone’s been counting.”

He puffed a laugh, looking at her in disbelief.

“This is serious, Ish,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“What’d they do with all my paintings and clothes and stuff? I had this great canvas I was working on . . .”

“Did you not hear me? Where the hell have you been?”

“I heard you,” she said. “Loud and clear. I just don’t have an answer yet.”

“And since when did you have dreadlocks?” he asked, relaxing a bit. “I wouldn’t have thought Nicholas would be into that kind of thing.”

The last thing on her mind was her tangled hair and whether Nicholas would approve.

He finally spoke. “They haven’t done anything with your stuff. The trailer’s still in your dad’s name, so they can’t really do anything without his permission.”

“That takes a load off.”

“There’ve been offers though,” he said. “To buy your trailer. That’s what I hear, at least. Some guy who lives in that million-dollar trailer park up in Malibu is trying to get his hands on it. Your trailer has a rooftop deck. Makes it worth more.”

“Screw that. They can’t sell my trailer right out from under me.”

“Look, don’t freak out,” he said. “I heard Nicholas already paid the space rent for the next few months.”

She exhaled relief and laughed faintly.

“Of course he did. Good ole Nicholas saves the day,” she said. She looked to Allen and then down at her hands.

“Damn,” she said. “I screwed that up, didn’t I?”

“What were you doing down there anyways? Why go to Baja in the first place?”

“Nicholas and I had a huge fight.”

“Dare I ask?”

“He wanted to use some connection he had in a foreign embassy to find my dad.”

“Hmm.” Allen’s mind seemingly drifted into thoughts of the past. “And that’s wrong because . . . ?”

“Any dad who heads down to South America on a surf trip and doesn’t call his daughter for
nine years
is not worth the search.”

“So you just decided to disappear yourself?”

“No
. I went to Baja—
if you must know
—because I’d tracked down the priest that married my parents. I was hoping to find some information about my mom.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze meeting hers. He understood her past and what this meant to her.

“Just so you know, Nicholas didn’t want me to go alone to Baja either,” she said. “He was super busy because it was so close to the . . .” Her voice trailed off briefly. “Anyways, he’d already taken a bunch of time off.”

“You can say it. Wedding. I got an invitation.”

She exhaled heavily. “Yeah. I should have known this would be too weird.”

“No. Look. Nicholas wanted you to invite your dad to the wedding, didn’t he?” He shrugged. “That’s noble enough.”

She eased onto a nearby stool, readjusting her towel, grateful to give her tired legs a rest.

“Nicholas was frustrated that I wanted to research my long-lost mom rather than track down my dad. He told me I had my priorities all mixed up. And maybe I do.
Shoot
. Anyway. He told me he’d take me down there on the yacht after we got married. Make a vacation out of it. Said I wouldn’t have to lift a finger.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Knowing you, I’m sure that pissed you off,” he said. “His offer to pamper you.”

She swallowed, not wanting to admit how well he knew her.

“You didn’t screw anything up, Ish. You were in a car accident. It wasn’t your fault.” His eyebrows lifted. “You
were
in a car accident, right?”

“I meant I screwed up by coming
here
—to you.”

She looked at him. His jaw was clenched.

“That came out wrong,” she said. She pulled at a loose thread on the towel, letting the air clear. “So, you’ve already brought him up. Spill the beans. What do you know? Where is he?”

“Who?”

“My dad.”

Allen walked across the room.

“I know as much as you do,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked out the window. He stood in the one spot in the apartment that afforded an ocean view. She knew the sight of the waves in the early grey light soothed him. “Your dad’s probably still in South America somewhere. After your accident, I reached out to a few ex-pat buddies of mine down there. Nobody’s seen him in years.”

“So he doesn’t even know about the accident?”

“Unless he reads the American papers online.”

“Typical. Dad’s MIA.”

“Hate to mention it, but so are you.” He crossed the room and started fumbling in the kitchen. “There are more clean towels in the—well, you know where the towels are.”

“If this is too much, I can—“

She stood again and winced at the strain. Everything seemed to ache.

“No. It’s fine,” he said. “I’m fine. I’ll give you some privacy. I’ll go help Eleanor downstairs.” He took his hooded sweatshirt off a hook and pulled it on over his head. “I just hope I don’t go downstairs and come back to find that this was only a dream.

You’re really here, aren’t you?”

“Barely,” she said. “But this is me. More than I know what to do with.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I need some time to figure all this out. And I’d appreciate if you —“

“I have no intentions of saying anything to anyone, Ish. I can wait on the answers. As long as—”

He caught himself.

“As long as I only share my secrets with you,” she said.

She knew from the look on his face that she was spot on.

She felt the wooly beast of resentment waking from its hibernation in her chest.

“You just love secrets, don’t you?” she asked.

She couldn’t believe she’d said it. Immediately she wanted to take it back. She’d come here because she trusted him, not to argue. She’d forgiven him. Why couldn’t she admit that?

“It was
one
night, Ish. I’ve said I’m sorry a hundred times.

You know if I could take it back I would. It broke my heart when you left me.”

“And you don’t think you broke mine?”

She’d never told him that.

He looked at her. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

She bit her lip, not able to make eye contact. “I lost it in the wreck.”

“Of course.”

“Just give me some more time,” she said. “I’ll sort this out.”

“You know I will. I’ll give you anything I can. But the facts don’t add up, Ish. You couldn’t possibly have survived that.” He stared at her, scanning her face for an explanation. “I have a million questions.”

In her silence, he turned to go but then paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“I don’t want to leave this room,” he said.

Then don’t, she was tempted to say, but she remained silent.

“That shirt of mine you used to always wear is still in the bottom drawer,” he said. “I still have a pair of your jeans too. And don’t give me any crap about that being creepy. It’s not like I take them out and smell them or anything.”

He looked at her before opening the door. She loved his brown eyes.

“Listen, I guess I should just come out and say it. I—well— thank you. For coming here. For trusting me. For giving me a second chance.”

“Allen, it’s not like I’m—”

He held up a hand to shush her. “Just—thank you. Let’s leave it at that. I shouldn’t have added the second part.”

A dimpled grin broke through on his serious face, and she couldn’t resist smiling back.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” she said.

“Just take a bath,” he urged. “Not a shower. You look whipped. I’m worried about you standing in the steam and all.”

She wasn’t sure whether she liked him babying her. There was no denying she liked the attention, but Allen was almost two decades older. He could get overbearing, paternal. But then, there was that smile again.
Damn
. Before she could stop, another grin washed over her face in response. She walked across the room, pursing her lips to contain it.

“Get out of here. Let me shower,” she said, pressing a hand into his chest.

He covered her hand with his and held it there. She felt the hardness of his sternum, the definition of his muscles, the sweetness of those maple syrup eyes.

“No shower,” he said.
“Bath
.”

“Got it. No shower.”

She nodded and pushed him out the door. She wasn’t quite ready to offer an explanation if the bathtub caused her to change back into a mermaid again.