Brine (3 page)

THE LAST OF THE WATER DRAINED completely from the tub with one final gurgle as she wrapped a towel around her dripping body, her legs still intact. Bending over the sink, she slurped water out of her cupped palm and then caught a glimpse of her profile in the mirror. She used her hand to wipe away the condensation.

Wow
.

She hadn’t looked in a mirror in over a week. It wasn’t so much her appearance—sure, her hair was a complete wreck—but more, it was that she felt like she was seeing herself for the first time. She stared at the woman before her, feeling her feet on the cold tile floor and thinking of the tail she had seen in their place.

She looked again at herself in the mirror and then opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. The dreads had to go. Looping her fingers through the handles, she snipped the first large mat of hair. She needed a clean slate. As each clump of hair fell to the floor, she felt lighter. Tangles gone, she plugged in Allen’s electric clippers and traced the first stripe across her head from front to back.

“Like cutting the grass,” she said as the first row of stubble appeared.

She finished the rest of the tracks and then gazed at herself, checking out the woman she hardly recognized in the mirror. “Just like that,” she said, turning her head to view from all angles.

She was blowing hairs off the clippers when the bathroom door swung open. A high-heeled redhead stood in the doorway. “Well,
that’s
certainly got my attention,” the woman said.

The redhead wore a skin-tight skirt that complemented her every curve. Her blouse was the flashy bright coral of a hibiscus flower.

“What in the name of heaven is she doing here?” the redhead asked Allen.

Allen looked at Ishmael standing in his bathroom in only a towel and grinned.

“Ish—what happened to your hair?” he asked.

“Got rid of it.”

“I like it,” he said.

“You could’ve
at least
told me you had company when I called this morning,” the redhead said. “Dammit-all-straight-to-hell. This pisses me off! Can’t you keep that thing in your pants?”

Even in her anger, her voice had the honey-sweet drawl of a southern accent.

“Shhh!” Allen whispered. “Keep your voice down.
Please
. We’ve got customers right below us.”

The redhead inhaled quickly. “Don’t you
shush
me!”

“It’s not what you think,” Allen defended. “I haven’t been keeping anything from you. She just showed up here this morning.”

Ishmael stepped out of the bathroom, nodding in acknowledgement.

“Hey. I remember you,” Ishmael said. “I ran your husband’s charter business after Allen cheated on me and I quit the coffee shop.” Allen threw his arms up in the air. “It was
one night!
”

Ishmael tightened the towel around her.

“I really liked working for Captain Harry,” she said. “Salty as they come. How is he?”

“Oh, he’s doing fabulous. Just added another boat to the fleet, darling. And like all of us, he thinks you’re
dead
. Now you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

“Your name’s Diane, right? Wait—” Ishmael turned to Allen. “A
married
woman? I wouldn’t have thought you’d take it this far.”

“Ish, I didn’t—she’s not—
we’re
not—listen, this is crazy. Diane and I are just friends. I got her to—”

“I’m listening,” Ishmael said.

“Me too,” Diane said. “This ought to be good.”

“Ish, you’re being paranoid,” Allen said. “We’re not sleeping together. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Ishmael crossed her arms.

Diane chimed in. “Hon, trust me. I want nothing to do with those scrawny legs. Now let’s all get back to the subject of you and what you’re doing here.”

“Scrawny legs!” Allen bellowed as he peered down incredulously. “Yes, darling,” Diane said, giving her attention briefly to Allen.

“You’ve got a nice back. But your legs are not your forte.”

She turned back to Ishmael with a grin. “I like a man with some girth.”

Diane primped her hair, brushing thick curls from her neck with the flip of a wrist. Her fingernails were the cherry red shine of a sports car.

“I like my legs,” Allen said. “Beatrice likes my legs. I always catch her checking them out.”

“Hold up. I didn’t mean to get us side-tracked,” Diane said.

“Beatrice?” Ishmael said. “No way! Non-fat-half-caff-soy-latte Beatrice? She’s still around? Wow. That means she’s been unsuccessfully trying to sleep with you for over a decade.”

“Really? Beatrice?” Allen suddenly grew pensive as Ishmael rolled her eyes and stomped off to the dresser.

“Hmm. A little jealousy. I
like
it.” Diane moved into the kitchen. “Like watching a movie. I think I need some refreshments to go with this drama.”

“Look, Ish. The fact is, we’re business partners now—Diane and me,” Allen said. “I got in a little too deep with my side business a few years back, and instead of losing the coffee shop, Diane stepped in and bought a hefty chunk of the joint.”

“No pun intended on
the joint
part,” Diane said, peering into the fridge. Ishmael looked up from the drawer she was searching through.

“Ah. Yes. Your
drug-smuggling
side business,” Ishmael said. “Why, Allen! I’m so surprised those marijuana dealings didn’t work out for you.”

“We’re You Java Wonder, LLC now,” he explained. “I don’t own the shop outright anymore.”

Ishmael found the shirt she was looking for. “I can’t believe she let you keep that
ridiculous
name,” she said as she slid the shirt over her head.

“You gotta wonder, right?” Diane said from the kitchen.

“Diane handles the business stuff and nobody even knows she’s involved,” he said. “We’re partners.
Business
partners. That’s it.”

Ishmael slid the jeans on, the towel still wrapped around her waist.

“I don’t get it,” she said, zipping and buttoning. “Your jackass self swore up and down you’d
never
take on a partner. I asked once if I could buy into the shop and you told me ‘no’.”

“Yes, well—that was before he got in over his head,” Diane said. She was adding hot sauce to a glass of tomato juice. “Speaking of getting in over your head, tell me again what
you’re
doing here, sugar lump?”

Allen was suddenly busy in the kitchen.

“What the hell have you two been up to?” Diane demanded, cutting her eyes at Allen. “Have you been hiding her up here this whole time?”

“Of course not!” Allen’s brow furrowed with intensity. He ran his hands through his hair.

“Well, who the hell was in that truck that went off the cliff?” Diane slammed the hot sauce jar down and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I was,” Ishmael said from across the room.

Allen leaned resignedly against the counter.

“Diane’s a walking lie detector, Ish. You might as well just tell her. She’ll get it out of you one way or another.”

“Okay. So—my truck went off a cliff. And then—well, then I was rescued by this—shoot, I don’t know how to explain this.”

“Rescued? How’d you even survive?” Diane asked. “Woo-wee.” She exhaled at the spiciness after a sip from her glass. “I’m putting my money on a bet that your rich fiancé orchestrated some sort of switch-a-roo and it wasn’t really you in that truck that went off the cliff. Maybe a mannequin or something. Hmm. I’m trying to think. This some sort of insurance scam or something? You can tell me. I’m good and tight with secrets.”

She slid her eyes from Allen to Ishmael, assessing the situation.

“Darling, I’m rather surprised at the way you’re handling this. I’m not sure what possesses a woman to shave her head and hide out in her ex-boyfriend’s apartment, but it’s got to be something out of the ordinary. You got something chasing your tail, sugar?”

Ishmael exhaled heavily. “Something like that.”

Ishmael moved past Diane and into the kitchen. She opened a cabinet by the fridge and pulled out an opened bottle of wine, yanking the cork out with her back teeth.

“Well, somebody knows just where Father Allen hides his communion wine,” Diane said.

Allen glanced down at his watch. “It’s barely morning, Ish.” Ishmael glared at him. “You got anything stronger?”

She opened another cabinet and pulled out a cup decorated with turtles and dolphins frolicking in the ocean. The sea creatures and waves were painted in a handsome palette arrayed within an Aztec pattern, giving the childish subject matter a striking motif.

“Dude, this is my mug. I
love
this mug. Painted this in the tenth grade. I can’t believe I left this here.”

Diane started rummaging through her purse. She passed a silver flask to Ishmael.

“Sweetie, I’ll be honest. You smell bad.”

Ishmael put the mug down and unscrewed the top.

“I do? Still?” She chased her questions with a hefty swig and then breathed out the fumes. “I just took a bath.”

“You smell like seaweed or something,” Diane answered, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like my husband when he comes home from work. It’s rugged and sexy on him, but on you—sugar, I would recommend a bit more scrubbing next time. Scented bath salts. A loofah or something.”

Ishmael took another sip and passed the flask back to Diane.

“Listen, hon, I have no clue what or why or how you got here, but I feel it’s my duty as a woman to urge you to call Nicholas. He at least deserves to know you’re alive.”

“Not yet.” Ishmael poured wine into the mug she had found. “I need more time to think things through.”

“But you’re just creating a bigger mess with every moment you avoid this. You’re snowballing here, darling.”

Ishmael was running out of excuses. She walked over to the couch and sat down, sipping her wine.

“I’m in a different place,” she said.

“Ain’t that the truth. You look like you’re in the military,” Diane said.

“I think she looks pretty hot,” Allen said from the kitchen. “Seriously. Very Sinead O’Connor. Nothing compares to you, Ish.” Diane rolled her eyes.

“If that doesn’t make you want to go running back to your fiancé, I don’t know what will.” Diane looked more intently at Ishmael. “You sure you know what you’re doing here, darling? You’re positive?”

“Positive. Nicholas wouldn’t understand.”

Diane tossed up her hands. “No use beating a dead horse. I can see you don’t love him.” Diane joined Ishmael on the couch. “And—well, I probably shouldn’t say this because I’m not really sure what you’re up to, darling, but—you’ve got my vote.” Diane patted Ishmael’s leg once and then added, “I’ve never been a huge fan of those Santorinis.” She pouted. “Broke my little ole Captain Harry’s heart when he found out you were marrying into that family. Harry thought you better suited for a man’s man, if you know what I mean.” Diane winked at Ishmael. “Less hair gel. More pickup truck.”

Ishmael leaned back against the pillows on the couch. “Nicholas doesn’t use hair gel.”

Diane dismissively patted Ishmael on the thigh.

“So, darling, let’s get back to the real question of what in the hell you’re doing here?
Alive
?”

DIANE’S PHONE ERUPTED FROM HER PURSE with a flamboyant southern rock ringtone. She peered at the caller id. “Damn-
nation
! I’ve got to take this,” she said, ducking out of the room onto the landing at the top of the stairs.

“Hello?” Her voice trilled with professional politeness. “Oh, yes, yes. This is she. Oh,
I know
. We had the reservation on the books, but . . .”

Ishmael slid onto a barstool in the kitchen.

“Hey—do you remember the first time you met my dad?” she asked.

“Ish, I really don’t—” He caught the look on her face. “Of course. I’d just moved here.”

“You were the first person to make him smile since Mom was gone.”

“Your dad and I were the dawn patrol duo. Surfed together every morning.”

He smiled at the memory as he flipped strips of bacon in the skillet with metal tongs. She set her mug down on the counter, her fingers still tucked into the familiar handle. Being back in this apartment, with Allen cooking for her, made emotions swirl in her chest.

“You were my first real crush,” she said. She only slightly regretted admitting this.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, the dimple reappearing. “The others weren’t real?”

“There was only one before you. And I was just a kid.” She paused a moment too long, staring at him.

“You were older, and that was cool when I was young,” she said. “Then I found out you’d been a priest. Made you a good guy. And the fact that you’d
left
the priesthood, well, that made you kind of a bad guy. It was the perfect balance.”

She swirled the liquid in her mug.

“But what you did with my dad. That sealed the deal.”

He was pensive for a moment, staring down at the frying pan. “Your dad had a hard time letting go of your mom,” he said.

“He really loved her.”

He cracked eggs into a bowl and started whisking them. “That’s why I’m here.” She leaned in. “Allen, I think my mom might still be alive.”

He paused briefly, his expression ambiguous, and then went back to whisking eggs.

“I never told you this—I never told anybody this—but after my mom’s disappearance, my dad told me she wasn’t dead.” He looked up at her.

“He told me my mom swam off into the sunset.”

He half-laughed.

“When I was a priest, that’s what I liked to call a
tender
lie,” he said. “You were young. Your dad was doing the best he could.”

She took a deep breath.

“Yeah, well, he told me she swam away because she was a mermaid.”

The toaster oven dinged. The tops of browned bread slices popped up.

“And what, you
believed
him?” he asked.

“I was six years old.”

Allen dropped the spatula and put both hands on Ishmael’s shoulders, looking her in the eyes.

“Ish, what are you hiding?” he asked. “Did something happen to you in the accident? Did you hit your head or something?” He shifted so he could keep her gaze as she averted her eyes. “We can work this out. There’s no need to be scared.”

“I’m not hiding anything!” she said. “I’m trying to tell you that—well—I’m—”

She slid off the barstool and moved away.

“You can tell me anything,” he said. Genuine sincerity glistened in his chestnut eyes. “Anything. Whatever it is, I’ll help you through this. Just tell me exactly what happened.”

“Okay. Well. I’m a mermaid,” she said. She exhaled triumphantly. “There. I said it.”

He raised his eyebrows wordlessly. Perhaps she was just being overly optimistic, but his face didn’t give the impression that he thought she was totally crazy. Now that the first die was cast, she felt emboldened.

“That’s how I survived the accident. Someone—or
some-thing
—pulled me from the wreckage. I don’t really remember much, but . . .”

He looked intensely at her.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asked.

“Just—tell me more,” he said. “How do you know this? What makes you think that you’re a . . . mermaid?”

“Well, I—I was pulled from my truck underwater by some— thing. Whatever it was, it saved me. And it was fast. It towed me away from my sinking truck and brought me to the surface to breathe when I needed to and it—it had a tail.”

“None of this makes you a mermaid, Ish.” He glared at her. “How’d you get back here?”

“Well, I didn’t have any clothes on and I was in this boat. I woke up, and there were all these stars. This drunk dude showed up and he took me to some other dude’s hut and that guy—”

“I’m not sure I’m following. Some drunk dude found you? Naked? In a boat?”

“Yeah, but I got away. And I ran for the ocean and dove in and then my legs became this tail—I’m not kidding—and it was so powerful and I felt so strong and I knew I could swim back to the States—”

“A tail, huh?”

Okay, now he was looking at her like she was crazy.

“So you’re saying a mermaid rescued you after your truck went off a cliff. But then the mermaid left you in some drunk guy’s boat and so you grew your own mermaid tail and swam back here from Baja?”

She didn’t move. She didn’t know what to say. The story did sound ridiculous.

“You’ve been gone half a month. You couldn’t have been in the bottom of the boat for two weeks. You look fed. How’d you eat? What’d you eat?”

“Fish wrapped in—I guess it was like kelp or something. It was tough.”

“The kelp or the fish?”

“Both.”

“Was it cooked?”

“Nope.”

“So, sushi. You just ate it with your fingers?”

“Kinda. Not really. I mean, yes, with the fingers. But no soy sauce. No ginger or wasabi or anything. Definitely no sake.”

“There’s more to sushi than the accoutrements.”

“I’m not joking, Allen.”

“Neither am I.”

She’d hoped the truth would set her free. Now, she just felt like a fool.

Allen grew quiet, staring at her. He moved back into the kitchen and started scrambling the eggs in the frying pan.

“I know this all sounds insane,” she said. “And impossible. I don’t know how it happened.” She glanced over toward the landing; the door was barely cracked, and she could hear Diane still gabbing away on the phone. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “I had a tail. That’s how I got here, Allen. And that’s how I survived. I’m not making this up.”

Ishmael moved into the kitchen and started opening cabinets. “We’re about to eat,” Allen said. “If you could just wait a—” She cracked open a bag of chips and stuffed a wad in her mouth, grimacing as she read the label on the front.

“Seriously? Who buys salt-free tortilla chips?” she asked. “Men who let the love of their life slip away and eat crap food for decades, then finally decide to change their ways.”

“I was the love of your life?” she asked.

“Yes. And you probably still are.” He softened his voice. “But I can’t say I believe you. And I think you should see a doctor.

I’m scared you hit your head.”

“But what if what my dad told me is actually true? Maybe she did just swim away,” Ishmael said, stuffing another handful of chips in her mouth. “Maybe she’s out there somewhere.”

“I’m going to have the most delicious food on the table in about two minutes. I can’t believe you’re still eating those.”

“Now that I’ve seen my own body change . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes glazed over, focused on the past. “I don’t know, Allen. She’s
my mom
. I’ve always wanted to know the truth of what happened to her. I’ve always wanted answers. I have this whole separate dimension of my life, deep inside, that completely revolves around her.”

She looked over at him.

“People talk about having a hole in your heart when someone is missing from your life, but I don’t have a hole: I have questions. Millions of them. I want to know if my mom was an artist like me. I want to know what her favorite color was. I want to know if I have her eyes. I mean, did I make that up—or were her eyes really the exact same color as mine?”

Allen speared the food onto plates.

“A mermaid,” he finally said, slicing an avocado and adding garnishes to each plate.

“Yeah. A mermaid. As in, a woman with a tail.” She beamed. “It’s amazing, right?”

“Just give me a chance to warm up to all this.”

Ishmael was distracted by Diane’s open purse on the counter: a glass container caught her eye and she pulled it out, unscrewed the cap, and smelled the contents.

“Hey—chick with a tail—you think it’s cool to just go through someone’s purse like that?”

“You don’t believe me at all, do you?” She sprinkled the contents from the container into the bag of chips. “You really think I need to see a doctor?”

“Yes, I do. Because, I actually do believe you. At least, I believe that
you
believe that you’re half-fish. And so I think you should see a doctor. And before that, despite what Diane says about me—and despite the fact that Nicholas only drinks Starbucks coffee—I want you to call Nicholas.”

“How do you know Nicholas only drinks Starbucks?” she asked.

He took a deep breath, ignoring her question. “Ish, if it were me—if I were the one marrying you—let’s just say he deserves to know you’re alive.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve matured a bit over the years since we split up.”

“No. I’m impressed with this
spice
.”

Whatever she had found in Diane’s purse was the perfect blend; she savored each bite.

“This is far too complicated for me to handle alone,” he said. “You have to call the guy.”

She spoke with her mouth full. “I’m going to pretend for a little bit longer that you didn’t just say all that and that you’re still on my team.”

“I am on your team. There’s this doctor guy that comes in for coffee all the time. I’m not sure what kind of doctor he is, but I could ask him to—” His nose crinkled. “Man, what’s that
smell
?”

She looked around, smelled the bag in her hands.

“What smell?” she said, stuffing more chips into her mouth. “That smell that smells like the bottom of a fishing boat.” Allen reached in Diane’s purse and pulled out the small jar of spices. He opened the lid.

“Whoa—
wow
—yes, that’s the smell,” he said, pulling his nose quickly away and sealing the jar. “What is that stuff?”

“No idea,” she said. “It’s probably like nutritional yeast or something.”

“Smells like fish food.”

She shrugged. “Tastes good.”

“Looks
like fish food.”

“Well, that’s just, like, your opinion,
man
,” she said. She smirked and stuffed another bite in her mouth, watching him, knowing she was pressing his buttons.

“That’s not fair. You can’t quote
The Big Lebowski
at a time like this.”

“A time like what?” she asked. She chewed the last of her mouthful and then swallowed. She smelled the bag again, knowing her blasé attitude would arouse his annoyance. “You know, I really don’t think this stuff smells bad.”

He started to speak, but then stopped himself, instead forcing a smile. She could see him formulating his argument, choosing his words carefully. He reached out his hands and stopped her from taking another bite.

“Look, Ish, when your dad told you that your mother swam off into the sunset and you believed him—well, it’s sweet. But I’m not sure that means your mom—”

She pulled her arms away. “Sweet?”

“Yes. Extremely. But don’t you think you’re being a bit childish? You’ve got to understand that—”

“No, YOU understand!” she said. “What the—how can you not trust me? Of all people, I thought
you
would believe me!”

He glanced around for an explanation. “What just happened here?”

“You certainly smoked enough pot and licked enough LSD in your day to expand that mind of yours! I thought you actually might be the one person open to a new possibility! And you were a priest for goodness’ sake! I’m
confessing
! Just believe me!”

“Please keep your voice down.”

“Screw you! I will not keep my voice down! You believe in immaculate conception but you won’t believe that my mom might be a mermaid?”

“I’m not a priest anymore. Listen, I’m not trying to make you mad. I’m trying to be your friend.”

“My friend? This is
friends
?” She pointed to the two of them. “Ish, you know you’ve always been one to mix fantasy and truth.” She was silent, boiling.

“You blend them together—that’s what makes you so creative. That’s what makes you such an amazing painter.”

“I’m not painting. This is real. It’s happening.”

She waited for him to say something. Anything.

“What?” she asked in his silence.
“El Padre’s
caught off guard because he’s so at one with the ocean and yet he’s never seen a mermaid out in the line-up?”

She knew she’d really pissed him off now. He hated it when she made fun of his nickname.

“Fine.” He stared at her. “You’re welcome to prove it to me.” She pretended to be unruffled. “Fine. I’m not exactly sure how, but—”

“Ishmael Morgan, if there is any truth to what you’re saying, then I’m going to have to see it with my own eyes.”

Diane snapped her phone shut in the doorway.

“Truth to what?”

She sashayed into the kitchen and started directing Allen.

“Not too much, darling,” Diane said, pointing toward the plates. “I’ve got to keep this girlish figure.”

Diane snagged a slice of bacon and took a bite as she looked furtively over at Ishmael.

“Truth to what?” she asked again as she opened the fridge and retrieved the orange juice. “Who wants juice?” she asked, already filling three glasses on the counter.

Diane frowned and held up a hand like she was going to sneeze.
“Damn
! What’s that smell?” She eyed the container from her purse on the counter.
“Ho-lee
—sugar-pie, did you put that on your corn chips?”

Diane held the bottle up to Ishmael.

“Darling, that’s fish food! You know, for the little critters that swim around in a glass bowl with water in it?” Diane squared both fists on her hips. “I was going to stop by the office and sprinkle some in the aquarium after I left here. Captain Harry makes this stuff himself. That’s why there’s no label.” She shook her head.
“Fish food
, sugar-pie!”