The Mermaid's Secret (17 page)

And then she stops. Her eyes look into mine.

I don't want to sound corny or melodramatic, but we have a moment, she and I.

I am here to help you,
I try to say.

She lifts her head and moans. I hear it all through my body.

The mama whale turns around and we swim side by side toward her baby.

The poor pup is twisted in the massive net, which is weighted down with anchors. It's an old gill net—the kind outlawed years ago. It's slimy with seaweed and sharp with barnacles. I tug at the section in front of the baby's face, but it doesn't budge.

Up close, the thing is a graveyard. Fish bones poke out of the rope fibers. A dead turtle is stuck inside, its body decomposed, the shell coated in algae. As I start pulling the rope, more gruesome things emerge—a dolphin skull, beaks, feathers, soda cans, mangled lobster traps, plastic bags decayed in the salt water.

I unsheathe my knife and slice at the rope, but it's so thick my blade doesn't make a dent. Slicing with my knife, working away layers of net with my hands, I look for weak spots. It's like untangling a gigantic wad of Mardi Gras beads tossed in the street from the Lobster Parade floats. Every time you think you've got it, a new knot appears.

The mother whale cries out, and the baby responds by bucking his giant body up and down. He's so ensnared that he slices himself on barnacles with every movement.

Professor Sherwood's biology class comes back to me all at once. Humpbacks are baleen whales. Filter feeders. They don't have sharp teeth. Whales aren't fish. They can't breathe under water. I try to remember how long a humpback can hold its breath. Fifteen minutes? Thirty minutes? Two hours?

Mothers nurse their young for up to a year, and they form tight family units. But nothing in a book can make you feel the connection between a mother and baby humpback. Or a mother whale's anguish.

The mama whale moans.

I'm going as fast as I can,
I try to tell her. I pick up on some dangerous vibrations nearby. A predator in the area. The urge to run is powerful, but I stay with the whale, slicing and pulling, stress building with every passing minute.

Suddenly, helping this family becomes the most important thing in the world to me.

I finally manage to free a pectoral fin, but the baby gets so excited he thrashes it around, which just gets him more tangled.

The mother swims to the surface, breathes. When she returns, she blows a stream of bubbles, encircling us in a protective wall of air.

Minutes tick by. I keep slicing at the net. I can feel my energy fading. And darkness is setting in.

If I leave, the baby will die. If I don't leave,
I
might die. I need food and shelter as much as this whale needs air. I look back at the mother. She swims in circles, one gigantic, humanlike eye trained on me and the baby.

It's not my fault,
I try to tell her.
I didn't put the net here. I didn't make him swim into it. Nature is a cruel teacher.

I flutter my tail. It feels heavy, my energy slipping. If I leave now, I'll be able to find more lobsters.
There's no hope for this whale,
I think. But as I look at him, so vulnerable and so majestic, something comes over me.

Sheriff's words move through me:
You have responsibilities. You have people who rely on you.

People and animals. I won't quit. I'm going to stay and rescue this whale if it kills me. I'm going to do the right thing. The honorable thing.

So I keep at it, and darkness creeps in around me. As I pull off a large section of net, I feel someone behind me. Not a fish, or a whale, or a shark, but a some
one
. I turn around. There's a shadow of movement. I widen my eyes, try to see. A large tail flashes by. Purple. Not like any fish I've ever seen. But the eyes play tricks on you under water. And hunger jumbles your thoughts.

Time is ticking. The baby whale isn't moving anymore. Is he still alive? I go after the rope with more vigor, shredding strands, pulling it apart, my hands raw and bleeding.

Finally, I pull off the last piece of netting. The baby doesn't move. His body drifts motionless. With amazing dexterity, the mother wedges her head beneath him, pushing him off the bottom. He starts to float. Using her head and fins, she pushes his body to the surface and holds him there.

I sit back and watch. And pray.

A minute goes by. Nothing. Another minute. The baby wiggles his tail. His pectoral fins move. With a sudden burst of energy, he gulps air and swims downward, his mother right beside him. He rubs his entire body up and down her belly.

And the mother's song is different now. Still lonesome. Still haunting. But beautiful and soulful. I feel an overwhelming sense of pride. Proud to have saved a life. Proud to be what I am. A mermaid.

The scent in the water has changed from fear to relief. As they sing back and forth to each other, I can hear the whale word for “we.”

The whales swim off into the darkness. Suddenly, I'm alone, the sunlight slipping away. I'm too far from shore to make it home. I'm going to have to survive another night alone out here. No shipwreck to hide out in this time. No way to get to land at this hour. Sharks will find me. As the reality sets in, so does the fear. I curl up in a ball.

Then I hear a voice in the dark. Well, not a voice exactly. A sense.

Land creature,
it says.

The mother humpback is calling me. She swims to me, her baby by her side. It's her turn to rescue me.

Follow,
she says. I hold on to her pectoral fin, and she swims me all the way to Ne'Hwas Harbor.

*   *   *

Inside the harbor, boats buzz overhead. The water here tastes foul. Compared to the sea, it's a wasteland, devoid of life. Trash litters the muddy bottom. Cinder blocks, old tires, bottles, and cans sink into the mud. Food wrappers drift midwater. Even the smell in the harbor is ugly. A haze of silt makes visibility poor. Noise is amplified. At the ferry pier, I overhear bits of conversation from the tourists. Their voices are loud and clear under water. They talk about human things. Insignificant things. The weather. Which restaurant has the best lobster roll. Where to find a pharmacy.

Cautiously, I pop my head above water. A fog has rolled in fast, covering the harbor in a gray calm. I watch tourists milling around, kids running down the boardwalk. I watch ducks and plovers digging in the seaweed-covered rocks for mussels, and seagulls swarming overhead looking for handouts. I see kayakers paddling in from one of the ecotour companies.

I dive under the water, through mucky water, looking for a spot to make landfall, when out of nowhere I feel a shiver down my spine. Not like a shiver from being cold, or a vibration when a white shark is near. It's the feeling you get when you know someone's watching you.

I turn around.

Through the muck, I see a face. A nose. Eyes. Dark hair drifting like seaweed.

Another mermaid?

It turns and races off, disappearing into the gloom.

I go after it.

 

F
IFTEEN

I race toward the other mermaid, but the harbor is pea soup.

I'm barely ten yards in when I slam headfirst into something hard. I squint and try to make out the shape. A pickup truck is stuck in the mud in front of me. I rise toward the surface, rubbing my head. I listen for vibrations, sounds, smells, anything that will lead me to her. Or him. Or
it
.

But the harbor is an earsplitting mess of grinding engines in all directions. I swim toward the surface, toward the hazy light of the streetlamps on the boardwalk. A boat zips by, the prop missing my head by a foot. I dive back down.

Who am I chasing? How many others like me are out there? Where did they come from? How do they survive like this? How can I even be sure it won't try to eat me, like so many other things out here?

If it is another mermaid, I need to talk to her. I need to find out why this is happening to me, and what will happen if I keep shooting that barrel.

Staying close to the mucky bottom, out of range of propellers, I swim blindly through the harbor. I nearly collide with a refrigerator, a mast that's stuck straight up in the mud, fishing line, sunken wreckage from old boats, slabs of concrete. An underwater junkyard.

Where are you, other mermaid?
Maybe it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. Sight is the least reliable of all my senses down here. Maybe I saw a seal. Maybe it was my own reflection in a piece of broken glass.

I try to communicate through the lateral lines, like I did with the humpback.
Who are you? Show yourself.

I try again, with a different set of muscles:

I come in peace.

And, nothing.

I scour the harbor, chasing a ghost. Whatever I saw, it's long gone, and I need to get out of the clanking noise, the dirty water. In the gunmetal dark, I swim to White's Wharf, directly behind my apartment, and climb aboard a little fishing trawler that's so derelict it doesn't even have a name.

I'm still amped on adrenaline from the whale encounter as I pull myself hand over hand into the wheelhouse. How many people can say they've rescued a baby humpback with his mother right beside them? How many people can say they've done any of this?

Inside the cabin of the trawler, I make my way into the berth. Tightly rolled towels are tucked into storage hammocks in the ceiling, along with sheets and pillows. I wipe myself down.

The transition back to human is tedious. My eyes have a harder time adjusting to air. My tail looks bigger to me than the last two times I transitioned. My scales thicker. It's as though the animal part of me is evolving. Even my brain is slower to transition. It still listens for signs of danger. Predators. Hunger.

When I finally have my legs back, I wrap a sheet around myself, tie it over my shoulder, and head out.

Barefoot Lane is quiet, except for a few stragglers window-shopping for seashells and driftwood wind chimes. Someone whistles, but my eyes aren't working worth a damn. All I can make out are feathers and sequins. Lady Victoria.

“Where's the toga party, sunshine? And why aren't I invited?”

“Um. Well…” I stall for a reasonable response. “You wouldn't like it. Bunch of townies. All beer, no champagne.”

“Sounds deliciously pedestrian,” she says in her sultry voice. “I do like the toga. It works for you, kitty cat.”

“Thanks.” I smooth down the sheet, hoping she can't smell the fish and diesel on me.

“Girlfriend, you have
got
to give me some of what you're taking. Is it estradiol? Progestin? Don't tell me you're on antiandrogens?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Honey, curves like that don't just pop up after puberty. You must be getting a little
supplemental
help. No judgment from me, baby. I'd positively
kill
for a body like yours.”

I smile and head up the stairs to the apartment. “Good night, Lady Victoria.”

“Good night, darling. And remember: be good. Or be good at it.”

In the apartment, I check my phone. There's a message from Sammy. Her voice is slurred and barely audible through music in the background. She and Spencer are at the Schooner Wharf Bar and I should join them. It's locals' night. Three-dollar-a-plate spaghetti and meatballs. Full-price drinks. Take your perks where you can get them.

The message goes on and on and on. Tony, Stefan, and Ian are there. Jacqueline and West, too. Spencer's being a total ass. I need to come and rescue her. There's a bunch of hot guys from the catamaran charter there, and a bunch of those wankers from the Half Shell Restaurant.

“And Matthew's here.” Incoherent babble and giggles. “Thought you'd be interested.” Her voice rises into a question mark at the end.

Matthew never goes to locals' night. Too many sloppy drunks, too many reminders of what he's escaped. But he's there tonight, and he's made a point of telling Sammy. I'm sure I'm the cause of his sudden interest in three-dollar-a-plate spaghetti.

I'm exhausted from my swim and consider blowing Sammy off. But I would love to see Matthew. My hands feel jittery just thinking about him. I wish I could tell him about the baby humpback. The thrill of saving a creature as magnificent as that. The gratitude I felt from the mother. The beautiful language of “we” that they sing.

It was the best day of my life, I realize. Better than winning the regional surf championship. I want so badly to share it with someone. I want to sing a song of “us” in my heart, like the humpbacks. I don't want to just be a “me.”

In my bedroom, I slip on a pair of cutoff shorts, fringed, with the pockets hanging below the hem. They feel a little tighter than usual, but when I look down I can't make out the details. White thread and blue denim are indistinguishable. I find a clean tank top and pull it on, look in the mirror. Everything's a bit hazy. I blink hard, but it's as though I'm still under water. Maybe I need glasses. I wonder, briefly, if poor eyesight is an irreversible side effect of being a mermaid.

I use my hands to see what Lady Victoria was talking about.

My shoulders feel broader, my arms chiseled. The ribbed cotton of my tank hugs my body, stretching tight across the chest, narrowing to a taper at my waist. My thighs and butt round out into a grand sphere. As I press my hands down my body, I'm astonished. There is no fat anywhere. I am all muscle and curves.

Every which way I turn, sumptuous lines appear through the hazy film of my reflection. My waist is tiny; my hips and rib cage flare out so much like an hourglass that I understand for the first time what that term means.

I can't stop looking at myself, moving my hands down my body, admiring my new figure. All from swimming like a fish. I've always been in good shape. A tomboy. An athlete. But these new curves, these aqueous lines … these can't belong to me. Kay was always the pretty one, the one with the womanly figure. I was like the smelly little brother.