The Mermaid's Secret (23 page)

We wander over to the lobster tent, where the line is about a mile long. There's a separate station entirely for butter. It occurs to me that I haven't eaten a cooked lobster all summer.

“Welcome to the hidden gem of Ne'Hwas.” I say.

“Let me see what I can do.”

As we head over to giant steel pots billowing steam, there's a commotion near the row of vendors. A girl screams. In between the Holy Cannoli truck and the head shop guy who sells glass pipes shaped like skulls, a man is peeing in the grass. He teeters back and forth, and flashes a toothless smile to bystanders.

Some people are laughing, some look horrified, and then there's the girl who keeps screaming like she's witnessing a murder.

The sideshow turns into an even bigger spectable when Sheriff pushes through the crowd. In his uniform, he looks very official. He tells the drunk to zip up his pants, then cuffs him. With authority, Sheriff settles down the crowd and restores order.

It always feels strange to see Sheriff in action. To see him the way the world sees him, protecting and serving.

“Jess. What a surprise,” he says. Then he notices Matthew standing beside me and makes a funny face like he's concerned and happy all at once. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying not to get urinated on, apparently.”

“Sorry 'bout that,” the drunk says, quite sincerely.

“Stay there, Teddy. I need to talk to my daughter.”

“You got it, Sheriff,” the man says, and stays put while Sheriff steps out of pee-puddle range, toward me and Matthew.

“Aren't you worried he's going to run?” I ask, nodding toward the drunk.

“Nah. Teddy Abbott's a frequent flier in lockup. I think he enjoys it. Rap sheet like
War and Peace,
that guy. Totally harmless, though.”

Teddy Abbott interrupts to ask if cell number four is free this evening. “That's my favorite,” he says, a dumb smile plastered on his face.

Sheriff ignores him. Sticks a firm hand out to Matthew. “Good to see you, Matthew.”

Matthew shakes his hand. “You too, sir.”

Sir?
I get the feeling that my father and Matthew have met before under different circumstances. It adds up. Sheriff worked the Nipon Beach beat for years. And Matthew lived in Nipon Beach, with a rap sheet—though more like a haiku than
War and Peace
.

I'm sure Sheriff has a less flattering image of Matthew than his admirers at Lobsterfest. I wonder if Sheriff noticed that Matthew was at Kay's funeral. There were so many people in attendance. True friends who shed real tears. Fake friends like Bree Hamilton. All those peers shimmering with potential, paying tribute, making promises. They will call you every week. They will change their lives for the better to honor the dead. They will live every day like it's their last. They will keep her memory alive. They will never forget.

But they forget.

“Are you two dating?” Sheriff asks.

Oh my God. Why must fathers be so socially inept? “Kind of,” I snap.

“I see,” Sheriff says. He peers at Matthew. “Are you still living out at Nipon Beach, then?”

“No, sir. I'm staying at Kotoki-Pun Point, in the old lighthouse.”

Sheriff smiles crookedly. “Very good. Nice place out there.”

“Can I get you lobster, Officer Creary?” Matthew asks.

“That's mighty nice of you, son, but I need to get this character into booking.”

It's pretty adorable how Matthew is trying to impress my father. “Would you grab lobsters for us? I'll find a spot on the grass,” I say.

When Matthew is out of earshot, Sheriff says, “Matthew Weatherby, hey?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it pretty serious? I mean, are you looking at a future together?”

The million-dollar question, I think. “Honestly, I don't know yet.”

“He's kind of a drifter, isn't he? Spends summers on Ne'Hwas. Takes off the rest of the year.”

This makes me a little defensive of Matthew. “He works the commercial fishing boats down south. That doesn't make him a drifter. It makes him seasonal. Like a lot of people here.”

“I don't want you to get hurt, Jess.”

“Dad,” I say. That word again. So generic, and yet so incredibly specific. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“I need to talk to you, too.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I've been feeling just awful about what I did to you. I'm ashamed of myself.”

I bite my nails. “What are you talking about?”

He tilts his head. “The morning after you didn't come home and I was out looking for you. It was wrong of me to raise my hand against you. I wish I could take it back.”

“Oh. That. Don't worry about it.”

“I've spent my entire career chasing after scumbags who hit women.”

“I can be difficult. Believe me, I know that. I probably deserved it.”

“No you didn't.” He looks like he might cry. “It was a terrible thing for me to do. I am truly sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“Well, I can't forgive myself.”

I hug him. I'm the one who should be sorry. I'm the one who's going to swim away, out of his life forever. “There's something I need to tell you, Sheriff.”

Suddenly, the speakers on the bandstand crackle to life. There's a sound like someone tapping the microphone, and an earsplitting squeal of feedback from the loudspeakers.

“Uh. Oh. Hi. Is this thing on?” a voice echoes out.

I look up. Trip Sinclair is on stage.

“Hi, folks. This will only take a moment of your time.” That smile. Plastered across his face. “I'm here on behalf of the Sinclair Foundation, a nonprofit organization run by my family.”

I look at Sheriff. His lips disappear into a tight line. His hands are in fists.

Trip's voice penetrates the air. “As you might or might not know, the Sinclair Foundation runs charities throughout the Northeast. With the strong ties to Ne'Hwas that my family shares, we wanted to bring our philanthropy a little closer to home. Today, we're happy to announce that the Sinclair Foundation has set up a college scholarship fund for one student from Ne'Hwas.” Trip clears his throat. “The Kay Creary Scholarship will help ensure that Ne'Hwas residents will have opportunities for generations for come. We hope that honoring the memory of this intelligent, dynamic young woman…” He pauses and puts a fist to his mouth like he's going to cry. “A woman I was lucky enough to call my friend … We hope that by remembering her, we can help bring hope for the future.”

The muscles in my body become rigid. There's a ringing in my ears. The pressure is closing in around me.

I am headed straight for the stage. This is not right. Trip got away with murdering my sister and now he's trying spin it into good press for his family.

When I get to the stage, a photographer from the
Daily News
is taking Trip's photo. A reporter is asking questions and Trip is answering with his usual arrogance. “My family is here to help those less fortunate,” I hear him say. I'm near the stage. The reporter walks away. Trip pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

I'm in front of him. “You have no right to use Kay's name.”

He chuffs out a line of smoke. “First of all, you're welcome,” he says. “This is a big honor for your family. Kay's memory will be preserved forever.”

“You don't care about Kay's memory. You're just trying to make yourself look good.”

There are people all around us, staring at us, waiting for the train to wreck.

“Kay was a friend. I'm trying doing the right thing.”

“The right thing would be not killing her.”

“It was an accident.”

“It was your fault!”

I'm right next to him now and I can smell whiskey on him. He leans toward me, his hot breath on my ear. His eyes are raw and red. “You want to know the truth. I wish I'd never met Kay. It ruined my life.”

“Your life? You have a life. Kay doesn't.”

I can't move. My head is spinning. The animal takes over. I push Trip Sinclair hard in the chest. I'm stronger than he expects and he falls down, coughing. Grant le Carre, scumbag lawyer, steps between me and Trip. “This is assault,” le Carre announces.

Trip pulls the cigarette from his mouth.

Sheriff is beside me now. “That's enough,” he says.

“He can't get away with this!”
All I can see is red. The sky is red. The trees are red. Trip's eyes are devil red.

“Don't make it worse,” Sheriff says, and his voice sounds so small and broken that I want to die right here.

“Control your daughter or we will press charges,” le Carre is saying, somewhere in the ether around me.

“Get her out of here, please.” It's Sheriff voice. I realize that he's talking to Matthew, who's holding two lobster plates in his hands. Matthew drops the lobsters in the grass and takes me gently by the hand.

The first drops of rain splatter on the field.

Trip is absorbed into a group of people,
his
people, congratulating him. They flash me looks that say
I'm
the psycho. I'm the criminal. I'm the ungrateful townie who has just snubbed a gift of charity by a great and generous family.

Then the deluge comes. All around, people run for cover. Trip and his people are whisked away in town cars parked behind the stage. Children splash in puddles and are pulled away by parents. A sudden exodus for the parking lot.

I let go of Matthew's hand and run.

I run and run and run, the rain beating at the earth.

I run because I'm angry and afraid and sick. I run because people like Trip Sinclair get to go on living golden lives while my sister stays twenty-three forever. I run until I slip and fall to ground. And then I start crying.

I close my eyes and turn my face up to the sky. The temperature drops, but I don't care. Mentally, I send myself back to ocean, where everything is simple, uncomplicated. Where no one feels betrayal or hatred or cheated. I try to put myself in that world, flying weightlessly through the water.

When I open my eyes, Matthew is kneeling in front of me, blinking rain from his eyes, letting it run down his hair.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I need to get away from all this.”

“You don't mean that.”

“I can't stand it anymore, Matthew. I need to leave here and never come back.”

“Then I'll come with you.”

“You don't even know where I'm going.”

“Don't need to. Wherever you are, that's where I want to be.” He wipes the water out of his eyes, and it's instantly replenished. “I love you, Creary. Don't you know that?”

I thrust myself into his arms and kiss him. The rain washes over us, drenching us in its magnificent splendor.

 

T
WENTY

The great white is near. Vibrations pulse down my sides. Her heart beats in my veins. There's a slight rise in temperature against my skin.

I smell the sour note of fear and realize the fear is coming from me.

The water is gray and murky. My eyesight fails me. There are no animals lit up in neon pixels of light. Not a living thing is near. It's getting darker with every moment; the edges of my vision are closing in. Soon it will be pitch black. I need to get home.

Little by little, I inch my way out from my ledge, exposing my forehead, my neck, my shoulders. Maybe I can outswim her. The electromagnetic impulses intensify, throbbing down my spine now. I slide backwards into my ledge.

I watch and wait. And worry.

She grabs me from behind and pulls me violently into the cave. I reach for rock, seaweed, sand, anything to grasp onto. I'm being pulled backwards, farther and farther into the dark recesses. Blood darkens the water black. But I don't feel pain.

I turn around. A thousand gleaming white teeth are clamped onto my tail. Scales sail through the water.

I struggle to break free, but I can't get away. She thrashes her head, shaking me like a chew toy, bumping my head against the cave.

There's a noise outside the cave. A pounding, then a clanging. Laughter. The sound of someone trying not to make noise. My heart races.

*   *   *

I bolt upright in bed.

The noises are outside my bedroom. Matthew is lying beside me, breathing heavily, lost in his own dreams.

Glass crashes on the floor. A thump.

In one move, I fling off the quilt, fly across my room, and open the door. Darkness blankets the apartment. I detect movement near the window. My senses tell me it's bigger than me. My brain screams
attack
.

I am a predator.

I leap on top of the intruder. He is a big man. Strong. But I am stronger. I push him to the floor, grinding a knee into his abdomen. I lay punches into the side of his face. Across his nose. I'm vaguely aware that he is saying something. Screaming something. He gets a hand free from my legs and pulls on my arm, so I force the hand back under my knee.

The lights go on.

But my eyes don't see.

Sammy is screaming at me to stop.

Matthew is yelling at me to stop.

There are hands on me. My brain is telling me
three against one—fight!

Slowly, the details of the room come into focus—the papasan chair with the patched cushion. The lobster trap coffee table. The Oriental rug worn thin on the edges. The tapestry on the wall. The smell of incense and candle wax. The dead geranium on the windowsill.

Spencer lying on the floor, crouched in pain, and Sammy tending to him. I am in Matthew's arms. He's holding me, but not in a gentle embrace. He's restraining me.

Sammy is crying. “What the fuck, Jess?”

“Dude, I think she cracked a rib,” Spencer says, and there's pain in his voice.

“What happened?” I ask.