Siren's Storm

by Lisa Papademetriou

  She pressed her palms against his chest. “Dad?” Gretchen looked around. She wasn’t in the water. There were boards beneath her bare feet. She looked down at her dark blue T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Her clothes were sticking to her limply. “I’m all wet.”

  “It’s still raining,” Johnny said as water lashed the porch. “The storm hasn’t passed yet. Are you okay?” Creases appeared at the corners of his dark eyes. It was an expression Gretchen’s father wore often lately—he looked worried.

  “I’m fine.” Gretchen glanced out over the front yard. It looked like the storm had already taken out one of the smaller weeping willows on the edge of the creek that ran through their property. Even in the darkness, Gretchen could see limbs littered across her front lawn. “Why am I on the porch?” she asked. “What time is it?”

  “Midnight,” Johnny said. Naturally, Gretchen’s father was still wearing his jeans and faded concert T-shirt. He didn’t go to bed before three in the morning most nights.

  “I thought you were asleep,” he said. Then, hesitating, “I mean—I guess you were.”

  “It’s been five weeks,” Gretchen said. Since the last sleepwalking incident, she meant. That was nearly a record.

  “Why are we still standing out here?” Johnny took her elbow and guided her through the front door. “Do you want some cocoa, or something? It’s chilly.” He grabbed a cashmere throw from the faded couch and swept it over her shoulders. He touched her chin gently, then led the way toward the kitchen. Gretchen’s cat, Bananas, took one look at her and skittered under the couch.

  “Thanks for the support,” Gretchen told the cat.

  The house was warm and comfortable, but Gretchen kept the blanket around her shoulders. Her father liked to cluck and fuss over her, and she knew it made him happy to think that he was keeping her warm, even though Gretchen hardly ever felt cold. All winter long she would wander the streets of Manhattan with only a light jacket and no hat. It drove her father crazy. Even here, in the summer house, he kept jackets in the hallway and blankets on the couches. “Just in case,” he said. Unlike her, Johnny was cold-blooded.

  Gretchen sat down at the wooden table in the breakfast nook as her father walked to the cupboard. She looked around the cozy kitchen. I could live here all year. The thought was comforting … especially since it was starting to look like she’d have to.

  Johnny stood staring at the cupboards. He looked baffled.

  “Cold,” Gretchen said.

  “What? You’re cold?”

  “No—you are,” Gretchen told him.

  Johnny looked at her quizzically as he touched the lotus tattoo on his temple.

  “Wrong cupboard,” Gretchen explained. “Ice cold.”

  Johnny scooted to the right.

  “Warmer,” Gretchen told him.

  He moved farther to the right.

  “Warmer. Warmer. Getting hot.”

  Johnny opened the cupboard and rummaged around on the middle shelf until he found the cocoa. He leaned against the counter, studying the label. “But this is for baking,” he said.

  Gretchen sighed. “Let me do it.”

  “I can make cocoa,” Johnny protested.

  “Right.” Gretchen rolled her eyes and shook the blanket from her shoulders. “Just like you can cook chicken.”

  “The fire department guy said they handled fires like that all the time,” her father protested as she took the cocoa from his hand.

  Johnny was pretty famous for his incompetence in the kitchen. The gourmet meals they’d enjoyed when Yvonne—Gretchen’s mother—was behind the apron had devolved to boxes of mac and cheese and Chinese takeout in the years since she had moved out. But Gretchen didn’t care. She had always hated fancy food.

  “He was clearly a Johnny Ellis fan,” Gretchen countered as she yanked open the fridge. “He was just being kind.”

  “Nobody’s a Johnny Ellis fan,” her dad corrected. “Studio musicians don’t have fans.”

  “Oh, please.” The milk hissed softly at the rim as the pan heated up. “Everyone knows who you’ve recorded with. They’re all hoping that we’ll have a pool party one day and invite all of their favorite rock stars.”

  “Well …” Johnny stroked his goatee, pretending to think it over. “We’d have to get a pool … and I’d have to make some friends.”

  Gretchen let the sugar fall into the milk in a steady stream. Steam started to rise from the cocoa, and she poured it carefully into two mugs.

  “What’s that?” Johnny asked as she passed him a mug. His favorite—the one that said World’s Best Dad.

  Gretchen cocked her head. “Cocoa.”

  Johnny rolled his eyes. “Yeah—I got it,” he said as he blew across the top of the steaming liquid. “I’m not a total idiot. I meant, what’s that song you’re humming?”

  Gretchen sat still. She hadn’t even realized she’d been humming. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Hum it again.”

  Gretchen tried, but the tune was like sand that slipped through her fingers. “I can’t.”

  Johnny shrugged. “Too bad. Could’ve made me a million.”

  “Next time,” Gretchen told him. But she wasn’t even sure what she meant. What next time?

  Will looked out his window as the raindrops splattered the glass. It was past midnight, but he couldn’t fall asleep. His mind was whirling with thoughts and images. That girl—he couldn’t get her green eyes out of his mind. When he closed his eyes, he saw them clearly—luminous, with hypnotic intensity.

  Guernsey let out a soft snore from her place at the foot of Will’s bed. Will stroked her gray-flecked black coat softly, so as not to wake her. Let the old girl sleep, he thought as the Labrador shifted slightly, dreaming.

  Will’s room was directly over the kitchen, and his father’s and uncle’s bass voices floated up to him. When he was a child, Will had always found their talk soothing. Tim had been interested in the parental gossip, but Will tried to listen not to the words but just to the calming drone of the voices, like the crash of the sea. It was hard now, though, since the words were about him.

  “You should have seen him.” Carl’s voice was a sigh, and Will could picture his uncle sitting at the ancient wood table, swigging a bottle of non-alcoholic beer. Will’s father always kept the fridge stocked with them in case Carl came over.

  Carl had waited until Will’s mother went to sleep to mention anything about the incident on the beach.

  Carl is a wise man, Will thought. Mom would’ve had to be strapped to something.

  “He looked … well, to be honest with you, Bert, he looked crazy.”

  Will’s father let out a soft hissing sound. “It’s the timing.”

  “Next week. I know.” There was a gentle clink as Carl set his bottle on the table.

  Next week. The God’s honest truth was that Will hadn’t realized that it had been almost a year. But of course it had. It’s the end of June, isn’t it?

  It was frightening how little he thought about the night his brother died. He used to think about it all the time, trying to remember what had happened. He would talk to anyone who would listen in an attempt to puzzle out the events of that night. Will knew that he and Tim had gone sailing at sunset. There was nothing unique about that. Except Tim hadn’t come back. And Will had. The police had found him on the beach, unconscious. He’d been wet, his face covered in blood. Nobody knew how he’d gotten there. And nobody knew what had happened to Tim.

  Eventually people stopped listening to Will. They would sit with him while he talked, sure, but their eyes would lose focus or drift to the clock on the wall. Will could tell that some of them didn’t believe that his memory was like an empty shell. He had to remember something, they’d say. Something. But Will didn’t remember.

  Why did they find me when they never found Tim?

  It was a question with no answer.

  The wind howled mournfully through the trees. It was dark, but Will could see the br
anches bending with the gusts. He wondered how many trunks would be torn from the earth before the night was over.

  “Don’t say anything to Evelyn.” His father again.

  “Of course not. I just don’t know—maybe there was a girl, Bert. But—”

  “In this storm?” Will’s father sounded doubtful.

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “There was nothing to see.” Silence. And then, “He’ll be better in a couple of weeks. This anniversary is taking a toll.”

  “I know it is.”

  Will lay on his back, still feeling the motion of the waves with his body. He could still see that girl. He could see the water as it closed over her, gobbled her up. She had seemed so real.

  He stood up and went to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered on, revealing his greenish face in the mirror. Maybe I am crazy, he thought, staring into his own eyes. No matter how often he saw it, he couldn’t get used to the purplish scar that ran diagonally across his forehead and sliced down the top of his cheekbone. His sandy hair covered it most of the time. But sometimes the wind would push it back, and a passing stranger would stare. It made Will feel like Frankenstein—like someone stitched back together. Especially in a place like Walfang, where all of the summer people were surgically perfected.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just remember, Will thought as he pulled open the medicine cabinet. If I just knew what happened.

  Will pulled out an orange bottle and unscrewed the white plastic top. His doctor had prescribed sleeping pills, but Will hated taking them. They made him groggy and lethargic the next day.

  Then again, so did staying awake all night.

  He shook two pills into his palm and popped them into his mouth. Then he scooped cool water from the faucet to wash them down. He put the bottle back and closed the medicine chest, then clicked off the light.

  Will settled back under the ancient quilt his great-aunt had stitched and listened to the wind’s complaints. He tucked his feet under Guernsey’s warm body. There’s a hurricane happening on the other side of this wall, Will thought.

  The wind picked up. The sturdy oak near the farm stand stood tall, refusing to bend, but the wind simply redoubled in rage. A crack like a gunshot, then several pops and a groan as the wind delivered its vengeance. The oak leaned, then toppled with an explosion and a strange silver tinkle.

  “Greenhouse,” Will’s father said.

  Footsteps, and the sound of the kitchen door opening and slamming shut. The house was suddenly silent. Will lay perfectly still in the darkness.

  A year ago, Will’s father would have shouted up at both of his sons to get their asses downstairs and help. But not now.

  Will curled onto his side, like a question mark. He knew he’d fall asleep eventually. He just had to wait.

  Chapter Three

  From the Walfang Gazette

  City Cleanup Scheduled Today

  Walfang’s mayor, Claire Hutchinson, has asked all city employees to assist with the cleanup of city beaches today. Tropical Storm Bonita didn’t cause as much damage as forecasted or feared, but it still packed high winds and waves that have left the beaches riddled with detritus.

  “Our economy depends on the tourist trade,” Mayor Hutchinson read from a prepared statement last night at a press conference. “When tourists come to Walfang, they expect to see the pristine white sand beaches we’re famous for.” A spokesman for the Department of Public Works …

  “Good morning, sunshine!” Gretchen chirped as Will shuffled groggily into the kitchen the next morning. She slid two fried eggs onto a plate and headed to rescue the toast from the toaster. Will’s dad had been meaning to fix the pop-up feature for the past eight years, but Gretchen knew its quirks.

  “What are you doing here?” Will asked, blinking at her with heavy lids. “Why does it smell like bacon?”

  “Because I made you breakfast,” Gretchen replied as she set the plate before him. “I figured bacon would probably be the only thing that could wake you up.”

  Will glanced at the clock: eleven-thirty. And here he was, in his own kitchen, while the girl from next door was cooking away like Snow White bent on feeding an army of mining dwarves. That was so Gretchen. She only spent summers in Walfang, but whenever she and her father appeared, they just picked up as if they had never left. “Where is everybody?”

  “I think your dad’s at the hardware store. Your mom is—”

  “Well, look who finally rolled out of bed,” Evelyn Archer said as she walked in from the living room. Her dark eyes scowled at Will. “Your father could use your help, you know. Humberto can’t come in today.”

  Will scooped up a forkful of egg. Arguing with his mother never got him anywhere.

  “Bert isn’t here right now,” Gretchen told her.

  Mrs. Archer removed her laser glance from Will’s face and turned to Gretchen. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “Here I am!” Gretchen singsonged. She paced over to the coffeepot and poured the dark, rich liquid into Will’s mother’s favorite cup. “He told me he had to get the tractor fixed in town—said he’d be back in a couple of hours.” She held out the mug, and Mrs. Archer accepted it gratefully.

  “Ah,” she said as she pulled a long whiff of the coffee. “It never tastes this good when I make it.” She sat down heavily in the wooden chair. The caning sighed under her weight. Will’s mother still had the high cheekbones and fine features that had made her a famous local beauty in her youth. But she had turned matronly, especially in the past year. She no longer bothered to highlight her hair, which was now cut short in a utilitarian style. And she wore mostly shorts and baggy shirts in neutral colors. It was as if she were trying to turn herself invisible.

  Gretchen wiggled her eyebrows at Will, who was silently chewing the last of his bacon.

  “What did you do to your face?” Mrs. Archer asked.

  “My face?” Gretchen’s fingers flew to her cheeks.

  “She means your nose ring,” Will translated.

  “You haven’t seen this yet?” Gretchen tossed her long blond hair and angled her face so that Will’s mother could get a better view of the tiny sapphire that glittered at the impression on her right nostril. “I got it while we were in India in January. It’s very traditional there.” Gretchen grinned playfully and poked Mrs. Archer in the arm. “You should get one, Evelyn. Or maybe an eyebrow ring—they’re very in right now.”

  Mrs. Archer snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes.

  “You’d be the talk of the town,” Gretchen teased.

  “I’m already the talk of the town,” Mrs. Archer snapped, and took another long slug of her coffee.

  An awkward silence pulsed through the room.

  “Well,” Will said as he wiped up the last of the egg with a crust of toast, “this has been great, but I think I should—”

  “Will’s heading into town with me,” Gretchen announced as she slapped the back of his chair with a kitchen towel. “I need to pick up a few things. Okay, Evelyn?”

  Will’s mother just shrugged a reply. “Ask your father why we never see him anymore.”

  “He sends his regards,” Gretchen called. She was already pulling Will out the door.

  “You drove here?” Will asked when he saw her car in the driveway.

  “I knew we were going out, and I’m not riding on the back of your bike, thanks.”

  “You knew we were going out?”

  “I want ice cream, and you’re coming with me.”

  “Why didn’t you just eat breakfast?”

  “I did eat breakfast. At eight, like a normal person. Now it’s time for ice cream.” Gretchen yanked him toward the battered orange Gremlin she bombed around in. The thing looked like an antique, and handled like one. She referred to it as her “pothole detector,” since it always managed to find every single one on the road.

  “You’re lucky my mother likes you,” Will said dryly as Gretchen sent gravel flying.
<
br />   “I’m the kooky daughter she never wanted,” Gretchen said.

  Will laughed. “Yeah, and I’m the non-kooky son she never liked.”

  Gretchen winced. “That’s not true.”

  Will shrugged. He looked out the window. “So I can be kooky sometimes.”

  Gretchen punched him playfully. “Shut up.” She drove slowly, picking her way around fallen branches. “Dad says Route 27 is clear.”

  “Won’t have a problem merging onto it today.”

  “Let’s hope.” Gretchen turned at the fork, and suddenly the main road came into view. The two-lane highway was usually clogged to a crawl with summer people, but not this morning. I guess everyone’s busy yelling at their gardeners to get the fallen branches out of the hedges, Will thought as Gretchen turned onto the road. In a moment they were flying. Gretchen’s car didn’t have air-conditioning, not that you ever really needed it in Walfang. The ocean air was always cool, and it smelled sweet—like cut grass. The summer people had planted immaculate gardens between the acres still used by horse breeders and potato farmers.

  “When did you get back?” Will asked.

  “Thursday.”

  “Today is Thursday.”

  “Last Thursday.”

  Will turned his face away from hers. He stared out the window in silence. He wasn’t surprised, of course. He’d noticed the lights were on at night. He’d seen Johnny’s car in the driveway.

  Last year Gretchen hadn’t even stopped at her own house before coming over to the Archers’. Johnny’s vintage silver Mercedes pulled into the Archer driveway and Gretchen spilled out, shouting and whooping at the top of her lungs. Tim was working at the stand, and Gretchen tackled him first, wrapping him in a huge hug. Then she’d found Will in the tomato house and insisted that they go to the beach—even though she never swam in the ocean, Gretchen loved the sand—at four o’clock sharp. So they had. But that had been last year.