The Inconceivable Life of Quinn

by Marianna Baer

  Quinn squeezed her mother’s hand with all the strength she had left.

  SAMUEL FERRIS

  “Looks like you need a ride,” the driver called out. “Sorry, you can’t all fit in the cab, but I’ve got dry tarps for the back.”

  “I need some help getting up,” Samuel said.

  The man and a couple others helped him into the truck’s backseat, where he could sit with his leg stretched out. Two of the women got in the front seat with the man. Joe, he said his name was. The rest piled in the back of the pickup.

  Samuel had entered an almost-trance state, with the pain, cold, and knowledge that God had sent this man to help him with the last bit of the journey. Samuel had shown his faith by telling them he wasn’t giving up. God had seen the sacrifice he was willing to make.

  Joe started up the engine. Samuel felt the movement of the truck. It began to reverse.

  “No, no!” he cried out. He’d assumed the guy knew where they were going. “We’re headed straight. Through the water. Up to the house.”

  The man didn’t change direction.

  “Did you hear me?” Samuel said, pushing closer to the front seat as best he could. “Straight.”

  “Sorry,” the man said.

  Wait. This wasn’t right. “Stop. Stop the truck.”

  “Look,” the man said, turning to face Samuel. “You can either shut up, or you can get out of my truck and walk on that broken leg. Your pick.”

  NICOLE ANDERSON

  Nicole was still shivering, wrapped in the white tufted coverlet from the motel bed. She’d taken a hot shower, but the shivering was something deeper: fear of whether Quinn was okay, of whether they’d stopped the people in time, of whether she’d done the right thing.

  Her husband . . . her husband had been so angry. He’d called her selfish, said he couldn’t tell their friends and other parishioners what she’d done. “What if they take the Virgin away?” he’d asked. “And we don’t know where the baby is?”

  Nicole wished she could have told him that God spoke to her and had told her what to do, but she couldn’t lie about it. There on that road, she hadn’t heard God. She’d listened only to herself about what was the right decision. And if that was based on her compassion for Quinn instead of her devotion to the larger cause, well, that was a mistake she was willing to live with.

  Who knew what would happen to the baby if they reached Quinn’s house. Maybe Nicole’s decision to turn back was all a part of God’s plan. Maybe the reason He had put her in that doctor’s office was so that she’d be on this island tonight. And while her husband and church would see it as a selfish betrayal, He would see it as what it was—a testament to her humanity.

  QUINN

  The truck’s taillights had disappeared around the bend in the road several minutes ago; Quinn and her mother stood at the top of the hill, waiting to make sure the people were really gone. And it seemed like they were. Whoever had been driving that truck must not have been someone from the group.

  Gradually, the wind and rain let up. The air stilled. The tree branches drooped tiredly. The only sound was the gentle sloshing of the puddle of ocean at the bottom of the hill.

  “I’m glad we didn’t need to go anywhere tonight,” Katherine said, training the beam of her flashlight on the water. “I don’t think we could have gotten out with that flooding.”

  The light skipped across the ripples on the pool.

  It’s not that we couldn’t get out, Quinn thought. It’s that they couldn’t get in.

  QUINN

  Quinn opened her eyes and carefully shifted in bed so she was propped on her elbows. Her entire body ached. Sun peeked around the edges of the curtains—early morning sun, she could tell. She felt like she did when a fever broke, that sense of coming back to clarity. Last night’s events ran through her head . . . Stranger than any dream.

  Okay, though—what had actually happened?

  She lay flat again and closed her eyes. Part of her didn’t even want to think about any of this. It felt . . . enormous. Overwhelming. Inconceivable.

  Was she really going to let herself believe what she’d been thinking last night? Believe that the ocean had come up to meet her like that? Believe that the presences she’d felt underwater were . . . something alive—the Deeps—not just the movement of the ocean? And that the ocean had surged through the forest to keep those people from reaching the house?

  And the biggest question of all—if she was choosing to believe it, what did any of it have to do with her pregnancy? Because she couldn’t help feeling like that memory from last spring, the swim she took that night . . . she couldn’t help thinking that something she didn’t understand, something magical, some moment of . . . creation, was what brought this baby to life inside her. That’s what all of her dreams had been trying to tell her.

  Her palms began to tingle with fear. She was crazy. She really was, wasn’t she? Like, not just a little crazy. A lot crazy.

  There were obvious explanations here that she was avoiding. She had heard about the Deeps in that book by Charlotte Lowell, and they had become part of her fantasy world. And the water last night surging through the forest . . . It was the storm. A huge storm surge. Maybe the coastline had eroded over the years, and the tide went farther up now than when they’d lived here. That was possible, wasn’t it? And, with global warming, the sea level was rising—that was happening all over.

  But what about the water coming up to meet her when it wasn’t even high tide? What about the fact that she had gone swimming in the ocean off of Maine in November and hadn’t been impossibly frozen? There was no physical explanation for it. And what about the lights underwater? Hallucinations?

  There were some parts of the story that had rational explanations, yes. But other parts seemed completely impossible. Seemed to go against nature.

  And, more than that, deep down, the crazy version was the one that felt true.

  Quinn’s limbs were stiff and sore as she made her way into the cottage’s main room. She startled a bit at the sight of an old man sitting at the table, but then realized it was her father. Not old, just tired.

  “Dad!” she said, surprised.

  “Hi, Little,” he said, smiling and holding out an arm. She went over to give him a hug, happy to see him despite having been dreading it. “Let’s keep it down,” he added quietly. “Your mom went back to bed.”

  “How are you here so early?” Quinn asked, sitting next to him.

  “I came last night,” he said. “Well, not here to the house, to the island. I stayed with Andy.”

  “What? I thought you missed the last ferry.” Andy was a friend of the family, a lobsterman, and one of the island’s volunteer firemen. He knew everyone on Southaven and was always helping out—the de facto guy to go to for any sort of problem.

  “Andy called me when I was in Rockland to tell me what was going on. He brought the boat over and got me. But once we got to the island and drove out here, we couldn’t get to the house, so I stayed with him and he brought me first thing.”

  “What do you mean, he told you what was going on?”

  “With the people. Coming to find you.”

  “How did Andy know?” Quinn asked. “We didn’t tell him. Our phone was out.”

  “A woman in the group had second thoughts. She made it to Good Tidings and asked where the police station was, and they gave her Andy’s number.” Good Tidings was the one motel on the island. There were no police on Southaven, just volunteer firemen and EMTs—the police force was stationed on the mainland.

  Quinn was still confused. “So . . . Andy was the one who picked them up?”

  “He had his brother Joe do it while he came and got me.”

  “Oh,” Quinn said. “And then . . . you couldn’t get here to the house . . .”

  “Because of the flooding. We drove over, but once we saw the road, Andy didn’t want to risk it.”

  Quinn’s nerves tightened at the mention of the flood. So, her
father had seen it, too, not just her mother. That was good. It meant . . . it meant he’d know what she was talking about when she said how impossible it had been. But how to begin? How could any of them talk about something that they had no words to describe? And while her parents would have had to see there was something extraordinary going on, they had no idea it had anything to do with her. Or the pregnancy.

  “So . . . that was crazy,” she said.

  He stood and poured himself some more coffee. “Word is they left on the seven a.m. ferry, except one idiot who broke his leg and had to be air-lifted last night. I guess the others slept in the ferry terminal. Unfortunately, they didn’t actually do anything illegal, so I don’t think we can follow up. I felt so damned guilty that you and Mom were here alone. I never should have let that happen. I should have come up with her in the morning.”

  “We were okay,” Quinn said. “And I meant . . . when I said ‘crazy,’ I meant the flood.”

  “Oh,” he said, sitting again. “Right. Quite a storm surge. Major nor’easter.” His face was unreadable as he stirred milk into his mug.

  “Storm surge?” Quinn said.

  “Hmm?”

  “You said you saw it.”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Are you . . . Do you really think it was a storm surge? All the way down there?”

  “I know. It’s impossible to imagine. But clearly . . .” He shrugged. “It wasn’t just a puddle from the rain, obviously. Not with that water level and force. Anyway . . . can I make you some breakfast, Little? Eggs or something?”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll make some toast.”

  Quinn got up and busied herself with filling the kettle for tea, slicing bread, and putting it in the toaster. But the whole time, she was thinking He couldn’t possibly believe that’s what it was. Was he really going to sit there and act like nothing strange had happened? It hadn’t even been high tide.

  The bread popped up. Quinn pressed it down again. It wasn’t ready. Neither was she.

  Maybe . . . maybe this was good. Yesterday, when the ocean had first surged away from the beach, toward the pine trees, she’d been horrified—so sure she needed to protect the secret. And if her father was going to believe it was a storm surge, well—here was her out. Here was the point where they all just agreed to believe in it, and Quinn wouldn’t have to talk about it at all. He wasn’t going to ask questions or investigate, so her secret could stay with her. All locked up.

  The bread popped again. She took it out and got a mug for her tea and kept thinking . . . Keeping the secret would mean never telling them. Going along with the lies they told her whole life. And that hadn’t worked! Look where it had all led. And . . . maybe once she began talking about it, it would all make sense to her parents, since they’d known her for her whole life, and had seen the water last night. Maybe her father just needed a push to see it all for what it was. Maybe she just needed to be the first one to state the obvious yet impossible truth.

  “So,” Gabe said. “I have some good news. Been a while since we’ve had any of that.”

  “What?” Quinn asked, sitting.

  “I talked to my agent, and she’s already fielded calls from my editor and other publishers about a memoir. Not about your experience, but about the political side of the story, and how the media exploited and twisted everything.” He held up a hand. “I made it very, very clear that I wasn’t going to get into anything personal about the pregnancy or our family. This would be a look at the media and Internet’s ability to influence politics, destroy a career, all of that, using my personal experience for perspective.” He took a sip of coffee. “She was talking very big numbers for the advance, given how high-profile the story was, and the sales numbers for Urbanomics and ElastiCity. But, more than the money, it’s an opportunity to set things straight. Whoever I end up working with will definitely want to shoot for a pub date as soon as possible. I’ve already started writing.”

  “That’s great,” Quinn said, not sure if she meant it. She was relieved to see her father positive about something, but a book would just keep the story in the public eye.

  She focused on her breakfast, her thoughts going back to last night. The toast was dry as sand in her mouth. She had to wash it down with tea.

  “So,” she said. “I . . . um, I have something to tell you.”

  “Hmm?” He was typing something on his phone.

  She sat up straighter. “I think the Deeps are real.”

  “What?” he said, looking at her now, blinking.

  “The water last night,” she said, trying to make her voice more confident. “I don’t think it could have been a storm surge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t high tide. And the water had to go up and through the forest, for a quarter mile or something. I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “I still . . . What are you saying?”

  “I saw it happen. It . . . it was there on purpose, flooding the road. I think it was the Deeps. Keeping those people out.”

  His jaw went slack. “Oh no,” he said. “No. We are not having this conversation. Quinn—”

  “It happened before,” she said. “Sort of. Not the flooding, but . . . Well, last May. I was down at the cove at night and the ocean . . . it was low tide and it came up to meet me. And I think that’s the night I got pregnant. I think it—the Deeps—had something to do with it.” A moment of deathly stillness followed.

  Finally, her father stood up. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” His voice had changed. It was now his problem-solver voice. He began pacing. “You’ve reached some sort of crisis point. Regression—isn’t that a reaction to trauma? You’re regressing to your childhood fantasies. Maybe this is good. It means that . . . that you can get through it and come out on the other side. You know? We’ll . . . we’ll call Dr. Jacoby. And we’ll go back to Brooklyn. Today. I understand you believe what you’re saying. I do. But here I am . . .” He walked over, knelt in front of her. “Here I am. Real. Right? Your dad? And it’s up to me, to me and your mom, to anchor you to reality.”

  The Deeps are not real, Quinn. There are no Deeps!

  “So . . . how do you explain it?” she said, a bit more quietly. “It’s come to meet me. I saw it. I felt it. I remember.”

  “You were either dreaming or . . . just imagining. Hallucinating. Going back to the childhood fantasy that book put in your head. The Deeps are a made-up story.”

  “But I was all wet. I’d obviously been swimming. Both times.”

  “The water was there for you to swim in, Little. High or low tide. You must have walked out to it. And the other things you remember . . . well, your brain made them up.”

  “But you saw that water last night. You know it was impossible. How can you say it was a storm surge? It was low tide!” She could hear the desperation in her own voice.

  “Because between the choice of a supposedly impossible storm surge, and a . . . a sentient ocean, I’ll take the storm surge!” He began to pace again. “And saying this has something to do with the pregnancy? You really think you’re so special that this completely bizarre, supernatural thing happened to you? This thing that hasn’t ever happened to anyone else?”

  “Maybe it has,” she said. “Maybe . . . Maybe Charlotte Lowell knew about it. And Meryl.”

  Her father stopped walking and fixed her with a cold stare. Quinn hadn’t wanted to bring up her grandmother, but she was part of this. Quinn was sure.

  “My mother was a very sad, very sick woman,” he said. “And she has nothing—nothing—to do with you.”

  Quinn’s mind groped for a way to make this better, a way to spin it into a story he could handle. “Wouldn’t you be happy if someone didn’t do this to me?” she said. “You keep worrying about me being someone’s victim, about someone hurting me. Wouldn’t you be happy if I wasn’t?”

  He looked at her incredulously. “You think what you’re saying makes me happy?”

 
When he said it, she realized that no, of course he wouldn’t be relieved. What he wanted was for her to be normal. If she was a victim, she could be saved. And a victim couldn’t be blamed. Immaculate virgin, immaculate victim—either way, someone who hadn’t sinned.

  “I’m sorry if it’s not what you want to hear,” she said. “But it’s what I believe. My pregnancy has something to do with the Deeps.”

  “Quinn. You can’t get pregnant by the ocean. Am I really having to say those words?” He choked out a laugh. “You were impregnated by a man. Please—tell me you believe that. That’s all I need to hear. That you believe me when I say you got pregnant by a man. Just tell me that, and we can talk about the rest. We can talk about the Deeps.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath through his nose.

  “What about all the stories,” Quinn said, “about mermaids and sirens and . . . stories about virgin births in different cultures, things like that. I’m not saying I’m some sort of mermaid or whatever—I’m not. I mean, I’m human, obviously. But what if there’s stuff we don’t know? Mysteries that don’t go along with nature.”

  “Those are stories!” he said, eyes flashing open. “Myths! Written when people didn’t understand how the world worked! People were looking for explanations, so they made up stories. That’s . . . that’s what myths are. But we don’t need them now. We know how things work. We know how women get pregnant.” He pressed his fingers against his temples. “We’ve known for centuries. It’s not up for debate! And Charlotte Lowell made up that damned story about the Deeps.”

  “I know that. I understand. But . . .” She shrugged.

  “Explain the physical aspect,” he said. “How did this . . . make you pregnant?” He stared at her, challenging her. She was hanging off the edge of a cliff, and he was prying up her fingers.