Coral

by Sara Ella

  I have all the time in the world now. This is my epilogue. Might as well make it mean something.

  I’ll leave no note. No farewell video or parting voice mail. The single soul who might care I’m gone will forgive me. Someday.

  “I guess this is good-bye,” I say to the wind while tossing a rock down shore.

  The wind answers in whistles and gusts. As tormenting as it is to be near the sea, it’s far more devastating to be apart from it. This is where it happened. Not this particular beach, but the ocean is the ocean.

  Whether here or there, she saw everything. She knows my secret.

  And she remembers that it’s all my fault.

  I’m freezing. Soaked to the bone from the rain. Good. I deserve it. I let the pain sink in. I have to suffer a little longer before I can be set free.

  The breeze that followed me here catches my exposed skin, shooting chills up my arms and down my spine. I blow hot air onto my hands as I resolve to follow through. To sit here, unmoving.

  The tide creeps closer. Higher.

  Questions rise uninvited. Doubts sail forth, making me second-guess my decision.

  Why?

  Why am I here?

  Is Fathoms for real? Too good to be true?

  What happens next?

  “Nothing,” I say, stopping my doubts in their tracks. “You know there’s no use in hoping anymore.”

  Other questions rise too, ones from the past I don’t wish to revisit. But they force their way in.

  “What do you want from me?” I cry to the sky.

  It answers with a flash of lightning. A flash so close and so bright, it electrifies the clouds, turning them white for a split second before abandoning the world.

  I swipe at the rain on my cheeks. As wet as they are, I know the moisture stems from the storm and nothing more.

  Daylight soon becomes twilight. Thoughts swirl until they spiral. They leave me a blank and empty mess, more confused than ever.

  Get up, Brooke. Leave. Give life another chance.

  “And if I do? What then?”

  No answer. No guidance.

  If anyone cared, they’d have come to look for me by now. So I stay. Past dark. The storm abates, and the clouds clear. The air grows too cold to endure as the stars make their debut. I sniff and cough, a headache taking up residence between my brows. Every muscle aches. I can hardly keep my eyes open.

  I rise on shaking legs. It’s time. “I’m sorry.” I stare down at my bare feet. Examine my shaking hands. “I’m so sorry.”

  Grief, fresh and new, washes over me as I step toward the sea. I’m to blame for everyone’s heartache as well as my own. It would be easier if I were gone. With this truth solidified in my mind, I take another step, allowing the frigid water to wrap my ankles. I’m ready. I welcome the pain, knowing it will be fleeting.

  That’s when a sound so hauntingly beautiful pierces the night.

  I stop. Impossible.

  Sea foam washes over my feet, inviting me deeper. I hiss, gritting my teeth at the icy salt water stinging my skin.

  The sound ceases. My mind must be playing tricks.

  I almost don’t notice my chattering teeth. The way my fingers change color as I stroke the ocean’s surface. Surrounded by her now almost feels like being enveloped by an old friend.

  The sound rises again. A tune so desperate and weak it could be a cry for help.

  I see it then. The giant yellow life raft, standing out in the dusk as a beacon, headed straight for a rocky cliff.

  Ignore it, my mind says.

  Not your problem, the waves seem to echo.

  Come to me, the sea calls.

  I take another step. Hypothermia may set in before I have the chance to drown. But the sound stops me again. That tune. It reminds me of . . .

  Go, a voice from the past seems to say. Save them.

  I’m frozen and aching. My mind spins. Breaths build, one upon another. They grow frantic, panicked, dreading the pain that comes from living another second in this life. I need this.

  But a more urgent need inside says I have to help—save—whoever is in that raft.

  Something hard and heavy knocks against my elbow. A bottle?

  Shaking, I draw it from the water. It’s corked, frosted. Sea glass? Did the person in the raft send this? What are the odds it would find me? I glance from the bottle to the raft and back again.

  What’s one more day going to change?

  “Absolutely nothing,” I say. Speaking the words aloud makes this a concrete, inarguable truth.

  I reverse and speak again, this time loud enough so the sea with all her fathoms below will hear. “This changes nothing.”

  I’ll join her depths soon. Because this changes nothing.

  Nothing.

  At.

  All.

  Abandoning the sea, I retreat toward shore, bottle in hand.

  About a hundred feet to my left, a sandy dune rises, transforming into rocks and ridges. This might once have been a climbing course or even a hiking trail. An adventure for the more dangerous at heart. I face that danger now, my heart pump, pump, pumping, blood rush, rush, rushing.

  When I reach the rocks, I begin my course, though my muscles beg me to turn back. Up and down, back and forth. At times I’m sure I might fall. Then I’m enclosed, stone rising on either side, leaving me unable to view the ocean at all. It’s dark now, and the clouds have started to clear. The full moon and stars do little to illuminate my path. But adrenaline fuels a high I’ve never experienced. A rush that only comes from attempting to tackle the impossible.

  When at last I’ve made my way through the rocky course and down to sea level, hidden tide pools to my left and a shallow cave at my back, I sweep my gaze to and fro.

  Where is the raft?

  Did I lose it? Did the tide pull it too far down the coast? What if the waves slammed it into the rocks and—

  There! I climb down as low as I can. The raft floats ten, maybe fifteen feet away. The gap would mean nothing on land. But a watery gap this wide could be the difference between life and death.

  “Hey!” I stand and flail my arms. “Over here.”

  The drifter’s harmonic tune ceases. A flashlight beam illuminates the night.

  A voice echoes. Male? Female? Too faint to tell. They’re alive, though. Alive is a good sign.

  The irony of the situation is not lost on me.

  I’m down on my knees. If I reach, I can touch the water with my fingertips. It splashes and sprays. Do I swim to the raft? I might make it. But then how would we get back? If they had a rope or a life preserver—

  That’s it! I cup my hands around my mouth. “Do you have a life preserver you can toss?”

  A holler. A wave of light. I almost detect the words. “Hold on”?

  Adrenaline vibrates through every muscle. I feel a warmth I know won’t last but cling to it all the same.

  The flashlight beam bounces. The drifter lifts a white ring in the air. Perfect. We’ve got one shot at this. Don’t blow it, Brooke.

  “Toss it here!” I call through cupped hands.

  The drifter seems to catch on to my idea. My heart pounds as I brace myself.

  Ready.

  Three, two, one . . .

  The ring sails toward me through the air. Splash! A few more feet and I would have been able to reach down and grab the thing. Crud.

  The drifter tugs the ring back toward the raft, fishes it from the water, and readies to toss it again.

  And again it fails.

  A third time we try this. And a third time it doesn’t work.

  Is the rope too short? Or is the raft drifting farther out? We can keep going this route, but then we risk losing our chance.

  “One more time,” I call.

  The drifter obeys and the ring lands in the water a few feet from the rocks.

  I suck in a breath, close my eyes, release. Then I turn and attempt to gain a firm grip on a vertical section of rock close to the ledg
e. My hands are icicles and the stone is far too wet and cold. I frown, remove my tee, and thank the stars I chose to layer today. The tank top underneath wouldn’t be my first choice of attire, but it’ll do for now.

  My removed shirt becomes an anchor. I loop it around the pointed rock and knot it once, tugging to make sure it holds. No way the hack will last long. I’ll have to be quick.

  I wrap the end of the stretched shirt once around my wrist and grip it tight before easing my legs down over the low ledge. My soles meet frigid sea, followed by my calves and thighs. I gulp oxygen. How is it possible to be colder than I am already?

  Once I’m waist deep, I glance over my shoulder. My right leg stretches as far as it can while my left thigh and knee brace against stone. The position is equal parts awkward and painful. The sea weighs me down and then . . .

  My toe catches something! Yes! I strain for another inch. My biceps shake. My wrist cramps. My breath hitches. But . . . got it!

  I pull myself back up, tugging the preserver along. The feat isn’t easy and it takes several minutes before I’m flat on the ledge. I pull the preserver in, gathering the attached rope foot by foot by foot. The raft nears. Closer, closer. The figure inside comes into clear view. A boy. With dark hair and broad shoulders that accent his narrow hips.

  A boy so familiar, I almost drop the rope.

  A boy I know so well, I nearly tumble to the sea.

  This can’t be happening.

  My heart can’t take it.

  Fifteen

  Merrick

  The car idled at the corner of two major cross streets—if they could be called that. This town could fit inside San Fran’s little finger.

  Merrick stared at the longest traffic light in history. Maybe his glare would force it to turn green.

  “Patience, compadre.” Grim clapped Merrick’s shoulder, then slouched low in the driver’s seat of his ’89 Chevy Camaro.

  The thing was ancient and Merrick was pretty sure his friend used burger grease to wipe the leather seats, but it was more than Merrick had to his name.

  “What do you need a car for, Son?” Ah, the wise words of San Francisco’s king. “We have chauffeurs.”

  For a man who claimed to believe in hard work, Merrick wondered if the man ever lifted a thumbnail for himself.

  The light blinked a green eye and Grim eased onto the gas, the exhaust spitting out a motorcycle-like noise. An elderly woman with an umbrella in one hand and a hankie in the other glared their way from her perch on the sidewalk corner.

  Merrick slunk down. “How long have you had this thing?”

  Grim honked and rolled down his window. “Good evening, Mrs. Oliver!”

  Mrs. Oliver eyed them as they passed. Was she familiar? No. At this point Merrick would have thought—or hoped—everyone looked familiar. The more people from his past he could find, the closer he would come to his mom.

  “Don’t judge an old lady by her grumpiness, comrade. You never know what’s going on behind her cold gaze.”

  Sure enough, a quick peek back at the woman revealed where she was headed. Merrick watched her amble, slow and sure, toward the town cemetery. It was dark, but Merrick thought he caught a glimpse of flowers in her hand.

  The sight stung and a thought he’d be ashamed to speak aloud rose to the surface. Better to have someone die, to leave you behind against their will, than to abandon you on purpose.

  The beach town’s sidewalks were barren aside from dog-walking, night-jogging locals. Things wouldn’t pick up again until late May when Memorial Day flags flew and ice cream shops had lines out the doors.

  “So why’d you guys stop coming to my beach?” Grim had a way of reading his mind.

  Even after so many years, Merrick had to smirk when his friend called it his beach. “It’s complicated.”

  “Our summer parties aren’t the same without you, mon frère. I’ve had to set off fireworks from the beach all by my lonesome. It’s a shame.”

  Merrick’s laugh shook his shoulders. “Not much of an interesting story, I’m afraid. Same old Hiroshi for you.”

  “Ah.” Flipping the blinker, Grim changed lanes without a glance. “That’s right. I saw your summer property in the local ads. Sold for, what, a few million?”

  “Yeah. He said the money could be invested in more important things than a vacation home.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “Education. Other businesses. Elbow rubbing and behind kissing.” Nikki’s face appeared in his mind. The dinner at Gary Danko had been several hundred, easy. Chump change to his father. An easy spend for a big deal.

  One hand on the wheel, Merrick’s oldest friend drove as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “You know, just because he doesn’t show up doesn’t mean you have to follow in his footsteps.”

  There he was. Grim had never been one to hold back his thoughts.

  “I’m not like him,” Merrick said.

  “Hate to break it to you, pal, but you are.”

  Merrick pressed his lips and ground his teeth. He was exhausted and he wasn’t going to argue. “I appreciate everything. I only need a place to crash tonight. Then I’m gone.” He would have gone back to the hotel or even hopped a bus back home tonight, but he could barely keep his eyes open. After the day he’d had, all he wanted was sleep.

  At a four-way stop, Grim turned to face him. “Stay as long as you please. Invite Amaya if you want. How old is she now?”

  “Ten.”

  “Whoa. Already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.” A car pulled up behind them and honked. Grim eased on the gas after looking both ways. “My mom is abroad for a while. Paris, Italy, the works. She’s wanted to travel for years, and I’m not a kid anymore. So I have the castle to myself and nothing but sunshine days ahead, my friend.”

  Merrick laughed. “I almost forgot you call the beach house a castle.”

  “Make no mistake, mate—that’s what she is.” He turned the knob on the radio, raising the volume more on static than melody. “Mi castle es su castle.”

  Merrick considered the offer.

  Grim had the beach house to himself. His mom was gone.

  It was too perfect.

  “Tell me about your girl.” Grim changed lanes as quickly as he changed the subject. The car’s blinker sounded like a dying cricket.

  “My girl?”

  “Yeah, the one I see you with online and stuff. And in those grocery store checkout lanes. The magazines.”

  Magazines. Right. Tabloids was more appropriate. News they were not. But gossip? Bingo. “Not much to tell, I guess.”

  Grim whistled. “I don’t know, Romeo. You two looked pretty cozy in those pictures.”

  Merrick scratched the back of his head, wishing to the king of the ocean, if there was such a thing, they could talk about anything else. “Looks can deceive.”

  Grim waited.

  Merrick tugged on the seat belt. Was it trying to strangle him? “I don’t know, man. Nikki’s nice. Great legs. Pretty smile.”

  “Good kisser?” Grim elbowed him.

  Ha. Understatement of the year. “Yeah. But she’s . . .”

  “Not your one.”

  His one. As nonexistent as mermaids. He was about to tell Grim everything. About Nikki’s “I love you” and Amaya’s ambulance ride. But then Merrick’s phone buzzed. He slipped it from his pocket and stared at the name that flashed across the screen.

  Dad.

  “You need to answer that?” Grim asked.

  “Nope.”

  When it buzzed again, Merrick set the vibrate setting to silent.

  He’d talk to his father eventually. But only after he got Maya out of there.

  “Did you mean what you said? The whole mi castle es su castle thing?”

  Grim feigned offense. “Would I lead you on, my friend?”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.” The plan turned to action. “In that case, I’ll need to borrow your car.”

>   Sixteen

  Coral

  Something sour and tasting of polluted water burned in Coral’s throat.

  The farther they swam from the palace, the more an invisible anchor weighted her. Where she thought she might feel freedom, she only felt more pain.

  What would the crown princess think of all this?

  Coral had always gone to her oldest sister for answers. Advice. Wisdom. Now a hollowness expanded her chest, and it was all she could do to just keep swimming before that feeling consumed her.

  It seemed a century had passed before she and her grandmother reached Last Village—the one situated at their merdom’s easternmost edge. Coral had never ventured here—to the last signs of life before the Abyss. There had never been a need. Where moonlight pierced the depths in scarce columns moments before, darkness now dwelled. Black, ink-drenched ocean stretched as far as she could see. No seabed. No surface. Oblivion. The beginning of the end. A few more miles and they’d be lost. Never able to find their way back.

  Coral shifted her focus to the small village nestled before them. Whoever thought to build homes here must have enjoyed solitude. Or shadows. Or privacy.

  All of the above.

  Shoulders taut and eyes ahead, Coral searched the homes for signs of life. A few windows glowed with the soft light of a captive crystal jellyfish. With her grandmother in the lead, they made their way through the forgotten village. Past dilapidated old homes built from shipwreck remnants. So different from her regal palace accommodations. Some doors appeared to hang on their hinges, the wood planks rotting with wide cracks or holes in between. Helms acted as window coverings. Masts stood as signposts. Rudders played as fences or gates.

  The path took some work to navigate. With little light and zero familiarity with this place, Coral would have gotten lost had it not been for her grandmother. When their way turned into a dead end, Coral stopped.

  “What now?”

  Her grandmother turned, setting Coral’s trunk down in the sand. “My sweet Coral. There is so much to tell you now that you are finally free of your cage.”

  My cage? “What do you mean?”