Coral

by Sara Ella

  “Hoarded is more accurate.” His tone exuded cynicism.

  Coral inhaled and brushed off the comment. He’s not frustrated with me, just the situation. We’re close and he’s taking it out on me. It’s fine. We’re fine.

  Merrick crossed to the next box. The contents would probably lead them to more dead ends, but she kept quiet. She wanted her Merrick back. She would do whatever it took to keep his hope alive.

  “Why does she take such an interest in other people’s old memories?”

  “She said she thinks someone needs to remember them.” Coral shifted, watching him. “If they get thrown out, it would be as if they never existed. My grandmother hates that. Maybe it’s because she’s old and sees an end to her own memory.”

  He nodded.

  Her heart twisted. He’d told her last week that some days he couldn’t remember the sound of his mom’s voice or the exact blue of her eyes. She asked him questions, letting him remember Lyn through spoken words. When they were apart, Coral wrote those words down, hoping to save them for Merrick. Wanting to make some part of his mom permanent for him, even if the woman never came back.

  Merrick picked through the box with cobwebs stuck to its corners. A spider crawled out and Merrick flicked it away. He dug deep, withdrawing book after book, dusting each one off before setting it in a pile to the side.

  The final book he recovered was one of those coffee table books with a bunch of professional photos in it. The title read Lighthouse Legacy.

  Merrick stared at it as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “What is it?”

  “This photo,” Merrick said. “It’s . . . I’ve seen it before.” He dusted off the cover and plopped beside Coral on the floor.

  They looked through the book together, with the spine resting between their touching knees. The photos on each page seemed to tell a story. Coral found herself getting lost in the images, in the captions that relayed the history of each abandoned place. One lighthouse, the same as the one on the cover, had been turned into a bed-and-breakfast and museum.

  Merrick was fixed on it.

  Coral stayed quiet. She didn’t want to interrupt the gears that clearly turned in his mind.

  “I have seen this before.” Merrick held the page closer.

  She leaned in. His scent drove her mad. She wanted to hide in his arms. She wanted him to assure her that, no matter what happened, he’d never leave.

  Her own insecurities made her ill.

  She moved away an inch.

  Merrick didn’t seem to notice. He cleared his throat and stood, leaving the book on the floor.

  Why did a treasure hunt always have to end?

  Merrick needs this season to end. So he can start a new one, even if it’s one without his mom. Or me.

  Coral rose and neared him. She placed a hand on his arm and tugged. “Talk to me.”

  Merrick turned but didn’t meet her gaze. “This whole thing is . . . It’s pointless.” He punched an empty box and sent it flying across the attic.

  Her hand rested over her heart. “Did something happen?” She tried to draw him in but he pulled away. Was this how he felt when she’d kept her distance?

  “A lot of stuff happened.”

  She wrung her hands, then shoved them into her back pockets. Coral tried to forget about the pearls on her wrist. The ones that served as a constant reminder he still hadn’t helped her find the prince.

  He hadn’t kept his promise.

  “I know,” she said.

  “Do you?”

  The words hit their mark. Because he was right. She didn’t know. Coral understood his sister had struggled with depression. That his dad was a jerk. And his mom was missing—left? But what else did Coral know about the boy she’d so easily fallen for?

  No, easily wasn’t the right word. It hadn’t been easy. She’d never wanted to let him in.

  But then she did.

  “Maybe I need a break.” His heartless words fired at will.

  Bursts of red splashed across Coral’s vision.

  Red. Red. Red.

  And the tide came crashing down.

  “A break.” She repeated his word. It hadn’t been a question. “A break from me.” She held on to the wall to keep from falling.

  “No.” He started toward her but stopped short. “I don’t know.” He held his head between his hands and shook it. Too much time passed before he met her eyes.

  Red turned to a cool and numbing black. Unlike the night of her birthday, Coral did not fight the shadows as they closed in. “You don’t know.” Her flat words tasted bitter. He didn’t know.

  He didn’t know.

  “I don’t know what I mean.” Merrick took one step toward her. Two. “I care about you, but—”

  “But,” she finished for him, “you don’t want this. You don’t want me.”

  Coral wanted Merrick to refute the statement. To assure her it wasn’t that at all.

  Instead, he said nothing.

  She found the words for him. “You lied. Pinky promises?” She shook her head. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Coral couldn’t go on. She didn’t want to.

  “I didn’t lie. I care about you. I’m confused. I’m exhausted. I’m . . .”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m sorry.” His shoulders slumped.

  And that was it.

  Coral glanced at the open book on the floor, then back at Merrick. “Take it. Take it and go.”

  She took the stairs two at a time and fled out the door and toward the beach. When she reached the water, she didn’t stop. Fully clothed and heart breaking, she dove beneath the waves. She stayed under until her lungs burned and the salt water stung her throat. When she finally surfaced, Coral gazed at the empty beach and, behind it, her grandmother’s cottage.

  Both were empty.

  And Merrick never returned.

  Thirty-Eight

  Brooke

  After

  It takes four hours to reach the Church in the Forest at Pebble Beach. It’s beautiful, full of light and giant windows looking out over the trees. The pews are packed so our group files into one near the doors.

  I spot a familiar face a few rows ahead. Mee-Maw catches my eye before she faces the front again. We’ve talked a few more times over the phone this past month, but this is the first time I’ve seen her since I moved to Fathoms. I refused her visits at the hospital last spring. Now, as I take my seat at the end of a pew, all I can think about is how much Hope would urge me to make things right before it’s too late.

  Music plays and a pastor stands to speak. I lean into the aisle and spot Hope’s dad at the front. He’s sitting with shoulders straight and face forward. I smooth my hands over my dress and convince myself to find him afterward. No matter how awkward or difficult, I know Hope would want me to say something to her dad.

  Just as everyone bows their head in prayer, a woman rushes past me and finds a place at the end of one pew a few rows forward. I watch her through the slits in my eyelids. Her hair is the first thing I notice. The color of a summer sunset—the same color as Hope’s.

  Her mom?

  Rage ebbs and it’s all I can do to remain in my seat. I clench my fists. So much of me wants to storm the aisle and give this woman a piece of my mind. Now she shows up? Now? She couldn’t have shown up this summer when Hope needed her most? Or how about last year when the girl too young to drive a car or know anything about the world attempted suicide not once, but twice?

  I’m fuming, trying my hardest to see her through the lens Hope wore. Hope, the smartest, brightest, most outgoing, encouraging, positive person I’ve ever known.

  How did that happen? One of the few people who made an impact on my decision to stay, to try, to keep going, is the same person who left me behind because she couldn’t do it anymore.

  What they say is true, I guess. And by they I mean those who see us as statistics, as numbers, rather than as human beings. While programs like Fathoms h
ave so much potential to help pave a path toward healing, there’s still the possibility, after everything, that someone will commit suicide anyway.

  “I prefer to say ‘die by suicide,’” Jake said once. “Commit implies on purpose. In your right mind. Suicide is the result of an illness, Brooke. I don’t believe anyone really chooses it in the end.”

  I imagine Hope. There in her bathroom. The pills she took sit on the edge of the sink. Her face is streaked with tears. She considers flushing the poison for the briefest moment. She glances at the door. She looks at her phone. She waits.

  But Hope was tired of waiting.

  She texted me that day—the day I toured Berkeley. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t bring myself to read the message until two days later. I guess a part of me feared it would be a cry for help. Something that might have altered her decision had I answered. But it wasn’t.

  I turn on my phone now and read the text again. I’ve read it so many times, tried to find some sort of secret code, a hint between the lines. But no matter how much I deconstruct it, I find zero significance in her words.

  I think I’m converting. Jess isn’t right for Rory. Team Logan for the win.

  Had I replied, I would have argued that of course Jess was right for Rory and how could she think otherwise? I’ve thought about sending the text anyway, though I know she’ll never respond.

  Even now, I shake my head and smile. Gilmore Girls? That’s what was on her mind the day she stopped fighting? I love and hate her for it. Why didn’t she call me? Why didn’t she text me a thousand times until I picked up?

  She didn’t want to be stopped. There was a time I felt the same.

  I know how difficult it is when the world becomes overwhelming or the thoughts of numbness, the end of pain, take over. For Hope, it was too much. And no matter what I did or said or how much better things got, there was still the chance she’d choose to say good-bye.

  Third time’s a charm, I hear her say in my head.

  I scowl at the dark joke I know she would have told to lighten this morose day. Her favorite times to laugh came during the most inappropriate moments. I want to scold her in her twelve-year-old body with her fifty-year-old mind. I want to scream her name and tell her this isn’t fair and how could she and why is this happening again?

  This hurts worse than the first time I lost someone this way.

  Because, this time, I allow myself to cry.

  This time, I feel it all the way down to my drowning, bleeding soul.

  Thirty-Nine

  Merrick

  Merrick kicked himself. Then he punched a throw pillow and threw it across Grim’s living room.

  He’d blown it. Big-time. Rather than confiding his doubts and frustrations in the one person who understood, he’d done the very thing Coral did to him. He’d run. He’d run so far and so fast he didn’t know if he could find his way back.

  Maybe she didn’t understand him after all. She hadn’t even given him a chance to explain. Coral assumed the worst. She’d use whatever excuse she could if it meant she didn’t have to feel pain.

  “She’s infuriating!”

  “Who’s infuriating?”

  Merrick looked up.

  Maya stood at the bottom of the stairs. Completely dressed with hair done and makeup on. She looked way too old with so much dark, dramatic gunk on her face. “Where are you going?”

  “Do I have to be going somewhere to get ready for the day?”

  “Have you been taking selfies?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “And posting them online?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Myyyy-uh.”

  “Merrrr-ick.”

  Make that two females who infuriated him. “You know you’re not supposed to be on social media.”

  “You’re not my dad.”

  “Thank the universe for that.” He regretted the words before they had completely left his mouth. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. You know I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for earlier too.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” She crossed to the kitchen counter and picked up the lighthouse book he’d brought home. “What’s this?”

  “A book I found. I thought the picture on the cover seemed familiar.”

  “This looks like the painting in my room.”

  Merrick rose from his place on the couch and moved beside her. “What painting?”

  “The one in my room,” she said again. “The one of the Lighthouse Inn.”

  He watched her. Dark circles not even makeup could conceal lined her blue eyes. Her hair was curled but clearly hadn’t been washed in days. Maya was spiraling. And Merrick could do nothing to stop it.

  “We’ve been there before,” she said.

  Lighthouse Inn? He racked his brain but couldn’t remember ever having gone. “Mom used to take us there?” he guessed.

  Maya shook her head. “No, but Dad did once.”

  Merrick couldn’t picture his father ever taking them anywhere that didn’t benefit him.

  “You don’t remember?”

  He usually tried to forget any time he’d spent with his dad. He couldn’t remember it ever being pleasant.

  “I was five. You were thirteen. Mom wanted to come here during spring vacation. We stayed at our old beach house. The one Dad sold a few years later?”

  How did she remember all of this? Nothing sounded familiar.

  “Mom had a meltdown the second day of spring break.”

  “Probably because Dad pushed her into one.”

  Maya pursed her lips. “I remember you took me down to the shore to search for seashells until she stopped crying.”

  His father had probably said something to make her that way. The man was heartless.

  “Dad came and found us on the beach,” Maya said. “He took us for a drive along the coast and we stopped at the Lighthouse Inn. We had lunch and went to the museum. He even showed us the spot where he proposed to Mom, right at the top of the lighthouse. I can’t believe you don’t remember. That was the best day ever.”

  Merrick sat stunned. Dumbfounded. Had he suppressed that memory? He remembered the seashells and his mom crying now that Maya mentioned it. But he’d completely blocked the part about his dad taking them for the drive.

  Why?

  Maya picked up the book. She said something but it didn’t register.

  Merrick blinked. “What?”

  “Can I have this?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Go for it.”

  She tucked it under one arm and headed upstairs while Merrick stared at the wall.

  The place where his dad proposed.

  It was too easy. Too close.

  All this time?

  He wanted to call Coral. He wanted to ask her to come with him. She might not respond, but there was no one else he’d rather tell.

  Merrick texted Grim. Will you be back soon?

  The response came quick. Later this evening.

  He drummed his fingers on the counter. Grim was with Nikki. Later this evening could mean midnight. He texted Coral. He didn’t want her to feel used, but that’s how she would feel, especially after how he’d treated her. She overthought everything and it drove him crazy and made him want to scream.

  There would never be anyone else who made him feel a million things at once.

  He tapped out a quick sentence and sent it before he started overthinking too. I’m sorry. Can you meet me at Grim’s? I found something.

  Merrick forwarded the address before he could doubt himself. His words would come off shallow, short, and far too distant. He looked at the ceiling. Amaya had turned on the shower. He never left her alone. She’d probably rinse off, then sleep all afternoon. He didn’t want to invite her, get her hopes up in case he was wrong. He checked the time on his phone. He scanned his texts. Turned his phone off, then back on to make sure he wasn’t missing anything.

  Coral did not respond. She was still mad. Of course she was. He’d blown it.

>   One thing at a time, Merrick. One thing at a time.

  He could be to the lighthouse and back in an hour if he hurried. Grim’s car was in the garage since Nikki had picked him up.

  I’ll be gone an hour. An hour. That’s it.

  Merrick scribbled a quick note and left it on the counter where Maya would see it if she returned to the kitchen. He grabbed Grim’s keys off the hook and headed out into the late summer sun.

  By the end of the day, everything would be back to normal.

  Forty

  Coral

  Coral stared at the computer screen. She read the list again. Blinked. Her name remained.

  She was a finalist? Coral’s short story was going to the statewide Young Literary competition? She sucked in her lower lip. She should tell Miss Brandes the news. But school didn’t start for another week and she doubted her counselor would be in her office.

  Coral would have to wait until Wednesday when they had their weekly library meeting. She had finally started to feel comfortable around the group, and that was partly due to Merrick. She found herself searching for him now, hoping he was at the library. Dreading it at the same time.

  After logging out of her email on the library’s computer, Coral pushed away from the desk and walked casually down each aisle.

  He’s not here. You’re not going to run into him.

  I’m not trying to run into him. I’m looking at books.

  Sure you are. Keep telling yourself that.

  The argument with herself was not one she could win. She missed her best friend and it had only been a few hours. He’d hurt her, but after taking a step back, she wanted to give him a chance to explain. She should have done as much this morning, but the pain of his seeming rejection blinded her. Now all she wanted to do was apologize and try again.

  His kisses were real. He was real. They were real.

  It couldn’t have all been a fantasy. Their story was no fairy tale, but he was kind and understanding and patient.

  She loved him.

  She would finally tell him so.