I shed my clothes, stashing them under a bush. My pale, iridescent skin glinted under the moonlight. The sound of the city night, honking horns and distant voices, faded away as I waded into the chilly water. The reservoir bottom was soft and sticky, sucking at my toes. I walked until the water reached my waist and the tips of my hair were wet. This water felt so very different from the salty water of the ocean. Instead of promising instinct, it promised humanity.
It was now or never. I dove in head-first. My legs melded into my powerful tail and my gills opened, pulling the freshwater in and pushing the salt out.
8
I cried out under the water. The sound of grief emanated from my siren's throat like a thousand weeping violins. It spread out through the reservoir, coming from nowhere and everywhere.
Cancer. My mom had died of cancer. Even mermaids aren't immune to the disease.
No, it's not possible, Mom. How is that possible?
I spent years swimming in the Irish sea, darling. It wasn't until years later that I learned it is the most radioactive sea in the world. I should never have been there. I just couldn't tell. I don't read water as well as some.
What can we do? There must be something we can do!?
I can't submit myself to the hospital for care. I'm not human. It's too risky. Don't weep, luv. Please just listen to me. I still have so much to teach you...
We'd lost her in less than four months. My father, Hal? He broke. After thirty years of alcohol-free living, he started drinking again. And with the drinking, came the anger.
The grief hit us both like a wrecking ball: the crippling, heart-rending, soul-destroying agony of loss. I had never experienced that kind of emotional pain before in my young life. I wasn't supposed to lose my mom. We were sirens, we could live for centuries. I was poisoned by sorrow. The only thing that relieved the pain was saltwater.
At first, I was afraid to leave my father, afraid he would drink himself into a coffin. I would go for short swims only, and the grief would melt away like cotton candy. But the moment my feet hit shore and air filled my lungs, the loss would come hurtling back to knock me sideways. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I was incapable of helping my father and he was incapable of helping me. We were beyond one another's reach. So I ran to the ocean and I never looked back. As the years passed and the salt claimed me, my memories faded, and with them, the pain.
I wept siren tears into the fresh-water. My voice, after the initial rush of grief, went silent. The tears just came, swallowed up by the reservoir. My palm clutched at my heart, surprised by the actual physical pain I felt as the memories came flooding back.
Now listen to me, darling. You'll have to go to sea without me.
No, I don't want to Mom. I can't. I won't go without you.
You have to. You'll never be able to have a daughter of your own if you don't live in the ocean for a while. A siren's life goes in cycles... it's the salt that makes you fertile. Let the salt tell you when to enter and when to leave, it will speak to you loud and clear. The salt will be your mother until you're ready to have a child of your own.
I hadn’t wanted to hear it. If I couldn't go to sea with her then I wouldn't go at all. Not ever.
Please, you have to do this for me, Mira. I need to know you won't wait. You must go. Your father will survive. He's human, he's got his own road to walk. Promise me you won't wait? I won’t die peacefully if I think you'll stay on land, attached to a ghost.
Why is it so important?
Because, eventually you will go to sea. The call of the salt will become irresistible. Then you'll be at risk to be consumed, you could stay in too long, get too much salt. A siren's life has to go in cycles and if you fight the natural order and rhythm of things you could lose yourself completely. You'd be no different from any other predator in the ocean. Once you're that far gone, there is no coming back. Promise me...
In the end I'd promised her, through a downpour of silent siren tears.
I crawled out of the reservoir on my hands and knees. Salty tears still poured from my eyes. No sobbing, no sound. We don't cry the way humans do. I remembered the awful sound of my father's gut-wrenching sobs coming through the bedroom door. I was crying too, right next door. But my weeping was soundless, and very very wet.
I sat naked on the muddy bank of the reservoir with my forehead resting on my on my knees. I took steady breaths, willing the tears to slow. I had a new reality to face now. I was back on land, ready to rebuild a human life, make my own family. I didn't have to be alone forever. I could find love in the arms of a man. I could make another siren like me. It is what we are wired to do.
I wiped my face and squatted in the water to rinse the mud off my haunches. I wrung out my hair and twisted it into a rope. I pulled my clothes over damp skin and donned on my socks and sneakers. I began to climb the hill back to the trail that ran behind my new home.
9
I opened the industrial-strength dishwasher in a cloud of steam and began to stack the sterilized dishes without waiting for them to dry.
"Careful, Mira. You'll burn your hands." Phil entered the kitchen carrying a tray full of empty beer mugs. "I've run an injury-free kitchen for four years and I won't have you ruin my streak."
"What d'you think, Phil?" Crystal backed into the kitchen behind him and spun around, both hands full of dirty dishes. "She the best little dish-hucker I ever seen."
"Saw," Phil corrected.
"Maybe you can fast-track her?" Crystal suggested. "An amazing face like that ought to be wait'n tables and get'n tips, not doing the washing up. Get your nephew back in here to do dishes. Keep his lazy ass off the street."
Phil sighed. "Easier said than done. But we do need another waitress. What do you think, Mira? Want to give it a shot?"
"Of course." I wasn't going to meet any men back here in the kitchen, I needed to be out front. Listening to male voices laughing and talking on the other side of the kitchen door for the last several weeks had been torturous for me.
It was agreed. During the next week, Phil equipped me with an apron and showed me how to work the computer. Crystal ran through the basics of serving with me.
"This'll be so fun," she’d squealed, her face lighting up. "We're going to be a dynamic duo. We're almost like negatives of each other; you with black hair, pale skin and blue eyes and me with blonde hair, a tan and brown eyes. The guys will love it. You'll be the mysterious introvert and I'll be the annoying extrovert. I know I talk enough for both of us." She batted her eyelashes and laughed.
Crystal's mood never faltered. I had yet to see her frown, pout, or whine. She never asked me where I had been or where I was going, she left me to my business but was good company while we were together.
She'd accidentally walked in on me in the bathroom one evening, right as I was about to cut my hair. I had tied it into a ponytail right in the center of my forehead and had sharp silver shears in my hand.
"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, and backed out of the bathroom. Just before she shut the door she poked her head back in. "What are you doing?"
"Cutting my hair." Wasn't it obvious?
"Like that?" She came into the bathroom, took the long ponytail hanging in front of my face and moved it to the side so she could see my eyes. "What is this magic you speak of?"
"My mom taught me.”
She watched, fascinated, as I showed her how to trim it straight across. I chose to cut it at chest-height, so it would still be long.
"Whoa..." she breathed. "Dude." She held the waste-basket up to catch almost two feet of my glossy blue-black hair. "You know there are professionals who can do this for you, right? I mean, I know you're hard up for cash, but..."
I took out the elastic and shook my hair back to its proper place. It fell in shiny perfect layers.
"Holy crap! Why didn't you do this sooner? You look way better. You kind of had a bit of a cave-woman thing goin' on there."
I smiled at her honesty. And I was pleased to
observe that it was getting easier for me to remember my manners. Mermaids are not known for their social skills. It was a particular weakness of mine and probably always would be, no matter how much fresh water I drank.
Crystal lived in a two-bedroom bungalow. The house was old and the floors creaked, but it was full of charm. It had hardwood trim, a bay window, and mosaic kitchen counters.
She'd carried my gym bag full of new clothing and toiletries up the steps and into the house that first day, presenting me proudly with the empty bedroom. The room was large and drafty but the tall windows were cheery and bright. Her bedroom was directly across the living room from mine, the only division a pot-bellied stove. Behind the wood stove was a galley kitchen and round breakfast table with handmade wooden chairs. We had a single couch sitting under the bay window, facing the stove.
"It gets super cozy here in winter," she said, as she explained how the wood stove worked. "We can curl up and watch movies together," she dimpled. "If you stay of course. And I hope you do."
I hadn't watched a movie in a decade. It was a human pleasure I looked forward to again.
The Sea Dog and Crystal's bungalow became the two points which my life revolved around and between. Within a few weeks I was juggling my serving tasks nearly as well as Crystal and the two of us worked together without friction. I looked back at the day I met her with gratitude. Hers was a presence I did not have to tolerate but was lucky enough to actually enjoy. The same could not be said for many of the patrons.
Phil too, although Crystal labeled him as OCD, which I hadn't entirely grasped the meaning of, was kind and patient. I had a feeling that good servers were hard to come by in Saltford and he needed me. There were things they had to teach me that I should have known already, I could tell from the glances they exchanged when they thought I wasn't looking. I made sure they only had to correct me once. Long-term siren memory is dismal to put it kindly, but our short-term memory is sharp as a whip.
As I transitioned back into human life, I guzzled liters of pure water every day. It flushed my system of the siren instinct and clarified my memory and social skills. Already, the previous eight years of siren life was beginning to seem like a dream.
10
It was late at night when I heard his voice. We had one last table of men in the restaurant, all Phil's friends. Phil had locked the front doors and pulled up a chair to have a beer with his buddies. Every Saturday night for the last couple of weeks had ended this way. I was bussing tables and the men were laughing and rehashing the first hockey game of the season. Serving was great for being exposed to men, but so far, he hadn't turned up. That was ok. I knew it could take years. I was prepared to wait. I was often graced with looks from the men at the table but did nothing to encourage any of them. None of them were him.
How will I know when I meet him, Mom?
You don't have to worry about that, darling. You'll know. Trust me.
There was a knock on the door and Phil got up to open it. A blast of cold air blew my hair into my face.
"You made it, buddy!" exclaimed Phil. "We were beginning to think you were eaten by a bear way up there in the boonies. Welcome back."
There was the sound of backslaps and laughter, and then, "I almost was. Remind me never to pull off the road in the dark for a nap ever again."
The sound of his voice resonated through my core, vibrating like he'd plucked a tightly wound string running through me from head to toe. My head snapped up.
"I parked in the middle of a dump thinking it was just a nice little cul-de-sac, perfect place for some shut-eye," the voice continued. "I woke up to grunting noises and opened my eyes to six grizzlies eating garbage all around my truck." He laughed and the sound warmed me all over. A new scent drifted my way––pine trees, sawdust, and him. I gripped the table at the sudden wave of desire that coursed through me.
I turned around to face the voice. He was shucking his coat and laughing while he told Phil his story. The table of men lifted their beers to welcome their friend, and I heard a few of them call, "Nathan! Welcome home buddy!"
Nathan.
I was half-hidden in an alcove. The Sea Dog had many such nooks, modeled after a ship like it was. I stared at him from the shadows. He was wearing a simple cotton sweater, jeans, work boots, and a baseball cap. The clipped beard and the hair curling out from under his hat was the color of copper. His cheeks were flushed from the crisp outdoor air.
Nathan doffed his cap and threw it on the hat rack beside the door. He had broad shoulders, long legs and arms, a lean stomach, a broad jaw, straight teeth, big hands... my eyes took in all of this biological information, and then moved to his expression. His face communicated a kind heart, a sweetness not seen in most male faces. He greeted each of the men at the table by name and with genuine care. He shook hands, slapped backs, and even hugged.
Here was a man who could father my child. Here was a man I could love.
Nathan turned a chair backward and sat down facing his friends, laughing and talking.
Phil slung Nathan's canvas jacket over the back of a chair as he spotted me. "Mira, do you mind pouring Nathan a pint? He likes the bitter."
I came to life. Going behind the bar, I took a beer glass and pumped the tap the way Phil had taught me. I filled the glass carefully, ensuring the head was just the right size. I delivered the bitter to the table, my eyes on Nathan alone. I couldn’t have looked elsewhere if I had tried. I had found him. I was in shock at how quickly it had happened, but there was no denying it. Nathan was my guy.
Nathan saw me in his periphery as I set his beer on the table in front of him. He turned and looked into my eyes. My heart thudded painfully, like I was trying to swallow something lodged in my chest. Rich dark brown eyes, warm and soft. Dark lashes with blonde tips. Copper colored eyebrows.
My mother’s voice played through my mind: If there is a man alive who can resist the call of a siren when she's got her sights set on him, I haven't met him.
He smiled at me and his gaze passed to Phil. "Phil, you hired a new girl? What happened to Theresa?"
What had he felt? Anything? My heart was throbbing like a gong but he'd given no indication that he'd felt anything when he'd looked into my eyes.
Phil answered: "Yeah, Theresa moved to Kingston. Going back to school."
"Well, aren't you going to introduce us?" Without waiting, he extended his hand. "Nathan MacAuley, nice to meet you. Welcome to the Sea Dog. Don't take any grief from these goons, alright?"
His hand was large, warm and calloused. It swallowed my own cool hand. My fingertips tingled when he let go, and the feeling swept up my arm and straight into my heart.
I smiled. "Mira Belshaw, nice to meet you, too. These goons are tolerable," I said. The guys chuckled and went back to their conversation. I didn't know what else to say. I was a siren, not a flirt. All I needed was a few minutes alone with him and he'd be mine for good. My kind of magic was made for just this purpose, to catch my perfect mate.
I went back to cleaning tables, but my ears were tuned to Nathan the entire time. He didn't look my way again, he was wrapped up in conversation. From what I could gather, he'd been working far up north on a construction project that had taken him all summer and he'd finally finished it. Now he was back in Saltford for good, the remote job done.
I was carrying a tray of dirty glasses to the back when the kitchen door flew open and Crystal came exploding out. "Naaaaaaathaaaaaannn!" she shrieked. She gave a little hop, planted her butt on top of the bar, spun around and dropped over the other side.
Nathan's face lit up and, abandoning his storytelling, he got up and crossed the room. Crystal leapt into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. He grasped her in a bear hug and the two of them kissed.
I froze, the tray forgotten. Horrified, I watched as their kiss went from 'welcome home' to 'let's go home together'.
11
I jumped at the sound of glass breaking. All eyes snapped to me in a comical eff
ect, like a cluster of birds. Nathan and Crystal broke their kiss to see what the crash was.
I'd dropped the tray, and a dozen glasses had shattered across the floor.
"Oh, honey." Crystal hopped off Nathan. She gave him another kiss and I heard her whisper, "Boy have I missed you. You. Me. Later." Then she came over to help me. "Don't worry, I break stuff all the time. I'll grab the broom."
"Sorry Phil." My voice was hollow, void of tone. I didn't give a crap about the glasses. I wasn't even embarrassed. I was too confused by the foreign emotions welling up inside me: jealousy, disappointment, panic, denial. How could I have imprinted with a man who was already taken? And taken by a woman who'd been so kind to me? Why hadn't she mentioned she had a boyfriend? Maybe it wouldn't have changed who I fell for, but at least I wouldn't have been taken so off-guard.
Phil waved it off. "No worries, Mira. Occupational hazard." The men went back to their conversation.
Nathan stepped close and removed some chairs to clear the way for easier sweeping. "I'm glad I'm not the only one around here who breaks stuff." He smiled and gave me a friendly wink. My heart flopped over like a griddle-cake. I watched his back as Nathan returned to his friends and sat down.
I cleaned up in a daze. Mom had not prepared me for this, at least, not that I could recall with this damn patchy siren memory. I had no control over which memories came back and which didn't. I wracked my brains to recall if she had given me any instructions in the event that my he was already taken. I suspected that most sirens would just take him and the other woman be damned.
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