Seven Tears into the Sea

by Terri Farley

  Zack squared off as if he wanted to fight. “I have a job at the arcade. And I’m not homeless, you know.”

  Talk about defensive, I mean, offering him a summer job wasn’t the same thing as—I felt a twinge of guilt—suggesting he lived behind a dumpster.

  “Of course not,” Nana said, brushing his paranoia aside. “The Marlinspike was still docked in the harbor last time I looked.”

  The Marlinspike must be a boat. Did that mean he lived on it? The stench from the alley surged up in my memory, and I remembered the heavy clouds of diesel that had hung on the air those mornings I’d gone down to the harbor with Mom. Living on a fishing boat wouldn’t be ritzy, that’s for sure.

  “Hey, yeah,” Zack said as he pointed at me. “Gwennie.”

  He wasn’t so wasted he couldn’t remember me, I guess.

  From everyone else my childhood nickname had sounded sweet. He gave it the singsong whine of a bully, and that’s probably why I stood up, walked past the table, and thrust out my hand, forcing him to shake with me.

  “So, you livin’ in Cook’s Cottage?” he glanced over his shoulder at his friends. “Maybe you could use some company.”

  There was nothing wrong with his words, but the way he said them was scary. A flare of fear made me mean.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe you could ride your bike over.”

  He blushed. “Yeah, and maybe I could pay your sea lions a visit.”

  I didn’t recover half as fast as he had. It was a threat. And the way he slung his thumb through a belt loop and raised his chin—that was a dare. Just tell me to stay away and see what happens. I could hear it, though he didn’t say a word, and I didn’t egg him on. I guess Nana didn’t hear what I did, because she kind of scolded him.

  “The sea lions in Mirage cove are a protected species,” Nana said. There was no mistaking her warning.

  “We don’t need more seal huggers,” he growled at me. “Tourists or locals.”

  I’d heard environmentalists called “tree huggers.” I guessed this was the same thing, but it sounded silly.

  “Oh now, Zack,” Nana tsked. “You know sea lions aren’t to blame for this area being fished out.”

  “No, I don’t know that, Mrs. Cook.”

  Half polite, half rude, he turned and swaggered off down the street. The knot of boys outside the Merry Mermaid broke up and followed after him.

  All but one.

  It had to be the tall guy who’d been lurking in the alley doorway. The same guy I’d talked to at the cove. I knew that, but I didn’t know why my hands were shaking.

  “That boy in jeans and the black T-shirt, there by the Merry Mermaid,” I said suddenly. “Who is he, Nana?”

  For a second I thought she’d miss him. He slipped from the doorway and walked down the street, mingling with the crowd but never disappearing because of his height.

  “I don’t know,” Nana said slowly, but she was rubbing the spot between her brows as she had when she tried to do my reading last night. “Not a local boy, I don’t think.”

  Nana’s eyes searched mine.

  “I talked with him on the beach yesterday,” I admitted.

  She drew a deep breath then turned back to watch him.

  “He has a certain way about him, doesn’t he?” she asked.

  So even Nana saw it.

  “Kind of,” I said. I wasn’t really comfortable talking with her about a cute guy. I mean, who would be? To their grandmother?

  The street crowd had thinned out when Nana and I started back to the car. It was full dark as I helped her back into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and walked around the back of the car to the driver’s side.

  Footsteps shuffled along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Headed for the beach, Zack and his crew watched me. I couldn’t see them well, but the shortest one, probably Roscoe, noticed me watching.

  He was probably smiling as he did it, but I could only see his dark silhouette raise his arm, make a gun of his hand, and shoot straight at me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sea lions woke early, and because I’d left the skylight open all night, so did I.

  In minutes I’d swung my feet to the floor, trotted downstairs, and poured myself some juice.

  Sitting at the kitchen table in my nightgown, I listened to Gumbo crunch cat food while I paged through Nana’s garden notebook. The flower drawings she’d dismissed with a wave of her hand were wonderful.

  I flipped to the back of the notebook and found some more drawings folded and jammed in so that the open edges caught in the binding. Once I pulled them free, I had to tip and turn them. Right-side-up and upside-down didn’t really apply. They appeared to be random, fairy-tale-looking scenes. Like the garden sketches, they were smeared. Time and friction had blurred them, making it seem as if I were studying them through a rain-streaked window.

  Using the card stock and pens from Nana, I began lettering the first entry for her garden guide. Last night, restless with my bellyful of street food, I’d made two resolutions. One, I’d do at least one card each morning. Two, I’d start making good on my summer pact with Mandi and Jill.

  “Every day we’ll do something new,” we’d vowed.

  At our all-nighter to end all all-nighters before school started, I wanted to have something to brag about.

  The last summer before senior year must be incredible. Adulthood was hovering on the horizon. And then all the fun would end.

  It never seemed fair that just when you’re old enough to do anything you want, you can’t. You have to start working, so there’s no time. And if there is time, you’re not working, so there’s no money.

  With great care and too many flourishes, I finished the card. It didn’t look bad, I thought, holding it up and blowing on it to dry the black ink.

  The last words about having to “take charge lest it run wild,” made me grin. No one was in charge of me. Technically, Nana was, but if I stayed up all night listening to CDs or dressed Gumbo in a bikini made of lunch meat and watched her eat it off, no one would ever know.

  That last one wasn’t the sort of thing I was likely to do, but when the word “bikini” crossed my mind, I knew what I’d do today for my “something new.” Before work I’d go for a swim. I had plenty of time to swim, come back up here to change, and make it to the Inn on time. My fingers flew, taming my hair into a single braid, then grabbed a towel and headed out.

  Everything before me was draped in fog, which only made this first swim more exciting.

  I picked my way down the gravel driveway, headed for Little Beach. If you looked at a map, that wouldn’t be its name, but we’d always called it that to distinguish it from the white, sandy beach in front of the Inn.

  Walking through the sea grass atop the rolling dunes, I pushed aside fears of what could be hiding in the fog. The bad boys of Siena Bay weren’t awake yet, that was for darn sure.

  Besides, all I’d have to do to escape anyone was dive into the ocean. I had studied to take the Red Cross lifesaving test and passed it. Though I didn’t become a lifeguard, I’m a strong swimmer. I mean, not being stuck-up or anything, but that’s really an understatement.

  Aware of the power in my shoulders and legs as I strode along, swinging my arms, I felt good.

  When I reached the driftwood-littered beach, I kicked off my flip-flops. Beside them, I dropped the oversize blue jersey I’d used as a cover-up.

  Here I didn’t cringe with that everyone’s-looking-at-the-place-I missed-when-I-shaved-my-legs feeling I got at poolside. Here I was at home. The wet sand cradled my feet, and the fog lay on the water. I breathed the dampness, amazed there was absolutely no boundary between silver-white air and ocean. No wind swirled around me. I might have been standing in a cloud.

  The tide was out, and the sea was calm, rolling in to graze my toes with smooth, small waves. C’mon, it whispered, c’mon now.

  I used to know all the sea’s voices, and I remembered this one: It was playful
and a little impatient.

  I wanted to run, splashing through the shallows, and dive in, but another voice—my mom’s—kept me from doing it.

  Although there hadn’t been a shark bite—let alone a full-fledged attack—in these waters since 1976, I rushed through the five points Mom had made me recite each time we went swimming.

  One: Is anyone fishing nearby?

  It was hard to tell with all the fog, so I listened for the slap of waves on a hull or the racket of a boat engine. I heard nothing but the complaint of a sea bird.

  Two: Is it dusk or night?

  Nope, as far from those two favorite feeding times as you could get.

  Three: Can you see a large number of fish, and if so, are they flapping around, acting weird?

  No. There were some sea lions out there. I could hear them surface and blow through their whiskers, even though I couldn’t see them, but they were just mothers from the cove, out cruising for breakfast.

  Four: Are you wearing a watch or jewelry or a hair clip that would reflect light and catch the eye of a prowling predator?

  Unless the contrast of my winter-pale flesh against my red bikini counted, I was good to go on to the last question.

  Five: Do you have any wounds that could possibly bleed?

  Not a one. I wasn’t a little kid anymore, deliberating over “ow-ies.”

  So I was safe.

  I moved out, letting the waves wet my ankles, knees, thighs. Of course it was cold, but I couldn’t resist any longer. I arrowed my hands into the waves and arched my body after them, beginning a shallow dive.

  The water was like silk, welcoming my fingertips as I pulled against it, stroking out from shore.

  Turning from side to side, my ears caught a deep sound. Big waves threatening, or thunder’s rumble? If it was thunder, I was out of here, because after thunder came lightning.

  My first diving coach was from Kansas, someplace where they had electrical storms, and he’d always clear the pool at the first rumble of thunder. Hot as the sun, was the way he’d described the temperature of a lightning strike. When someone on our team joked about it, wondering what ocean-going fish did during a storm, the coach had snapped, “You have one advantage the fish don’t, meathead. You can get out.”

  I paused, treading water and pushing wet hair from my eyes. Gray translucent waves crested atop each other, but it didn’t smell like a storm.

  I dove through the base of the next wave and the next, breathing sips of fog from beneath my arm. And suddenly I had company.

  A raft of sea lions, sable and sleek, swam just ahead. They didn’t welcome me, but they tolerated my presence, which must have seemed clumsy and loud compared to their silent surging.

  They’d be heading back to their babies at the cove if there was a storm coming. I’d seen it before, dozens of long, sleek bodies sliding up on the sand. These sea lions weren’t worried. The wind swirled a window in the fog, and the seals rose, peering through to see something I couldn’t, and then they were off. In their wake a rocking movement pushed me backward.

  Let’s go! Excitement charged through me, and I followed. Diving, kicking, I pulled my body deeper, following them.

  My eyes opened on a watery world of sea lions torpedoing after a school of fish. Better than the Discovery Channel, better than dreams, I saw them careen through a kelp forest after silver fish. Flippers fanned past. Hollow stems of kelp bounced against my bare arms. A leathery tail scythed against my leg. Flashing teeth meant for the flickering school of fish reminded me sea lions were at the top of the food chain. I fanned my arms, backing up, removing myself from the sea lions’ breakfast buffet.

  Time to go back to my world, I thought. Tilting my head back, I sighted the blue-gold surface above. With my destination in sight, I gave what was supposed to be a mighty kick. But I was jerked up short like a dog on a leash. Without a thought for why, I tried again. This time, the yank made me look down.

  A leafy amber cord of kelp had snapped taut around my ankle. I squinted. How had it happened? How entangled was I? Why was my leg going numb?

  A sea lion rocketed past after the last terrified fish.

  My pulse slammed at the side of my neck. My chest swelled with an insane fullness. I needed air. Now.

  Glimmers of sun danced above me, reminding me panic and struggle used too much oxygen. I’d need it to swim back up.

  Okay, okay, okay. I’m strong. I can break loose.

  I bent my knees, gathering my muscle power as if I were launching myself into a dive. Go!

  The kelp jerked tight and my head snapped back.

  Reserve oxygen.

  I could almost remember how many minutes of reserve oxygen a swimmer had. Almost.

  Black dots frenzied in front of my eyes. I blinked hard, trying to see past them to the kelp. Should have looked first. Untie it or break it with my hands. But the black-gnat dots crowded out the sight of everything.

  It felt good to let my limbs float free.

  So this is drowning …

  I cartwheeled down through green darkness.

  I sighed and a chain of bubbles floated past my lips. A golden shaft of sunlight from a sky I might never see again slanted through the water.

  A black sea lion darted through the brightness, made a quick curve around me and struck between my shoulder blades. The impact thrust me toward the surface, and the kelp snapped.

  My arms and legs took over, striking toward the light. I rose effortlessly in the wake of the black sea lion, until my head broke through.

  The first breath made me cough. Seawater had seared my throat. I remembered this feeling and struck off toward the beach.

  I might have imagined the fog.

  It was gone. Sky and sea spread sparkling turquoise around me.

  My limbs felt weak and wobbly. The sea lion, who deserved a Flipper medal for sure, was nowhere in sight. Or maybe he’d been attacking me.

  I swear, my arms were like noodles. If Mom, Dad, or Nana had been around, I would have given up and waited for help. Swimming was too hard. I couldn’t make it back to the beach.

  But I was on my own.

  I kept swimming as a gull hovered about six feet above me. It tilted from wing to wing, opening its orange bill in a braying call.

  He didn’t care that I was exhausted and traumatized. Neither did the waves. Or that renegade sea lion.

  If anything, Mirage Beach was welcoming me back with a reminder: Don’t get cocky.

  Amazingly, I was on time for work.

  In my struggle with the kelp, I’d pulled a hamstring or some other vital muscle. I knew because making it up the Sea Horse Inn’s steps was a chore.

  Nana opened the back door like she was greeting a guest. She wore a cornflower blue dress that matched her eyes. She caught me into a careful hug.

  “I saw you hobbling,” she said.

  “I went for a swim and I’m so out of shape,” I admitted.

  I thought it was close enough to the truth, until I noticed Nana’s worried eyes. I blurted the first thing I could think of to cheer her up. “You haven’t tried my reading again.”

  But Nana didn’t whip out the copper disk she used for scrying. I expected her top-secret smile and a promise to meet right after breakfast. Instead she shook her head.

  “Let’s give it another day,” she said.

  I didn’t ask why, but I thought of her rubbing her brow yesterday. What had I done to short-circuit her divining powers?

  “About our guests,” she said, hurrying me into the kitchen.

  “How nice that m’lady could make it,” Thelma joked when she saw me.

  “Don’t mind her,” Nana said. “Now, for brunch, we’ve only the Hellers and a Ms. Fortunato, who arrived with a Great Dane late last night.”

  “A Great Dane?” I gasped.

  I pictured Nana’s fine china, delicate shells, handmade beeswax candles, and a wagging tail as big as my forearm.

  “Goliath is better behaved than Mrs. Hell
er, if you ask me,” Thelma muttered.

  “Which no one did,” Nana reminded her. “Gwennie, since we have no other reservations for tonight, you may have the afternoon off.”

  “But Nana, I’ve only worked a day and a half!”

  “You’ll have plenty to do getting ready for Midsummer’s Eve, and this way I won’t have to pay you overtime,” Nana said.

  Pay? A ch-ching sounded in my mind but was quickly drowned out with guilt. I wasn’t supposed to get paid.

  “I’m here to help you, Nana,” I protested. “Please don’t pay me.”

  “And you are helping,” Nana said. Her eyes softened and she touched my cheek. “As for wages, don’t think I won’t make you work for them. After tonight, we’re booked solid. In fact, we even have a waiting list.”

  I didn’t have time to plan my afternoon off or worry over the pain that lanced through my spine as I placed platters of eggs Benedict, home fried potatoes, and sliced fresh fruit on Nana’s polished mahogany sideboard.

  I limped a little as I hurried back to the kitchen to take the baskets of apple muffins from Thelma, but I returned before I heard feet on the stairs.

  Guests were coming down for breakfast, and Nana greeted them at the foot of the stairs.

  I glanced in the mirror above the sideboard. Using my hairbrush like a weapon, I’d pulled my wet hair into a high knot and skewered it with hairpins. I’d put on a blouse with cutout lace that buttoned halfway up my neck and wore thin silver hoop earrings. A few sand-colored freckles had shown up on my cheeks, from the sun, but there was nothing I could do about them. Despite my near-death experience, I looked okay.

  The only sign that I’d nearly drowned was a faint red swelling around my right ankle. My saltwater-induced nausea had subsided, leaving me ravenous.

  I surveyed the eggs, potatoes, fruit, and muffins and suppressed the urge to stuff them into my mouth with both hands.

  Nana held court at the table, but she watched me while I poured coffee. What was she thinking?

  When I returned to the kitchen to get hot water for Nana’s tea, Thelma held out a muffin.

  “Try this,” she ordered, and I couldn’t resist.