Falling in Deep Collection Box Set

by Pauline Creeden

  My hands now. It is on my hands.

  The water is running and the sink is no longer draining. I am scrubbing frantically at my face and arms and hands and neck, trying to get rid of the alien color that is overtaking my human body. Yanking off my ball cap, I watch my hair in fascination. It floats into the air, curving and forming and hardening.

  A wave of warm water rushes over the lip of the white sink and splashes against the floor. What is happening? Stop… please, stop! But the green strangeness keeps spreading until there is nothing left of the original me. A scream builds in my body as pain rockets through my legs, terminating at my toes. I curl them up and clench them into the soles of my feet. It hurts. It hurts so much.

  My legs jerk together and I fall against the slippery floor. Water is pooling around me. The pain is intolerable now. I try to separate my legs. I cannot; it is like they are cemented together. The scream that has been compounding inside my chest wants to come out. It is rocketing around, bruising my organs.

  The water is an inch high now. It shouldn’t be rising like this; it should be spilling out into the café, escaping under the door.

  The water is a foot high now. I don’t understand. I don’t understand the pain, the water, the jade shimmer.

  My eyes clamp shut, my brain tries desperately to work through the excruciating pain. Hours have passed. It seems like hours, at least. I am floating in the water, high above the floor and the mirror and the vintage pictures—which seem to magically stay nailed to the wall instead of joining me. I can almost touch the stamped bronze tiles on the ceiling, and I wonder what will happen when I reach the top. Will I drown?

  The pain is gone finally and my legs are not two stems; they are one. There is only a sliver of air left. My lips gasp like a fish in that narrow space between water and ceiling. Soon, even that is gone and I am swimming in the bathroom. My eyes are open again, seeing everything in crystal clarity, waiting to drown.

  But I do not drown. I have gills again; I feel the water rushing into them and it fills my lungs.

  I am strong and alive in the water. My conjoined legs beat with that strength that I’ve only imagined for myself. My tail is that mother-of-pearl I find so mesmerizing. My skin is the blue-green of a secluded cove. My burgundy hair floats about me; it is seaweed again and the crown has returned—beautiful and tall and regal.

  I only wish for Flounder to be here, now that I am so happy and alive; I miss that little curious fish. I need to pick him a new name… or her… I have no idea how to tell a fish’s gender.

  The weightlessness of being waterborne is an aphrodisiac, one that I could consume forever and ever and never have enough of. This time, I will not be pulled back into the land of humanity. The bones of my body feel rubbery and my brain is empty, because I have no worries here. No Trumans or Connors or Veras. No parents who didn’t want me. Everything is perfect and… and…

  I cannot think; I cannot form a coherent thought. Beneath the water, I rub my eyes roughly and shake my head. Maybe that’s what I need—to be thoughtless. There is a fog settling over my brain—one of ignorance and bliss, one that makes me feel as if I am slipping into nothingness.

  Rhythmic tapping floats through the wetness to my ears. “Is someone in there?” The question fragments between water molecules.

  No, I answer in my head, No one is here. Just me.

  Chapter 16

  Running Water

  ~Connor~

  I have to step out of the shop. I need some space from her and the way she makes me feel—like I can be happy the way I used to be, before Deacon died.

  But I can’t feel that way about her. She’s engaged, about to be married. I’ve seen the guy—he looks like he just stepped out of a catalogue. And for all I know, he is great, fantastic, bloody brilliant, and rich. She didn’t seem happy, though—not when we talked for hours. She didn’t mention him until the end. When she had to, because if she hadn’t… I would have asked to see her again the next day. And the next day.

  And probably the next day on into forever.

  I’ve always had a problem with my inner voice. It never tells me what I should do; no, it’s more the devil’s advocate, pushing me to do what I shouldn’t. Like—I shouldn’t rush back into the shop and tell Lena that I love her, that she’s beautiful and perfect. Like—I shouldn’t tell her that Truman isn’t the guy for her, because I am. I’m the one that will love all of her—the good, the bad, the ugly. But that is exactly what the little voice in my head was telling me to do.

  I want so badly to listen to it and do all the shouldn’ts.

  If I was a smoker, I know that I would go through an entire pack right now. My body needs something to calm the craving I have for Lena. It’s one that consumes my mind, body, and soul. It haunts my waking hours. I could ignore it before, when she was just a vision that stepped into my store every week. Now, though, she is a person, not just a vision. I have taken a peek into her, where the darkness and lightness war. And that war makes me love her, deeply and madly.

  The first time I saw her—almost two years ago now, right after Deacon died—she was wearing an orange sundress. Her maroon hair was loose against her back and the two colors were almost jarring together, but then she’d smiled, ordered a drip coffee with butter (if I had it), and I’d forgotten all about the hideous color pairing and I wasn’t able to take my eyes off of her.

  Unable to stand it any longer, I go back into the café through the employee entrance at the back near the restrooms. The smile on my face disintegrates as my canvas sneakers are immediately soaked with water. “Pete! Where’s all this water coming from?”

  “Water?”

  “Jesus, it’s everywhere. How could you not see this?”

  Pete is rushing toward me now, his eyes wide as he takes in the large expanse of water; it has spread into the seating area and it is spreading further every second. “Holy crap.”

  Flinging the door to the men’s restroom open, I see that it is empty. The water is spilling out from under the door to the women’s restroom. “Is someone in there?” I call loudly, rapping my knuckles against the door before trying the knob. It doesn’t turn. “Hello?” Hitting the door harder, my heart jumps, lodging into my throat so that I can’t swallow. “Pete, did you see who went in there?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention…” The college student pauses, his forehead crinkling in thought. “Wait, I think that lady with red hair was the last one in the shop. It must be her.” He sounds unsure, but the thought of Lena in there, the fact that she’s not responding, it sets my pulse racing.

  “Lena!” I scream her name, my fist banging against the door with a new intensity. “Lena, answer me!”

  But she doesn’t answer me and I can hear water continuously running from the faucet inside; waves continue to sneak beneath the door, keeping my shoes and ankles soaked.

  “That’s it. I’m getting the hell in there. Get out of the way.” I almost shove Pete aside in my desperation to get to Lena. If something happens to her… She’s not even mine. She’ll probably never be mine. But if something happens to her…

  Stepping back several feet, I run at the door with my right shoulder angled toward the slippery floor. It hurts like a bitch and the door doesn’t budge. I have to get in there. I stare at the knob and my brain is taunting me, like the answer is staring me in the face. And then I realize why my brain is calling me a dumbass. I own the joint. I have keys to every room.

  Fumbling in my pocket, I yank out my key ring and quickly find the one colored pink—women’s bathroom pink and men’s bathroom blue. I slide the key into the lock and I turn it, holding my breath, praying that Lena is okay. The door feels like it weighs a million pounds. I have to put my entire body fully against the wood and push with all my strength. Water begins to pour out from all angles—above, below, the sides, between hinges. It’s too much water, more than possible. The bathroom isn’t airtight and there are vents along the baseboards.

  The wa
ter should not have accumulated like this. There is evidence that the water is escaping—my entire shop floor is wet. So how can so much water still be trapped?

  Pete is beside me now, pushing with me; his eyes are wide and I know he also does not believe what we are both seeing. We are caught in some illusion of drowning and water and fear. Lena isn’t even in there, in this joint psychosis that threatens our minds.

  But she is.

  The door is fully open and I watch her body float atop the wave that exits the small bathroom. She is herself, and yet she is not. Her hair, the same strange maroon that is so gothic and gorgeous, is a fan around her head as she drifts past me, but the locks look like rubbery tendrils and I swear I see a crown… made of coral. Lena’s beloved starfish necklace glints around her neck. The silver and pale pearls of it draw my eyes downward to her legs… her legs that seem welded together and coated in iridescent scales. Mother-of-pearl. Beautiful. Confusing.

  Beautifully Confusing.

  I blink, rub my eyes furiously, and by the time I refocus on her body, I find she has not ridden a wave into the café. No. She is inert on the bathroom tile; her clothes are wet from the water pooling around her body. Pete is beside her. He has turned off the faucet and he stares at me, as if I am an idiot for standing and not rushing to Lena’s aide.

  ***

  In seconds I am on my knees beside her. She is breathing, but it is a shallow action that only makes her chest rise and fall minutely. Her legs are just legs—beautiful legs clad in dark running pants. The starfish pendant is there, but it is dull and bent now, not bright and eye-catching.

  “Lena, wake up.” Shaking her right shoulder gently with one hand, I push her burgundy hair away from her face with the other. It is wet and matted. “Lena, please wake up.”

  “Should I call 911?” Pete’s words bounce around in my brain. And my brain is hollow, so when they bounce around, it is a rhythmic bang hitting the interior of my skull.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  911? Do we need an ambulance? Does she need a doctor? Why can’t I think?

  “Connor, do you want me to call 911?”

  His cell phone is out and I am about to say yes, when Lena’s voice, soft and shattered, floats up to me. “No, please… no. No doctors or hospitals or Trumans.”

  My gaze flies to her face. Her eyelashes are fluttering and it seems to be a struggle for her to fully open her eyes. “I think you need to see a—”

  “I don’t need a doctor. Connor, please.”

  It is that last please that fills my brain with thought again. All I want is for this woman, this very wet, breathtakingly beautiful woman, to be happy. Lena is trying to sit up now and I support her. My arm feels so right around her shivering body.

  “You’re cold.” I am a genius. Captain Obvious. She couldn’t love me.

  “A little,” she sputters, a stream of water exiting her mouth along with the words.

  “Can I help you get home, at least?”

  “I don’t want to go home.” The words are final, decisive; I feel a fluttering in my heart, like I have a chance, a small chance in hell to make her mine. That’s a cruel thought—to think how I might snatch her away from another man, one who can afford the ornate ring on her finger and everything else she deserves. I could never afford to keep her in the life she’s accustomed to. But I can offer other things—things that are more important. The voice inside my head is pounding at me again with shouldn’ts, giving me reasons why trying to steal her heart is justified.

  I just want her to be happy, to always smile like she did when we sat and spoke the day away on that bench, the ocean breeze blowing her hair in all directions.

  “Do you have any clothes in your car? Something dry to change in to?” I realize now that Pete has left us, maybe feeling uncomfortable. There is a tension between me and Lena, one that threatens to grow and grow until it climaxes.

  “In the bag in my trunk.”

  “Where are your keys?”

  “I’m fine to get my own stuff.” She’s trying to stand now, but her legs are so shaky—as if she is unused to walking upright. My mind flashes to the image of her legs as one long appendage covered in silver. And I am confused again.

  “You’re not fine.”

  “I’m wet. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

  “You can change upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?”

  “There’s a little apartment above the café.”

  “I thought you lived with your mom.”

  “I do.”

  “In the apartment?”

  “No. We have a house a few blocks away. The apartment used to be storage, but I needed a place to crash some nights. A lot of times I stay late for inventory and deliveries and then have to prep for opening at six.”

  “You open at six in the morning?”

  “Lena, let’s get you dry. You’re shaking like crazy.” And she was. All the questions she was asking, they were meaningless right now. They were a distraction.

  “I am?” Another question.

  We are both standing; we’ve been standing for some time, me supporting her as she rediscovers the strength to walk. My clothes are getting wet, our bodies are touching. I don’t care. Not even a little bit.

  “Can you walk now?”

  “I think so.”

  I keep my arm around her waist as we walk out of the bathroom. When we see the café is empty, I can feel Lena’s body relax. Pete is standing behind the counter, obsessively cleaning one large area, purposefully not looking at us.

  “Pete?”

  He immediately stops and puts down the white cleaning cloth. “Yeah?”

  “Mind mopping up all the water?”

  “I was going to start before, but…”

  He was giving us our privacy. I’d already suspected as much. “I’m going to take Lena upstairs to dry off.”

  Pete just nods, uncomfortable again. He’s a traditionalist—one girl at a time, no sex before marriage, two point five kids. Me taking an engaged woman up to my apartment to change outfits makes him blush.

  “Actually, Pete, can you run out to her car and get her spare clothes? They’re in the trunk, apparently.”

  “Is it locked?”

  Lena answers before I can open my mouth. “No,” she chokes on a half-formed laugh, more water dribbling from her mouth. “I never lock it. Truman hates that. It’s the white Buick across the street.”

  “You’re too trusting,” I murmur, watching Pete hop over the counter in a quick motion that reminds me he’s on the track and field team at the college. You wouldn’t think it to look at him—his frame so slight and decidedly not athletic—but the kid is fast, with endurance, and has placed first in multiple middle-distance races already this year.

  Pete is back in a micro-second holding a Louis Vuitton: another reminder that I cannot give Lena the things she is used to. I hate the bag; it mocks me.

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  Lena just nods beside me, and her expression fluctuates as if she is trying to smile at him but does not have the energy.

  “You want some hot chocolate or something before I start mopping?”

  “No… and I’m sorry. If you wait, I’ll help you. I’m sorry I made such a mess.” God, she sounds so tired.

  “Don’t be sorry. These floors were screaming for a good scrubbing. That’s probably what happened—the café ghost used you to get the job done. This guy,” Pete wags a thumb at me, “puts off mopping as long as he can and he doesn’t pay me enough to be the janitor.” He laughs and I’m reminded why I hired Pete: He’s funny, honest, and a hard worker. He’s always cleaning the shop and going above and beyond what I ask of him.

  The sound of Lena’s soft laugh beside me is beautiful, and I appreciate Pete even more for making her feel a moment of joy as she stands dripping wet and embarrassed.

  “Anyways.” Pete shifts uncomfortably after the laughter dies out, rising onto the balls of
his feet and then falling flat-footed again. “If you change your mind about a hot drink, just have Connor yell at me. It’ll be on the house again—Connor’s treat.”

  Lena laughs softly again. I’d comp her a million hot beverages to keep that sound alive.

  Chapter 17

  Close to His Body

  I like being in his arms, even though I am wet and shaking.

  Strangely, as Connor leads me upstairs into his apartment above the café, I think about my ball cap and how it is likely still on the bathroom floor. It is a silly thing to think about. I have five, maybe six caps at home. But this one is my particular favorite.

  “My hat. I think I left—”

  “I saw it in the bathroom. I’m sure Pete will pick it up for you.”

  “Okay…” My voice is weak after his interruption. I don’t like it—being interrupted; it’s like another thing is being taken away from me and I’m powerless to prevent it. A small thing. Such a small thing—like candle scents and necklaces—but it’s important to be heard, to be given the respect to finish my sentences and my thoughts without anyone getting in my way. And I want to say that. Yell it. I know this is Connor. I know he is not Truman and that his interruption was meant innocently. But I am so tired. So tired of being controlled. “I don’t like being interrupted. I don’t like it.” My voice grows in strength with each word until I’m nearly yelling at the poor man who is holding me up and being so gentle and supportive.

  His face is emotionless and flat, as if I’ve sucked out all the feeling there with my outburst.