She pointed her toes and extended her arms, stretching, blinking to get her bearings, then pulled Owen’s pillow from the tangle of sheets and clutched it close, anxious about the day to come.
In the previous two weeks, she’d filled out more than twenty online job applications. She’d gotten two phone interviews for her efforts, but no offers. Today she was going to try going door-to-door through Capitol Hill’s commercial district to fill out applications in person, giving potential employers the chance to reject her to her face rather than via the anonymity of the Internet.
And in case that wasn’t humiliating enough, Hal and the crew would be trailing along, capturing it all on film.
For a while, being followed around by a camera crew had been kind of glamorous. She imagined herself as a movie star with an entourage, a starlet pursued by a pack of paparazzi. But maintaining that illusion was harder when the camera was recording the day-to-day events, or small failures, of her oh-so-ordinary life.
He documented their every move. There was Meg sitting at her new easel outside her tiny house, painting in plein air and stealing glances at Asher who was sawing boards outside his workshop. There was Joanie working, always working, stitching Union blue and Confederate gray uniforms on her sewing machine, baking bread or cookies, saying she made them only for Walt but consuming at least a third of them herself, trimming shrubs and pulling weeds, wearing a straw hat with an eight-inch brim. The hat was new. Avery thought she had bought it just to make it harder for the camera to see her face.
And of course he filmed Avery, as a mermaid, but also as herself, hand-sewing silk scales to the mermaid tail she was making to celebrate Lilly’s upcoming release from the hospital, filling out applications for jobs she never got.... Sometimes he filmed her just sitting on the window seat in her house, twirling her hair around her finger, staring out the window, doing absolutely nothing.
The crew came along for the more interesting stuff, too, like when she went to the hospital to read to the kids and when Owen got the idea of taking her to Volunteer Park for a picnic/photo shoot.
It was a beautiful, sunny day and the park was full. Avery was in costume so even while they were sitting quietly on the grass, eating cheese and crackers and drinking hard cider, they’d drawn more than a few curious glances. When lunch was over, Owen got out his camera and started snapping pictures, telling her how to pose, speaking with a very bad French accent.
He was just being goofy; no one who actually heard him speak could seriously have believed Owen was a real photographer, but when Hal and the crew moved in closer to get a good shot of Owen trying to get a good shot of her, a crowd gathered and gawked, thinking she must be “somebody.”
After Owen finished taking his pictures, people who had been watching wanted to do the same. Avery posed for at least forty photos. She enjoyed it. On camera or off, being a mermaid was easy. Being a human came harder.
The longer Hal and the crew followed her, the more she realized that her life didn’t add up to anything meaningful to her. Avery started to think about how moviegoers would see her—like a loser, somebody who had to invent an alternate reality in order to appear even marginally interesting.
And now, to confirm their suspicions, they’d watch as a twenty-year-old assistant manager in a clothing boutique told Avery she was underqualified to sell T-shirts.
Avery buried her face in Owen’s pillow, shouted into the polyester and foam depths to muffle the sound. The bathroom door opened. Owen, shirtless but wearing a pair of blue surgical pants, stepped out of a cloud of steam, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.
“You’re yelling again?” he asked. “Why?”
“Again? When was I yelling before?”
Owen sat on the edge of the bed. He looked tired, really tired. And annoyed? But maybe not. Maybe she was reading too much into his expression.
“Last night. You were yelling in your sleep. You don’t remember?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Well, you were.”
The way that he said it confirmed her suspicions. He was definitely annoyed with her.
Owen pulled on a blue scrub shirt. Avery sat up, swung her legs out over the side of the bed, and reached down for the paper grocery bag that held her things.
After that first intimate encounter, she’d learned to bring a change of clothes along whenever she visited the children’s ward. It was one thing to have Owen pick her up and drive her to the hospital in costume and another thing entirely to slink home in loose sequins, tangled hair, and no makeup.
Now the paper bag suitcase just seemed like a symbol of everything about her relationship with Owen as it stood now—something temporary and easily tossed away.
After that first fabulous night, a night so magical that it met and exceeded any fantasies she had ever had about what romance could or should be, she’d invented a new fantasy. This one was far more ordinary, a dream of sharing a bed and life permanently, about knowing somebody so intimately that you could talk about anything in the world or nothing at all, about being completely accepted by someone else and being real for him and there for him, no matter what, and knowing that he would always be there for you, just the same way.
She was getting way ahead of herself, she knew that. She’d only known him for a few weeks, and marriage . . . that was a big step, one she was miles from being ready to take. But maybe, in a few weeks or months, they might try moving in together? Even though Owen’s apartment was a studio, it was big, probably three times the square footage of her tiny house.
But it was too soon for that.
She had been thinking about asking him if it’d be all right for her to leave a few of her things here, maybe claim one of the drawers in the dresser as her own. But seeing the way he yanked his scrub top down hard over his head, made her reconsider.
Avery pulled on a pair of jeans, careful to keep her back to him. It still felt a little weird, dressing in front of somebody else. Not that Owen was watching. He was always in a hurry in the morning.
He had a lot on his mind, thinking about his patients. She liked it that he cared about them. But it would have been nice if he could spend a little more time with her in the morning, lingering, just talking. They hardly knew each other. What would have been even more of a good thing would be for them to go out on a regular date, to the movies or dinner, and not always just tumble into bed together. But that would come soon enough, she told herself. And maybe she should just enjoy the passionate part while it lasted. She didn’t want to lose it all by pushing for too much, too soon.
“Sorry about the yelling,” she said. “There’s this dream I have sometimes. About when the Children’s Services people came and took me away. They came to the house and a lady was in my room, helping me pack a bag. She said that my mom needed a break and that my sisters and I needed to go stay somewhere else for a while. I wasn’t too freaked out because there’d been some kind of investigation after the whole talk show thing and the police in Chicago let us fly home to LA together the next day. I thought that maybe this was just more of the same, that we’d be together after a couple days.
“But when we got out onto the street, there were three cars. I realized that I wasn’t going with my sisters. I screamed. The social worker grabbed me and I started kicking and biting and screaming louder. Joanie was yelling for her to leave me alone, to let me go. But she didn’t. She just shoved me in the car and slammed the door closed.”
Owen was lacing up his tennis shoes. His head was down. He made a sound, something halfway between a sigh and a grunt. Avery couldn’t tell what it meant.
“I used to have that dream all the time,” she said. “But when I moved up here with Joanie, it stopped. I think it’s all this stuff with the documentary that’s bringing it back. Hal keeps asking questions, dredging up stuff I haven’t thought about in a long time. Anyway,” she said, and put her hand on his thigh, “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Owen stood up and walked across the room
toward the little galley kitchen.
“Want some tea?”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
He filled two mugs with water and put them in the microwave, then opened the refrigerator, took out two containers of yogurt, and handed one to Avery. They ate their breakfast standing in the kitchen, waiting for the tea.
“Looks like I’m going to have to trade in my tail for tennis shoes and find a real job,” Avery said, trying to keep her voice light. “Mermaids just can’t make it in the gig economy.”
“What about the lady we met in the park? She wanted you to do her daughter’s birthday party.”
“She could only pay me fifty dollars.” Avery shrugged and scraped the last bite of yogurt from the cup. “And the party’s not until next month. I really do have to find a job soon. Like today. The starfish is empty.”
“The starfish?”
“Never mind. Let’s talk about something else.”
Avery tossed the yogurt container into the trash and boosted herself up onto the counter, bare legs dangling off the edge.
“What are you doing over Memorial Day weekend? Joanie’s throwing a barbecue to celebrate Meg and Asher’s anniversary—she does it every year. The whole family will be together—always entertaining,” she added, smiling even as she rolled her eyes. “But it should be fun. And Joanie is a great cook. You want to come?”
“Whoa.” Owen raised his hands and took a step back. Avery frowned.
“Whoa, what? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that . . .”
He took another step back and his butt bumped against the stove. Avery had the feeling that if he could have backed up farther he would have.
“Job troubles and money problems. Hearing you yell in your dreams and then listening to the story of how you were torn away from your family when you were little . . .”
“Yeah?”
“It’s just a little too much reality for a Thursday morning, Avery.”
“Too much reality? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m just telling you about my life, Owen.”
“I know. That’s what I’m talking about. Look, Avery . . . I lost two patients this week. Two sweet little kids who didn’t do anything to anybody. Ramona, a little girl I’ve been taking care of on and off for two years, died of cancer. Another one, a nine-month-old baby, died because his mom’s boyfriend kicked him, broke three of his ribs, and shook him until his brain bled. I’ve got all the reality I can take right now.”
Owen looked like he was going to say more, but didn’t. Instead, he clenched his fist and drove it hard into his thigh, like he wished there was somebody around he could punch. Avery hopped off the counter and touched his arm.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You saved a lot of lives too. Don’t forget that. How many kids did you send home healthy last week? Thirty? Fifty? How many next week? Including Lilly. She’ll be home in a few more days and happy, dealing with her disability and living her life, because you cared about her, really cared.”
“I guess. But the thing is, Avery . . . you and me . . .”
He rubbed hard at his forehead, his expression determined, as if he’d made up his mind about something that had been bothering him.
“This isn’t working. When I met you, I thought you were gorgeous, really a knockout. And smart too. Creative and sweet. But most of all, fun. You seemed so playful. Almost like one of the kids, you know? That’s what attracted me to you.
“So many things I have to deal with every day are just so hard,” he said in a voice that sounded almost surprised. “Cruel and hard. But you seemed to live in this fantasy world. That first time you came to the ward and did your thing for the kids? They believed you really were a mermaid. For a second, so did I. And it made me so happy, getting caught up in the story. And I wanted more of that. Just to have some fun. And we did. But the thing is . . .”
His words trailed away, as if he was suddenly embarrassed by what had been about to come out of his mouth. Avery finished the sentence for him.
“Then you woke up one day and figured out there was a real person in your bed. A woman. Not a fantasy. Somebody with a real life. With problems and a past.”
“And expectations.”
“What expectations? When did I ever say anything about expectations? All I did was ask if you wanted to come to a barbecue!”
“And get to know your family.”
He gave her a look and Avery felt her cheeks color.
“That’s way more than I’m looking for, Avery. I just thought we could have a good time together, that’s all.”
He reached for her hand, but she pulled back.
“So you brought me home and took me to bed?”
“Well, yeah. That was part of the fun, for both of us. Don’t try to pretend it wasn’t. Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that! It was just sex, Avery. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Not to you, maybe. I’m not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind.” She walked back to the bed, started stuffing her things into the grocery bag. “It’s my own fault. I should have listened to Joanie.”
“Avery. Come on. Don’t spoil it. We had fun together, didn’t we? And I like you. I really do.”
She rolled up her mermaid tail and shoved it in the sack. Two of the sequins came loose and dropped onto the wooden floor. She didn’t bother to pick them up.
“I like you, too. You’re not a bad guy. Actually, you’re a pretty good guy. But you’re not my guy. Deep down, I think I knew that, but I tried not to. Like you said, I’m really good at pretending.”
She walked to the door and he followed her.
“Avery. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I believe you. But do you think that doing it by accident makes it hurt any less?”
* * *
Avery kept it together as she walked down the stairs and then around the block, in case Owen, or anyone else, might be watching from a window. But after she turned the corner, she ducked into the alley that ran between the rows of apartments. Her eyes began to fill and her shoulders started to shake. She gave herself over to it, the disappointment of dashed hopes, the embarrassment of being rejected, and vulnerable, and foolish, the fear that she was unlovable and that no one could ever understand or care for her.
She cried for a long time, shedding so many tears that she felt literally drained. But she cried rather than sobbed and in doing so began to wonder if her grief was less for Owen personally than for what he might have become.
Maybe. After all, she really didn’t know Owen. But she’d gone to bed with him because she wanted to know him.
Why didn’t he love her? What was wrong with her? Was there anyone out there who would ever be able to love her for who she was? Or was the cost of togetherness pretending to be something she wasn’t? The way she’d been pretending with Owen?
She needed to talk to someone, sort out her feelings, and get a little sympathy. Even if she didn’t deserve it. But it was too early to call her sisters.
Sniffling, Avery fished inside her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She knew she shouldn’t call her. Look what happened last time. And if Joanie found out, she’d be furious. But still . . . she needed to talk.
After four rings a groggy-sounding voice came on the line.
“Hello?”
“Mom? It’s me. Avery.”
Chapter 25
Joanie couldn’t keep from yawning as she pulled into Meg and Asher’s driveway. She’d been up all night, sewing, far from the inquisitive gaze of Hal and his camera crew.
She hated the feeling of being constantly under surveillance. That was why she’d started working late at night, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. To be fair, the previous night’s stitching marathon wasn’t really Hal’s fault. She started working on Trina’s dress for the formal and got so involved that she just kept going.
The dress Trina asked for was simple, strapless with a short s
kirt and a petticoat of blue tulle to make it flare. But around one in the morning, Joanie decided it was a little too simple. She added an inch-wide swath of rhinestone beading to the waistband and an overlay of blue peekaboo lace to the bodice, providing a stylish covering to the previously bare shoulders.
It was a darling dress. She couldn’t wait to show it off. But since Avery hadn’t come home last night—again—and since Walt had already left for school, Joanie hopped in the car and drove to Meg’s. Maybe she would be up for a lunch date? It would be good to catch up. She’d been so busy with work she hadn’t seen Meg or Asher all week.
Meg didn’t answer when she knocked. Maybe she was in the shower? The house was unlocked. Joanie opened the door, calling for her sister, and gasped.
Paintings! There were dozens of them hanging on every wall from floor to ceiling. They were beautiful and unlike anything Meg had ever painted before. Joanie examined her sister’s work with open-mouthed amazement.
Joanie could discern no patterns of subject or theme. Meg had painted landscapes and streetscapes, abstracts and geometrics, portraits of people, animals, and objects, as if everything she saw or thought about had simply spilled from her brain to the bristles of her paintbrush.
And the colors! So vivid! The hues were fanciful and flamboyant, almost gaudy—lollipop purple, peacock blue, chartreuse green, candy-apple red, cotton-candy pink—the colors of a carnival midway, of confetti tossed in a parade, of glorious abandon and unfettered celebration.
Meg’s brushwork had always been precise, applied in small and careful strokes, layer upon layer. Joanie, who appreciated precision in all its forms, had admired Meg’s painting for that reason, because she understood exactly what the piece stood for and the response it was meant to elicit.
But with these big, brilliant canvases, colors that bordered on garish, applied in bold, thick strokes, creating textures and layers that had such movement and life, she wasn’t sure what it was she was supposed to feel. It was a little intimidating, but also exciting, like trying to solve a riddle, one for which there might be ten correct answers or none at all.
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