Son of a Mermaid (2 page)

The nightmares started the day after the tornado. It wasn’t the swirling storm clouds haunting Shea’s dreams, it was the ocean, leaving him drenched in sweat and tearing at the bed sheets as he tried to escape the watery depths in his mind.

There really had been a tornado in the area when the warning bells sounded. A small but powerful microburst twister appeared suddenly out of the clear blue sky and disappeared almost as fast. But not before wreaking havoc.

Tornados were the real threat in Oklahoma. Unpredictable and deadly, Shea knew he should be having nightmares about the killer storm that had the weathermen puzzled and everyone talking. People from Plainville didn’t generally drown at sea, since the closest ocean was more than six hundred miles south, down in the Gulf of Mexico. The Atlantic coastline was even further. And yet… Shea knew it was the Atlantic that was haunting him. Calling to him.

Or, at least, his grandmother had called. Martha MacNamara wanted Shea to come “home” to Cape Cod. A place he’d never even visited.

***

He lay in the extra bed in John’s room listening to his friend’s rhythmic snoring. Shea struggled to keep his eyelids open, fighting the tired aches of his body, not wanting to fall asleep.

The school counselor stopped in for a visit a few days after the tornado. He tried to be reassuring, in that school counselor Psych 101 kind of way. He told Shea that people often dream of drowning when they feel helpless or out of control. That it was a normal reaction.

Shea didn’t think that explained the dreams.

Not all the way.

The door to the bedroom creaked opened, a yellow shaft of light piercing the blackness of the room. Louise Hansen poked her head partway through the opening. “Are you boys still awake?”

“Just me,” Shea answered. “Sorry.”

She opened the door the rest of the way. The light from the hallway spilled into the bedroom, widening into a triangle along the floor. “No need to apologize,” she said with a sigh. “It’s been a tough week. Losing your daddy’s never easy.”

He tried to blink back the hot tears that suddenly filled his eyes. One escaped and rolled down his cheek to wet the pillow. He was glad for the darkness, knowing she couldn’t see him cry. “I wish he’d turn up. Somewhere. So we’d know for sure.”

“Shea…” she started, but her voice trailed off. She gripped the doorframe with one hand, as if to steady herself, and cleared her throat. “Your grandmother should arrive here in Plainville tomorrow. She called from Logan Airport to give us the flight information.”

“Logan?” He tried to think where he’d heard that name before, as a few more salty tears seared a silent path down his cheek. “Where’s that?”

“Boston. In Massachusetts.” She sighed. “That’s where you’re going to live with your grandparents.”

His eyes closed as his stomach clenched into a hard knot. Massachusetts was almost two thousand miles away from Oklahoma. Away from his friends. Away from anything familiar. “It’s just her,” Shea said. “My grandfather and my uncle died two months ago.”

Silence stretched through the darkness. “I remember now,” Mrs. Hansen finally said. “You stayed here with us that week when your father flew home for their funerals.”

His next words gushed like a fast-moving river. “Can’t I stay here with you guys? John said he’d be happy to share his room full-time, I mean, since Tanner’s off to University. And I’m handy around the farm – I can work for my keep...”

Mrs. Hansen cut him off. “No, honey. You have to go.” There was a long pause before she added, “She’s your family.” Slowly, she closed the bedroom door, the shaft of light receding, along with any hope Shea had of staying in Plainville.

“But I’ve never even met her,” he whispered into the blackness.

***

The blue-green coolness swirled around him as his body tumbled down through the water, arms and legs flailing as he struggled to hold his breath. Millions of tiny bubbles of precious air traced the path of his descent, escaping from his clothing and through his nose.

Eyes wide even as the water rushed past, he watched a huge school of shimmering minnows part down the middle as they swam around him, surrounding him like a silvery box. Turning his face upward to the surface, he could see the blue sky receding further and further as he sank deeper into the water’s depths.

His throat and lungs burned from the effort of holding his breath. Darkness pressed hard against his eyes, and swirls of strange colors danced in front of him as his whole body strained against the lack of oxygen
.

I need to breathe
, he thought wildly, his whole body feeling like it was on fire
. I can’t hold out much longer.
His feet finally hit the mucky bottom with a thud, coming to a stop as the mud swirled around his legs.

There, hovering before him in the water, swam a beautiful woman with flowing golden hair…and a green fish tail that sparkled with golden flecks among the scales.

A mermaid.

Her big green eyes looked so familiar, like the ones he saw in the mirror every morning. She smiled at him, reaching out to take his hand. His head pounded as searing pain ripped through his throat, as if his entire body would tear apart any second from the effort of holding his breath.

The mermaid squeezed his hand and nodded. The pain receded as Shea stared into her eyes, lost in their green depths. As she nodded to him again, he opened his mouth to exhale the stale air that pounded like a jackhammer in his lungs. Large bubbles rushed to the surface as he struggled to breathe, but there was no air to be had. Only salty ocean water rushing in to fill his mouth, his lungs, his body...

***

Shea woke with a start, clawing at the sheets and disoriented for a full minute before remembering where he was. At the Hansen’s house. Because his own home – the farm where he’d lived and worked all his life – was gone, swept away and crushed by the freak tornado.

And his dad was nowhere to be found.

Why am I still here?
Guilty thoughts plagued Shea as he surveyed the damage to his former home. The flattened fields looked as if an army had trampled them, leaving nothing alive in their wake. All around him, broken hunks of wood and window dotted the yard, all that remained of the two-story farmhouse. Beyond the edges of the farm, everything looked normal. Only the acres belonging to Tom MacNamara had been targeted by the rogue twister.

I should’ve been home. Maybe I could’ve saved him.
He looked up from the flattened fields at a thin plume of dust rising along the road. A yellow cab. A shiver ran through him as he remembered the last taxicab to come out this far from the city, bringing his dad home from the airport. He’d left Shea home to mind the farm while he went back to Cape Cod to bury his father and brother, after their fishing boat had been struck by a rogue wave. It had certainly been a hard few months for the men of the MacNamara family.

The taxi stopped halfway up the drive, where the John Deere tractor lay on its back, blocking the way like some passing giant’s discarded toy. The rear passenger door opened and a wisp of a figure emerged, dressed all in black. Shea watched as the woman leaned in to say something to the driver, and then turned toward him. Tilting her head to one side, she cupped a hand to her mouth and called out, “Are you Shea Thomas MacNamara?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. He watched her pick her way nimbly around the John Deere, walking the rest of the way up the graveled driveway to where he stood rooted. Spreading her arms wide, she gave him a sad smile. “Come give me a hug. I’m your Gramma.” When he didn’t move, she slowly lowered her arms and sighed. “I guess boys these days don’t hug. More’s the pity,” she said, closing the distance between them. She extended her right hand. “I’m Martha MacNamara. But you can call me Gramma.”

So this was the grandmother he’d never met.

“You’re sure to be having lots of questions,” she continued, as if sensing his curiosity, “but there’ll be plenty of time for catching up. First things first, let’s have a look at you.” She put both hands on his shoulders and squinted her eyes behind her half-moon glasses, nodding to herself as she looked him up and down. He could see that behind the lenses her eyes were blue, just like his dad’s were. Had been. “And how old are you now, lad? Fourteen, is it?”

“Fifteen,” he corrected, squirming awkwardly under her scrutiny. “My birthday was Saturday.” He’d planned to spend the day in Oklahoma City, watching baseball and celebrating with his best friend. Instead, he’d spent the day sitting by the Hansen’s phone, waiting in vain for word about his father.

She cocked her head to one side, her eyes glittering brightly. “Is that so? Fifteen already? My, oh, my, how the time does fly.” She seemed about to say something more, but then shook her head and took a step back as John and his father approached. Mr. Hansen and his sons had been checking to see if any farm equipment could be salvaged from the collapsed barn.

“Hello there,” boomed Mr. Hansen as he reached a meaty fist toward Martha, enveloping her entire hand with a hearty shake. Even in the midst of the devastated farmland, it seemed hard for the big man to tone down his boisterous nature. “You must be Tom’s mother. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

John sidled over to Shea. “She looks like she might be okay,” he whispered. Shea didn’t acknowledge John’s words or even spare him a glance. His eyes were riveted on the woman who claimed to be kin, sizing her up. Mr. Hansen’s blond bulk towered over the thin, grey-haired woman with the sharp blue eyes, and yet Shea had the feeling the little old lady would be the victor of any argument. There was something odd about her, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

She looked nothing like his father, for starters. Except for the eyes. And while her long braided hair was steely grey and her clothes screamed “old lady alert,” there were very few wrinkles on her face. Behind those half-moon glasses, her eyes looked clear. As he made his assessment, she suddenly turned those sharp eyes toward him, catching him with her gaze.

“Let’s not dawdle then,” she said, cutting off whatever it was John’s dad had been prattling on about. “We need to get your things, dearie, and get a move on.” She kept her eyes locked with Shea’s.

Mr. Hansen looked startled. “But surely you’re not leaving right away,” he said. “Aren’t you going to stay for the funeral service?”

Martha looked back at him. “Have you found my son, then?”

The big man shuffled awkwardly under her piercing gaze. “Well, as a matter of plain fact, no. But folks here thought it would be the decent thing to have a ceremony. Put some closure on this tragedy.”

“Tragedy it is,” she agreed, taking her glasses off. She pulled a lace handkerchief from somewhere up her left sleeve and polished the lenses while they stood watching her. She took her time, rubbing first one lens and then the other, sliding the handkerchief up and down the brass while everyone else stood silent. She finally slipped the half-moons back on, her eyes sparkling more brightly. “But I’m afraid there will be no closure for now. Nothing is
over
,” she added cryptically. “It’s only just begun.”

Two weeks later

The beach had probably looked the same way for decades, Shea decided. He stared out across the vast stretch of undulating blue. Centuries, even. Since before time was even measured.

It had sure looked exactly the same for the last few weeks.

Moving to Cape Cod was a huge mistake
, he thought for the millionth time. He might be with his so-called
family
, but he’d never felt so alone in his life.
I should have stayed in Plainville and kept searching for Dad.

He watched a wave catch the sunlight, the edge shimmering in the brightness, part of the endless and intricate dance of foam and spray. The saltwater rippled and curled, crashing to a grand finale on the empty shore as the sparkles all melted into the sand. The sound and the power of the waves felt calming. Shea shook his head at the thought.
I’m from Oklahoma
, he reminded himself.
Oceans don’t mean anything to farmers
.

Turning his back on the dancing waves, he tramped through the soft sand. He’d watched the sun rise over this stretch of neighborhood beach each morning since he’d arrived on Cape Cod. Shea couldn’t believe it had only been a few weeks. It already felt like Oklahoma belonged in a different lifetime.

“Two weeks,” he said out loud. John had called every day during that first week, sharing the news from Plainville High, like the fact that B.J. and Jeannie were now a couple. It was awkward having a real conversation while sitting at the kitchen table with Martha always hovering nearby. John hadn’t called this week, and Shea already felt like he was losing his friend.

The only good part was that Martha hadn’t made him sign up at the local school. Good and bad. At least if she’d made him go to school, he would have met other kids his age. For now, it was just Martha and him.

Shea threw the bag of garbage into the blue barrel before turning back toward the ocean. He went through the bizarre list of trash in his head, a habit he’d fallen into.

3 aluminum cans, 5 Styrofoam coffee cups, 2 plastic coffee cup lids, 3 popped blue balloons on yellow string tangled with seaweed, 1 water bottle, 1 Matchbox racecar, and a red shovel.

He’d started picking up the trash littered along the shore after his very first walk, when he’d been appalled by the number of empty cans and washed-up debris lying tangled amongst the seaweed. He stuffed plastic supermarket bags into his pockets and collected the garbage as he walked the dog on the beach. It felt like the right thing to do. And it was something he could control. The rest of his life definitely felt out of his control. And the nightmares were getting worse, too. It was getting to the point where he dreaded falling asleep.

Most of the dreams took place underwater, far below the surface of the ocean, with hideous creatures chasing after him as he swam for his life. In some he was caught up in bloody undersea battles, where the fish all had faces and arms and fought each other with steel swords. In others, he found himself locked inside a cold room made of stone, an underwater prison with no hope of escape. Sea monsters and mermaids and other mythical creatures floated in and out of his nightmares, jarring him awake with their sharp teeth. He’d lie tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets, counting the hours until daylight.

There was no one he could to talk with about these strange dreams. He’d thought about confiding in Martha, but quickly dismissed that idea. After that cryptic remark she’d made back in Oklahoma about the tragedy being only the beginning, she hadn’t wanted to discuss anything with him – not about his father, or the tornado, or anything. She said she was giving him time to settle in. That they needed to wait.

Wait? For what?

He added today’s list to the catalog already in his head. If anyone had asked, he could easily recite every bit of garbage he’d picked up in the last two weeks.

Things stuck in his head. His dad had called it a “perfect photographic memory.” It was another of those odd things about Shea, like his remarkable eyesight or his acute hearing, which he and his dad never really discussed. Which is why he’d started getting test answers wrong on purpose. He hadn’t messed around on the standardized tests the year before. He knew he was smart and was more than a little curious to see how he measured up. According to the guidance counselor, he was off their charts. Way off. His dad had been so proud.

And then his dad had asked him to start getting answers wrong. On purpose.

How did that make sense?

He concentrated on the waves rolling onto the shore, crashing on the sand, as he tried to steady his suddenly ragged breathing. He shouldn’t think about his dad.

The dog was still chasing seagulls. Shea whistled and waited, watching the dog turn away from the squawking birds and bound toward him. To his right, the beach stretched down for about a mile, ending at the river jetty where the Herring River spilled back out into the ocean. Grass-covered sand dunes lined the edge of the beach, with a row of tall, imposing homes looming above the dunes. Private wooden walkways led up through the dune grasses to each of these stately homes, now shuttered and quiet as they waited patiently for their summer people to return. Each house seemed large enough to hold at least two or three of Martha’s small home, and Shea wondered why anyone needed so much space. The very last house before the river even had its own windmill attached to it, something Shea had never seen outside storybooks.

Where Shea stood now bordered on the public beach, complete with lifeguard stands and a brick building with public restrooms. A large paved parking lot edged up against the top of the boardwalk. Over by the entrance stood a little white hut, now boarded up and empty. Shea figured that must be where someone stood to collect parking fees from summer tourists. Martha had said nothing really got going on the beaches until mid-June, when the lifeguards came back.

At the far side of this beach was a long rock jetty, jutting out into the crashing waves. At the moment it was covered with a dozen seagulls, standing huddled in a group on the rocks, away from the loud black dog.

Lucky had reached Shea. He bent to clip the leash onto Lucky’s collar for the walk back to Martha’s. While Shea felt comfortable letting the dog run loose on the beach, he worried about him on the road, even with the few cars that ever passed them.
Summer will probably be a lot worse
, he thought,
when all those big houses are filled
. Suddenly the dog barked, bolting back toward the water and pulling the leash from Shea’s hand.

“No, Lucky!” He ran down the beach after him. “We’re supposed to get off the beach before anyone shows up!” The sign posted next to the garbage barrel warned of stiff penalties for walking pets on the beach. Not that he cared for rules, but Shea didn’t have the money to pay a hundred dollar fine.

He caught up with Lucky at the ocean’s edge, stomping down on the water-soaked leash before he could get too far. A familiar shiver ran up his spine as a cold wave grabbed at his ankles.

He remembered that feeling. From the day of the tornado.

When the wave finally pulled back from the shore, an odd stone sat upon the bare sand, glinting in the morning sunlight. Shea grabbed it along with the wet leash. “What’s this?” he asked, forgetting about the strange twinges still pinging his muscles.

Round and smooth, the stone looked almost polished. A strange hexagon-shaped hole cut right through its heart. The skin on his palm tingled beneath the weight of the rock.

Lucky barked again, jerking Shea’s attention back to the water’s surface. Something splashed nearby.

“What was it, boy? One of those seals Gramma talks about?” Shea raised his empty hand to shade his eyes. He waited for the creature to surface again. After several long minutes, he looked down at the dog. “We’ve got to go. Maybe next time we’ll get a better look.”

Slipping the stone into the front pocket of his jeans, Shea tugged on the leash. The pair walked in silence up the beach and through the dunes, back to the road leading to his grandmother’s house.

***

Ten yards from shore, a blonde head slowly surfaced among the waves. Her wide-set green eyes followed the boy and his dog until they were through the dunes and gone from view. She sighed and furrowed her brow, mad at herself for being afraid.

“Why didn’t I talk to him?” She slapped her hand flat against the water’s surface as she berated herself. “I’m such a jellyfish! I mean, he seems nice enough…”

She had meant to pause her morning swim only for a moment, but it was unusual to see someone – anyone – picking up the garbage that lay on the beach. Hiding amidst the waves, she’d watched him walk the length of the beach and back again, gathering up the debris that’d become all too common along the shoreline. Something about him fascinated her.

She wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers at the beach. That was a hard and fast rule that she’d only broken once before. But those had been girls, and they’d been much younger. This was a boy…and a cute one at that.

Her father would probably have a fit if he knew. If she even said hello. She shivered as she pictured her father turning red as a snapping fish, yelling at her for breaking the rules. Tossing her long, wet hair away from her face, she froze, her hand flying to her neckline.

Her medallion was gone!

“The cord must’ve broken,” she realized, thinking her dad might end up resembling a red snapper after all. “But it has to be right here!” She dove back under the water, forgetting the human for the moment. She searched the sandy bottom for her shiny black stone with the hole cut through the center, unaware it’d already washed ashore.