[photo by Juja Han from Unsplash]

Topher

I follow Galene's gaze to the ocean—to her ocean. Which is a bit of a mud hole, comparatively speaking. I'd love to be standing beside her the first time she sees the Mediterranean.

Right. Well. I take a step back, seeking literal distance from that soft-eyed, flush-cheeked...moment. It helps she's gone tense, like at any second she might dive in and swim back to Atlantis.

"Are you hungry?" I ask. "I believe I promised you breakfast." I point inland and take a few more backward steps, hoping to lure her from the water's edge.

Her eyes shift—past me, to the monument—but she doesn't move.

"The coffee might still be hot," I say.

"I don't drink coffee." 

"A bagel, then?"

She squints a bit, drops her eyes and smiles. Small and sly like the Monalisa. 

"Any chance of you letting me in on the joke?" I ask.

"It's not really a joke. I was just expecting something more British—like tea and crumpets?"

"And here I was trying to impress you with my grasp of all things American."

Her smile widens but she remains, ensconced at the water's edge. "I have a very British-looking plaid blanket," I say.

A small nod announces her decision. The magnitude of my relief is absurdly disproportionate.

She walks determinately, and with fisted hands. But then stops just short of my blanket to frown. "You don't like British plaid?" I ask.

"No. I mean—it's fine. I was just thinking about the monument. To the lighthouse keepers?"

The sacred Circle of Stone. "Yes, I read all about it."

Her gaze tracks inland, toward the lighthouse, now hundreds of yards from its original location. "I was here when they moved it," she says, with the sweetest reverence. "I came every day for an entire month."

I read about that, too. It's a well-documented feat. But I can imagine the experience of it would've been quite a bit more impactful.

"I love that they left the lighthouse's footprint here," she says. "But eventually, if something isn't done, the stones are going to end up in the ocean."

"Ah, yes. The erosion persists. Despite the efforts of the great and terrible jetty."

Her eyes meet mine for a scrutinizing moment.

"Sorry," I say. "I shouldn't make light of my bad decisions."

She bites into her lip. This is obviously a thing she does. A tell. Then she sits on the edge of my blanket, knees bent, feet in the sand. I lower myself beside her and offer the bag of bagels. She peers in, but declines. I'd like to segue into the subject of my tremendous good fortune at having been rescued from my bad decision to swim near the jetty, but her gaze has gone back to the ocean, her posture rigid. Still a bit of a flight risk, it seems.

"So," I say, heralding a subject change. "We've established that you're no longer a lifeguard. May I ask what it is you do now?"

"I work at the aquarium on Roanoke Island."

I laugh and Galene looks, yet again, like she might be judging me.

"You're having me on," I say. "Or aren't you?"

"Um. I don't know what that means. Having you on?" 

"Were you joking? About the aquarium."

"No, why would you think that?"

"It's a bit on the nose, isn't it? If one were looking at modern-day career options for a sea goddess-slash-mermaid?"

Her eyes narrow. A clear warning.

"Right. Sorry again. What do you do at the aquarium?"

"Animal care. Tank cleaning. Exhibit maintenance."

"Are you a veterinarian?"

"No. My degree is in marine biology. But I assist the vet sometimes."

There's something in the way she says assist. Isn't there? Like she's hinting at something? 

Blast it. I should just ask her point blank. Shouldn't I?

"You know," I say, feeling more than a little unhinged. "I rang my mum after our last conversation. She didn't answer, hasn't returned my call—which is concerning now that I think on it. But to be fair, in my voicemail I didn't let on that I..."

The expression on Galene's face is blatant confusion now. "I don't know what I'm going on about," I tell her. "Honestly, I've not been sleeping well these last few nights. Ruminating thoughts."

She breathes out—a possible laugh. "Same here."

"Yeah?" Her response is completely unguarded. Almost inviting. "Anything you want to talk about?" I ask.

She shrugs and takes a sudden interest in burrowing her toes in the sand. Today, her spirals of hair are piled on top her head, exposing a long neck and a delicately defined jaw. Pale eyelashes rest on high cheekbones as she looks down. Her features are in perfect proportion, with the exception of her eyes. Then, she turns them on me and I can't imagine her any other way. Wouldn't want to.

"I'd like to know what you were going to say," she says. "About calling your mom?"

"Ah, yes, that. I'd hoped to ask two questions. One I'm nearly certain I already know the answer to. The other...well. I think I might rather ask you."

"Okay," she says. Perhaps a little wary.

Understandable. I'm hesitant to ask. But needs must. "Do you think it's possible for a person to have some kind of...innate ability which might allow them to somehow accelerate the healing process?"

Her eyebrows flinch. The response is subtle. I'd have missed it had I not been so intent on her reaction. "What kind of innate ability would allow a person to do that?" she asks, her tone carefully neutral.

This is a game of cat and mouse. I had that feeling earlier when I started to ask about my arm. There was something very calculated about the look on her face. But then she told me the pier story—which...may well have been offered up as a distraction?

"I don't have an answer," I say. "Not a logical one. But considering the exact scenario I have in mind..." I make a concerted effort not to look at my arm. Galene's eyes remain on mine. Steadfast and a bit detached. "Considering the wound in question, it would be nothing short of magic."

This draws a less subtle grimace. "You believe in magic?"

"You could say I was raised to believe. My mum's people are deeply rooted in their faith, in miracles."

"And you think miracles are the same thing as magic?" she asks, with prejudice.

It's all I can do to suppress my smile. Her diversion skills are impressive. "You could just say you don't want to answer my question."

Her eyes shift to the ocean—to a surfer. One who is no doubt skilled at avoiding the jetty.

"Magic is an illusion," she says. "A trick to be discovered and explained. Miracles are gifts from God. Or the universe. Whatever you believe in."

Still not an answer to my question, but I'll play along. "My mum would agree with you. She'd say..." I wait until Galene cuts her eyes to mine. "Mum would say what you did for me is a miracle. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't shown up, would I?" 

"You're not going to thank me again, are you?" 

"Every chance I get."

She laughs, but it's more incredulity than amusement. Then she turns her attention back to the Atlantic.

Are her cheeks flush?

Yes, and it reminds me of her odd reaction to my sunburn. How in bloody hell am I supposed to navigate this?

"I don't mean to be..." What am I being? "Invasive or overly dramatic?" Yes, both of these. "But there's something about you..." 

Galene noticeably braces herself. I'm making it worse. "Look, it's obvious that I'm beyond curious about this...situation. But I want to ensure you that I am a private person. I have not, nor do I plan to share the details of our meeting with anyone. I would never betray your trust—should you decide, at some point, that you want to. Trust me." 

She closes her eyes, taking a slow breath—almost like she's breathing in my words. Then she exhales with a nod, crossing her arm over her chest. And her skin has turned to goose flesh. Is that good or bad?

"I do trust you," she says, finally. And there's the slightest hint of a smile. Not the Monalisa kind. This is different—something along the lines of contentment. Or acceptance.

I don't know how I managed it, the earning of her trust, but it feels like I've won a prize.

Galene flinches, full body. Then digs into her pocket, pulls out a phone and rolls her eyes. "My sister wants to know if I'm still alive."

I give her a nod, as if this is all normal and sensible—which it absolutely is. But honestly, the thought of her needing this kind of buddy-system safety check had not occurred to me. And I have to laugh at myself. Perhaps she is human after all.

She types in a short reply and drops the phone on the blanket. "Is your sister also a Nereid?" I ask.

This smile is completely new: relaxed and wistful. "The short story is yes. But for her, it's a nickname. Dione: Goddess of divine beauty. Do you want the long story?"

"Yes, please." Desperately.

"Dee's birth parents died in a car accident. Our adoptive mom was a distant cousin—the only relative they had in America. So unlike me, Dee came with a name and a family history."

"Unlike you?"

"I'm a cliche: abandoned with nothing but the clothes on my back and all that. My adoptive parents were already fostering me when Dee came along. The first time I saw her, she was sitting on our couch next to the social worker, glaring at the bearded man who was about to become her father. When Mom and I walked into the room she jumped up and hugged me like we'd been sisters all our lives. We've been inseparable ever since."

The information is delivered so quickly, it takes me a moment to absorb the gravity of her situation. "You were abandoned," I reiterate. "No name. So, no birth certificate? How did your parents—your adoptive parents... I'm sorry. I'm being intrusive again."

"It's okay, you're right. It's not easy to adopt someone who doesn't exist. It took more than a year to make it all legal."

Incredible. "Your parents must be extraordinary people."

"They were. But Pop would never have agreed with that description. He liked to think of himself as a simple man. A simple fisherman." 

Past tense. "And your mum is gone as well?"

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thanks," she says. But then she takes a breath, the shoring up kind, and says, "It was a difficult time. They died less than a year apart. But at least I have...closure."

"Right. Yes." Unlike the fate of her birth parents, which is still a mystery. "How old were you when you came to live with your mum and Pop?"

"Five. Ish."

"Oh. I assumed you were too young to remember them—your birth parents—but...do you?"

"No. I don't even remember being found. By an early morning dog-walker. On the beach." She cuts her eyes to me as she delivers the last bit. I take this to mean she's adding it to the list: evidence for her sister's mermaid conviction. "After that, apparently, there was a ride in the police car, a night spent in the social worker's spare bedroom. My memory picks up sometime, maybe a couple of weeks after I was delivered to Mom and Pop?"

"Post traumatic amnesia."

"That's the general consensus."

"Leni, I..."

Leni. This is the first time her nickname has felt natural to me. Somehow, amid all this vulnerability, it truly suits her.

"I can't begin to imagine it," I tell her. "It must've been hell to grow up with so many unanswered questions—as it would for anyone. But for you especially. You're no ordinary orphan girl, are you?"

Her responding smile and the light that comes to her eyes feels...well. I don't have an arrhythmia, but it seems my heart has become rather a clumsy sod these last days.

Best not to dwell.

"I've never had anyone I could talk to about this," Leni says. "Other than Dee. I'm really glad I stuck around to meet you."

She touches her shoulder to mine, her first intentional contact. My heart stumbles again and I smile—like an idiot, I'm sure—but it cannot be helped. "Are you saying you considered leaving me to fend for myself?" 

"No, not to fend for yourself."

"Ah. The plan was to leave before I gained consciousness. May I ask why you stayed?"

She rests her chin in her hand and chews her pinky nail while she searches the ocean for an answer. "I don't think I'm ready to explain that." 

Why am I not surprised? "Well then, that gives me something to look forward to." 

"Are you always this agreeable?" she asks, smiling again.

"I hope so."

"Okay, then." Leni side-steps her feet, shifting her body so she's facing me. "My sister also wants me to invite you to dinner. She means tonight—is that something you'd agree to?"

"I..." What? Her tone seems genuinely inviting, but her eyes are intense, her shoulders squared off in a way that looks like forced bravado. "Is that something you want as well?"

Her cheeks color. "I'll admit, I didn't when Dee suggested it—first thing this morning. But now..."

She nods, biting her lip, and I return the gesture—sans teeth. But honestly, I'm flummoxed.

I've only ever had a woman invite me to meet the family twice in my entire life. The first, while I was still in London, came from a lovely coed after we'd been dating exclusively for several months. The second was from a fellow med student at Duke, halfway through an aggressively amorous first date. Which consequently, was also our last.

"Was that a yes?" Leni asks. "Dee's a great cook."

"I have work tonight and before that, I really should sleep. I'm coming off another graveyard shift. Twelve hours: seven p.m. to seven a.m."

"Oh."

She seems genuinely disappointed—and I can't allow that. "It's my last overnight shift for a bit," I amend quickly. "So tomorrow, if that could work, I would love to meet your sister."

"And Matt, who acts very much like a big brother," she adds like it's a warning.

"Right." My stomach goes a bit sour. I'm not sure if it's hunger or mild panic. "Take my number," I say, pointing to her phone. "You could ask the two of them. If the schedule change is—"

"I don't have to ask."

She opens her contacts, but general phone navigation seems to be a laborious task for her. There's a lot of backspacing and sighing and even a groan. It's marvelous to watch. Probably because it's so obviously genuine. She's completely unguarded now.

"Okay," she says finally and hands me her phone. My name is misspelled.

She blinks at me—and I've no doubt I'm grinning like a twit. This is madness. I type in my number and then, returning her phone, I ask, "What can I bring? Wine?"

"No, please. We have more than enough wine and Dee will have everything else we could possibly need or want."

"I have to bring something or else my mum will sense the transgression somehow and there will be hell to pay."

"My mom was like that," Leni says, with a smile so spectacular I'm tempted to abandon my search for a logical explanation and just give in to the...

Ha. You idiot. Can't even let yourself think of the alternative.

"I'll ask Dee and text you," she says, eyes dipping to her sandy toes. "Did I mention Matt already treats me like a little sister?"

"You did. I have been sufficiently warned and will proceed with an excess of caution."