Fathomless

  “I’m…” I stall for a long time.

  “Tell me, Lo! I’m your sister. You always have to tell your sisters.”

  You’re one of my sisters. I had another. A long time ago. I shake my head, sigh. How could I explain Celia? Walking up on shore to meet with a human girl who gives me back memories that I quickly forget again? It doesn’t even make sense to me, to be honest. And Key would never understand—more than anyone else, she’s always been happy to forget her past. Happy to embrace the ocean; in fact, it was her love for our sisters, for this life, that made me finally embrace it. She can’t understand this. And so instead of the whole truth, I give Key a fraction of it.

  “There’s a human boy,” I whisper. “I’m meeting with him.”

  “A what?” Key asks, her face sparking. “Where did you find him?”

  “The boy I saved from Molly,” I admit.

  “Molly’s human? Oh, she’ll be furious!” Key says, and I wonder if she’d have the same delight if it was another girl’s human.

  “You can’t tell Molly,” I say swiftly, grabbing for Key’s shoulders. “You can’t tell any of us.”

  Key looks confused. We don’t keep secrets. She rocks backward in the water for a moment, thinking about what I’ve said.

  “Are you afraid someone will try to steal him?” she finally asks.

  I shake my head no.

  “Well, are you going to try it, then?” she says, sounding impatient.

  She doesn’t need to clarify what it means. She wants to know if I’m going to drown him. If I’ll sing him into the water and pull him under and see if his soul can become mine.

  “I… I’m not sure yet.”

  “You’re waiting? That’s wise, I suppose, since we all know he won’t love you quickly. I still can’t believe you’re going to the surface like this. It’s so dangerous, Lo. You’re so brave. But if it worked… if you gave him time to fall for you…” She pauses for a long time. “I guess I’d have to be an angel without you.”

  I force a sad smile. “If you’re an angel, you’ll be so old you’ll have mostly forgotten me, anyhow.”

  Key laughs a little. “That’s true. None of us really leave the ocean—we aren’t ourselves when we become angels, after all. It’s like we only live for a little while, isn’t it? As humans, as sisters, but then in the air… angels live forever, don’t they?”

  “I suppose. I don’t know.”

  “They do,” Key says, voice confident. “So why would you want to be a human again, anyhow?”

  “I just…” I search for words, how I can explain it to someone who has been looking forward to the air since we met. “I want to be an angel, Key. But I don’t want to lose myself. I don’t want to lose my human self, either.”

  “But… for things to be born, things must also die,” Key says gently. “It’s just the way it is.”

  I nod, smile at her. She’s right. Julia had to die so she could become Key. Key will have to die so she can join the angels.

  Jude would have to die for Naida to be reborn.

  Of course, he’d have to love Lo first.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Celia

  I take a deep breath. Just say it. “I think we should go somewhere.”

  Naida looks up at me from the steps of the church, where she’s sitting. She’s taken the shoes off; dried blood clings to her feet, but it’s no longer flowing. The sun is nearly set in the trees behind us, and the scent of funnel cakes seems permanently attached to the breeze. I nod up toward the Pavilion, and Naida’s eyes widen.

  “What?” she asks, like she’s genuinely convinced she misheard me.

  “This beach, being here by the water. It’s no wonder it’s hard for you to remember, when everything that Lo loves is just a few yards away. We should try to go farther into shore.”

  “I can’t. I can’t walk.”

  “You can with the shoes on. Sort of. And I had an idea for that.”

  “I don’t look like you.”

  “I had an idea for that, too,” I say, and reach into my purse. I pull out a compact of powder makeup, one I stopped wearing because it’s so heavy. I don’t think it’ll totally mask the blue of Naida’s skin, but it’ll help. Maybe at night, if no one is looking too closely, no one will notice she stands out. Besides, what would they say—“Excuse me, but your skin is blue”? No. They’ll try not to stare and hurry their children along.

  I think. I hope.

  But this can’t go on forever. Am I going to just keep coming here, reminding Naida of the life she once had? Caught between guilt over her actually saving Jude, hope that she’ll remember, joy when my power helps? Naida needs to remember being human. And that means being human. No ocean, no sand, no endless watery horizon. We have to at least try. It’s a weeknight; the Pavilion won’t be crowded—even my sisters opted to go to the movies instead of coming down here. It’ll be safe. It’ll help—I’ll help. It’s my power. Maybe helping Naida is the thing I’ve been waiting for, the chance to be—as Jude said—Celia instead of Anne and Jane’s sister. If that’s the case, I have to be brave, bold. I have to be more like my mother.

  Naida doesn’t seem nearly as determined as me—she stares at her feet, licks her lips. I can tell she wants to go. She looks toward the Pavilion, closes her eyes. She nods.

  I open the compact; Naida holds her arms out for me, and I smooth line after line of powder across them, swirling it around her elbows, then across her back, everywhere the dress doesn’t cover. Her skin is so smooth that the powder goes on easily, but it still looks strange against her skin, like it’s Halloween makeup instead of skin-toned. Her face is trickier, since the darkest blues are near her hairline. We spend almost an hour trying to cover her, with me taking a few steps back, looking at the work, then running in to patch places.

  “I think that’s it,” I say finally, nodding. Naida looks down at her arms, smoothes the dress, smiles.

  “Do I look normal?” she asks.

  No. She doesn’t. She doesn’t look human; she looks like she’s in a disguise. But there’s so much longing in her voice that all I can do is grin and nod and hope that no one will ask questions.

  She slides the shoes back onto her feet and winces as she takes a few steps out of the church’s doorway, into the sand. I rush to her side, link an arm underneath her shoulders to help her. The path will be the worst part—if we can just get to the top… I look over at the people on the edge of the pier. They’ll be able to see us from the halfway point, where the pier lights begin to illuminate the grass.

  “See the light, right there?” I ask, stopping as we begin the trek upward.

  “Yes,” Naida says breathlessly. The fear is gone, replaced by excitement, eagerness.

  “At that point, you have to walk on your own. Until we get to the top. Then I’ll go get something for you—”

  “What? Alone?” Naida asks, eyes jumping to me.

  “If someone sees me helping you up, they’ll think you’re hurt. They’ll try to help, and if they get too close, they might see…” I motion toward the powder on her arms, clearly streaked and fake when I’m right next to her. “You have to make it on your own, and you have to make it look like it doesn’t hurt. Can you do it?”

  Naida inhales, looks at the top of the trail. It’s only about twenty feet from where the light hits to the edge of the pier, but it’s uphill, through sea grass and sand—it’s tricky to navigate even for me.

  “Yes. I want to remember. I have to,” she says firmly, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince me or herself.

  We start up the pathway. It doesn’t take long for blood to drip over the sides of her shoes into the sand. She doesn’t wince, doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even close her eyes when I stumble and she’s forced to balance herself for a beat. When we get to the light, I look over at her and carefully, slowly, let her go. I motion for her to go first—if she falls, I want to be able to catch her. Naida presses her lips together, takes a s
tep, another…. She leans down to use tufts of sea grass to tug herself forward, which I know must be slicing across her hands, but she doesn’t seem to notice. People are starting to glance over at the girls walking up the side of the pier. No one looks twice. Yes, this is working, this will work—

  Naida stumbles forward on the last step when the sand shifts beneath her feet. She throws her arms out, an action that would probably steady her in the water but does nothing on land. She falls on her chest, scraping her face in the sand. Someone’s walking over to help her; he looks concerned—

  “She’s fine,” I say—snap, even—from behind Naida. I struggle to run the last few steps, kneel to help her up.

  “Are you sure?” the older man says. His hair is speckled gray, eyes doubtful.

  “Yeah. She’s drunk, that’s all,” I say, giggling like it’s hilarious.

  The man rolls his eyes. “Damn kids,” he mutters before walking back to the corn dog stand.

  “Are you all right?” I whisper to Naida as I help her stand. The makeup on one side of her face rubbed off when she hit the sand. I whip the compact out and try to cover the blue again—though it’s actually not as noticeable here. It’s easy to pass it off as the glow from one of the neon lights or the flashing rides.

  Naida doesn’t answer; she grabs hold of the edge of the pier and leans against it, digging her nails into the wood.

  “Stay here,” I say. “Just a minute.” She blinks, like she’s dizzy, but nods. I dart away, not far, but enough to make me feel panicked, frenzied. The booth is just ahead—

  “Hi,” I say to the woman inside the illuminated hut. She’s wearing a dirty shirt with the Pavilion’s logo, and her stomach presses against the edge of the counter. She stares at me.

  “I need a wheelchair,” I say. “My grandmother is winded—thought she could make it, but—”

  “On the side,” she says, pushing a key on a wooden stick toward me. She thumbs to her left; I peer around the building to see a small row of wheelchairs chained up beside two golf carts. I slink around, insert the key in the padlock, and wheel one out. The woman doesn’t look up when I slide the key back toward her.

  The chair is hard to open and has PAVILION PROPERTY scrawled across the back in Sharpie, but it’ll work. I zip through the crowd, wheeling it in front of me, almost running over the same man who tried to help Naida earlier. When I reach her, she’s barely moved, like she’s afraid she’ll fall much farther than a few feet if she releases the railing.

  “Here,” I say, setting the chair up behind her. I grab her shoulders and pull her down into the seat. She exhales, breathes heavily for a few minutes, then gives me a weak smile.

  It isn’t packed by summer standards, but still—there are so many people. I wish I could see Naida’s face, or even that I had Jane’s power and knew what she was thinking. She grips the arms of the chair tightly, her head turns side to side so fast it’s like she’s watching a tennis match. There are a few stares, but they’re only in passing; we move mostly unnoticed through the masses. I pull the chair around several food carts, near the outskirts of the Pavilion. There’s a calliope on this side, and a bench meant for sitting and watching it play music—though, just like I suspected, no one is here. I wheel the chair to the bench and sit down. Naida listens to the haunting organ melody for a moment, stares at the paintings of trees and woodland creatures on the sides, before turning to me. She’s smiling, but she looks sick. Not just sick, but like she’s been sick for a long time—the sort where the person looks wasted away, broken.

  “This is amazing,” she whispers. Her voice shakes. Light bounces off her cheeks, making the circles under her eyes look even darker.

  “Most people don’t appreciate it,” I admit. “And I probably wouldn’t have ever realized it was here, except for the fact that it backs up to the parking lot. See that spot in the fencing? You can push it in. My sisters and I sometimes sneak in here during the off-season, when it’s all creepy and empty….” I drift off, grin at memories of us running through the park, free and boundless and happy. I look back over at Naida—she’s gazing at the calliope. No, staring, staring like she can’t force herself to look away—

  “I remember….” she says shakily.

  “What?” I ask when she’s silent for a long time.

  Her gaze finally drops to the giant carriage wheels that hold the calliope up. Her lips curl into a smile. “I remember my sister,” she says breathlessly. “I remember how we used to fight, but I also remember how much I loved her. And I remember school, how I was terrible at it and how it made my father angry. And his face, I almost remember his face….” A few tears form in the corners of her eyes, escape, and slide down to her collarbone. “There was one of those traveling fairs that used to come to town. It set up in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot and had awful rides—I mean, they were all old and beaten up. But there was this calliope, this old calliope with brass pipes and carvings all around the edges. Every carving showed a different myth. You know, Psyche and Cupid, Odysseus and Penelope, that sort of thing. And every year when I was little, my dad would tell me the story behind one of the carvings, until I stopped thinking it was cool to go to the carnival with your dad and… there was one left. There was one he never got to tell me.”

  “Did you know what it was?” I ask lowly, like any volume to my voice would shatter the memories she’s building.

  “I looked it up,” she says, nodding. “After he died, I think—I remember crying when I found the story. It was Philomela and Procne. A story about these sisters who get turned into birds. Hardly anyone knows it. I asked at the carnival why it made it to the calliope, but none of them knew. Their great-grandfather carved it, and they couldn’t remember how he chose the myths.” She smiles a little. “Maybe you could’ve found that out for them.”

  Naida sighs happily and slumps back in the chair, inhales deeply, like she’s drinking the scent of a nearby popcorn machine. The calliope finishes its song, making the area seem quiet for a moment; the relative silence is quickly filled up with the noise of rolling Skee-Balls in the arcade and a child throwing a tantrum over a snow cone.

  Naida sighs, turns to look at me. “Why do you think it chose me? Whatever made me Lo, whatever changed me… why me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there’s no reason.”

  She looks away. “Maybe I was just unlucky.”

  “But we can try to change it,” I say quickly. “Your luck, we can try to help you remember. Your future doesn’t have to be like your past.”

  “How do you know?” she asks, turning to me, and I realize I have no answer because I don’t know, and yet, I firmly believe it’s true.

  “Come on,” I say instead, rising. I grip the back of the chair and push her toward the midway, near the front of the Pavilion. Her breathing is raspy, heavy, the way I think it would sound if I tried to breathe underwater, but she doesn’t complain, so I keep going. There are rows and rows of booths with people trying to conquer silly tasks, like knocking over milk bottles or tossing balls into peach baskets. People are carrying around giant stuffed animals, balloons in the shape of swords, and wearing their new airbrushed beach T-shirts. Children have their faces painted with butterfly wings or tiger stripes, a few with images of dolphins leaping from their cheeks.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask, leaning forward so she can hear me.

  “Anywhere,” she says. “Everywhere.”

  So we keep walking. I want to take her into the café, but there’s no way she’d pass for human under the stark fluorescent lights. And we can’t exactly go on the rides… so we wander. Around and around till my arms hurt, but Naida doesn’t seem to be bored or tired. She nods at sights, looks up at me, and grins weakly, each time looking a little sicker, a little more tired.

  I should suggest we go back. I should tell her she doesn’t look well.

  But I don’t want to. I want her to get better, I want her to stand up without pain, I want her to be human and
never go back to the water.

  I see the boys coming before she does.

  They’re a few years younger than me, probably drunk on summer freedom and the lack of nearby parents. They tumble through the crowd loudly, knocking people out of the way, oblivious to everything that’s going on except the game they’re playing. Water guns, the pump kind, that they must have won from a booth over by the waterslides—an area I very specifically didn’t take Naida. I rise as they near, shooting carelessly, unaware of the chorus of anger around them from people who didn’t want to get wet. A security guard is coming to stop them, but he’s slow, he’s too far away. They get closer. I step in front of Naida, just as one of them shoots his gun straight up into the air beside us. He bumps into Naida’s chair, laughs an apology, then continues on—only for a few more feet, before the security guard reaches them and they disperse.

  “Sorry,” I say, brushing the water off my arms—at least it hit me and not her. “Come on, let’s go look at the Ferris wheel.” I turn to her.

  “What?” she asks, and her voice is strange. She’s holding her fingers in front of her face, rubbing them together, staring at the place where her thumb and forefinger meet. I narrow my eyes and realize there’s a single drop of water between them.

  “Naida…” I say slowly. Her eyes look darker than before, the circles under them more pronounced. Sicker, by the second, even, like she’s dying. She coughs; she can’t breathe. Something rises in my chest, panic, worry—what have I done?

  “Water,” she says. “Take me back.” Her voice is different, not Naida’s voice. Lo’s voice.

  I grab the handles of the chair and push, walking fast, hurry, go, go, not so quick as to draw too much attention, but her skin is starting to show through the makeup, her breathing is louder, she’s tilting forward in the chair like she’s lunging toward the ocean. The pier is ahead; I can see the ocean. Naida—Lo—tilts her head back, inhales, like she’s breathing in the water’s nearness. I slide the wheelchair to a stop at the edge of the path. I don’t care if anyone’s looking; it doesn’t matter. I move around, thinking I’ll need to help her, but Lo springs from the chair and runs forward, down the path, and into the darkness. I hurry after her, but the change in light is too much. I can’t see anything. I stumble and fall, slide through the sand and brush, down to the shore.