Fathomless

  Sand in my eyes, my mouth. I cough, try to spit it out, clamber to my feet. The tide is in, the ocean is near… I take a few unsteady steps forward.

  “Naida? Lo?”

  No answer. My eyes finally adjust, and I kneel down at dark marks in the sand. Footprints, thick with blood that pools into the deeper area where her toes pressed into the sand, running desperately. I follow them toward the waves. One shoe, then the other, kicked off as she fled into the water. I step on the edge of one of her footprints, and the blood tints the tips of my toes.

  She’s gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Lo

  I’m sorry.

  That’s what I want to say. I know she was trying to help Naida. I know she cares about Naida.

  But I’m not meant for the shore. I tear the dress off my body, turn in the water. I breathe deep, let water fill my lungs, course around me. My body aches, muscles sore and skin tender, like it’s been burned. The shore was killing me. Naida was killing me, even if she didn’t mean to.

  I don’t want to lose myself. I don’t want to die. But neither does Naida.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Celia

  Naida was supposed to meet me a few hours ago—seven o’clock, our usual appointment. She wasn’t there. I waited by the church, but she didn’t come.

  Will I ever see her again? The way she left, the pain, the panic… That was Lo, though. Naida wouldn’t just leave like that, vanish forever. Unless Lo is stronger now, able to keep Naida from emerging, from surfacing…

  No, don’t think like that. I swallow, try to break apart the tension in my chest. Just outside my bedroom door, Anne and Jane are checking each other’s eye shadow. I have enough to worry about tonight, with the two of them. They’re still angry with me over keeping Naida a secret; I can’t let them see I’m worried about something, not when we’re supposed to be having a real night out together for the first time in ages. A night I’m genuinely excited about, no less.

  “Promise you won’t read him?” I say seriously to Anne and Jane as we’re about to walk out the door.

  “Jesus, Celia, we can be normal human beings for one night,” Jane says.

  “Last time you guys saw him, you read him. It’s not a crazy thing to expect,” I argue.

  “Fine, no reading Celia’s boyfriend, Jane. I won’t, either,” Anne says. “Or at least, I’ll try really hard not to.” I glare at her, but she grins back. I sigh as we walk down the dormitory hallway, heels clacking on the tile floor.

  “Shotgun,” Jane calls gleefully when we burst through the dorm’s front doors.

  “I thought you were driving,” Anne grumbles as we head to the car. I take the backseat.

  We drive out of the main tourist section of the beach, down to a tucked-away area behind the canals. It’s an antique-looking part of town, all salt-battered wood and faded paint, filled with old families and crab fishers. There’s a coffeehouse here, one I’ve heard of but never been to. Apparently, after dark it becomes something of a coffeehouse-music-venue-bar where two of Jude’s four roommates are playing tonight. Jude asked us to come—well, Jude asked me, specifically, but Anne and Jane wanted to go and he said that was fine—that his roommates could use the crowd and would probably be more than happy to occupy my sisters after the show.

  “Look at the three of you,” Jude says when we park and get out of the car. We’re probably overdressed, but Anne wouldn’t have it any other way. Jude is smiling, though, so I suppose we don’t look too ridiculous. “Anne, right?” he says, pointing to Jane.

  “Wrong. Is anyone else coming?” Jane answers, looking around at the gravel lot occupied by only us, Jude, and a handful of crows picking over discarded hush puppies. The trees overhead are thick with wisteria vines and Spanish moss, leaving the dimly lit coffee shop looking spooky, an island of light in the darkness.

  “Of course. There’s a drunk who comes here every night for the cheap beer,” Jude says. “Plus the waitresses.”

  Anne and Jane don’t look miffed, though; rather, they look somehow delighted. Maybe it’s just because it’s different from the crowd they’re usually engulfed in. They eagerly order lattes and take the best seats in the place, an oversize love seat with dusty upholstery. Jude’s roommates are setting up on the plywood stage—they look like they belong in a box set with Jude. Same type of clothes, same messy hair… They call him up to help arrange some equipment. Anne and Jane look over at the table where I’m sitting, pushed up right against the arm of their love seat.

  “Are the roommates off-limits for reading?” Anne whispers, giggling.

  “They’re not even your type!” I should frown, should be annoyed, but I can’t draw up those emotions.

  “Maybe we’ve been trying the wrong type,” Jane answers. “I like the blond one with all the tattoos. What’s his name?”

  “I have no idea,” I say.

  “Hey! Blond guy! What’s your name?” Anne shouts. The blond roommate looks up, gives Jude a quizzical look. Jude chuckles and shrugs.

  “Um… Derron,” he says.

  “His name’s Derron,” Anne tells Jane, who dissolves into a fit of laughter.

  As promised, a drunk guy does show up, but so do a large handful of other people, enough that when Derron and another roommate take the stage, there’s a decent round of applause. I get my own latte and a chocolate croissant, which Jude pays for before I can stop him.

  “So are you as good a musician as them?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s an unfair comparison. I mean, there’re two of them,” Jude points out, grinning. I roll my eyes at him just as they begin to play.

  They are good. Not amazing, not revolutionary, but good. Derron is on piano, the other one on guitar, and they cycle through a series of songs about girls they once loved, places they once went, making metaphors I don’t always understand. It’s just loud enough that to be heard, Jude has to lean in close to me; he smells like soap and honey. I jump a little when he puts a hand on my back, drums his fingers along to the music, but the layer of fabric between us keeps his memories safe from me. The air feels sugary and thick, between the coffee steam and the music, and I forget to notice time passing, hours passing. When they finish, it’s nearly one in the morning.

  The drunk leaves, but most of the crowd stays to talk—I realize just about everyone is friends with one or both of the musicians. Anne and Jane see this as a delightful challenge and thrust themselves to the front of the crowd. Despite his initial wariness, Derron seems to be charmed by Jane, and the other guy doesn’t stand a chance at deflecting Anne. I feel a little guilty, but only a little—I can’t control what my sisters do any more than they should be able to control what I do, really.

  “Come outside. I want to show you something,” Jude says lowly. I meet his eye, try to figure out what he means, but he isn’t giving away his secrets. He rises; I follow, slipping out the coffee shop door so quietly the bell doesn’t even jingle—not that Anne or Jane would have heard it above the roar of conversation and laughter going on by the stage.

  It’s quiet out here, muggy yet cool. Jude walks over to his car and pops the trunk, then stands in front of it.

  “Don’t make fun of me,” he says seriously.

  “What?”

  “That song I was talking about at the music shop? I wrote it.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I wrote the music, and the words for the chorus. But it’s something.”

  “And you’re going to play it for me?” I ask.

  “I planned on it, if it doesn’t make me look like one of those guys who sit on Milton’s campus playing just to pick up girls.”

  “My sisters love those guys,” I say, laughing a little.

  “Of course they do,” Jude says, shaking his head. He opens the trunk and pulls out his guitar, then shuts it and sits on the hood. He motions to himself. “See. Sitting. Not walking. My odds of falling into the ocean are greatly decreased.” He waits for me to smile, then
looks down at his hands for a moment.

  “You play for people all the time,” I remind him when I realize he’s nervous.

  “People. Plural. I’ve never played for just one person, actually. I’m trying to figure out where to look.”

  “Maybe at your hands? That way you can avoid awkward eye contact,” I suggest. A grin flickers across his face.

  “See? Always helping.” Then he starts to play—looking at his hands.

  He hums along in the places there are no words, but with confidence—he knows every note perfectly, and they’re clear, unmuddied by the sound of his left hand sliding up and down the neck. And then he gets to the chorus. “The ocean doesn’t mind, it doesn’t care, / It’s too refined for people swimming, people dying, people loving, people trying. / And in the shadow of a temple, where the ocean finds its prey, / That’s where she’s waiting for me, by the water, by the waves.”

  It isn’t until he’s halfway through the chorus that I realize he isn’t looking at his hands anymore. He’s looking at me. It makes me feel warm, makes my fingers feel tingly, like they’re about to fall asleep. Jude plays through the rest of the song, singing the chorus once more, quieter this time, like he’s telling me a secret. When he finishes, he exhales, waits a few moments before pulling the guitar strap up and over his neck. He busies himself putting the guitar away while I try to find something to do with my hands.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” I ask.

  “Only if you promise to lie to me if you hated it,” he says, closing the trunk and turning to face me. Why didn’t I wear something with pockets? Then I could put my hands in my pockets instead of standing here like an idiot….

  “I liked it,” I answer. “Very much.”

  He hesitates, leans forward, speaks quietly. “Are you lying?”

  “No. Really.”

  “Excellent to hear,” Jude says. He steps toward me, sways a little. “Do you tell your sisters everything?”

  “I used to,” I admit. “I don’t anymore.”

  “Let’s say a really handsome guitarist were to try to kiss you. Would you tell them?” he says.

  “It’s possible.”

  “Would you slap, kick, or otherwise injure said guitarist for trying?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Hm. Risky,” he says, tapping a crooked finger against his lips. I can’t stop myself from smiling, nor can I stop the nerves bubbling from my stomach to my head. I don’t want to see his past. I want him to share it with me. I want to be normal. I want this to be normal.

  He steps closer.

  “Trivia: What’s your middle name?” he asks, voice low.

  “Ruth. Yours?” I’m whispering, though I don’t mean to be.

  “Thomas. Barnaby Thomas. My parents were really determined for me to get beat up in middle school,” he says, voice hushed as he grows closer, closer.

  I’m terrified.

  Jude takes my hand—I feel the memories start. They jolt through my fingers. Flashes of childhood—falling off bicycles, catching lizards in a woodpile, being switched for coming home after dark. His hand runs up my arm, but I can’t appreciate it. I want the memories to stop; I don’t want to see Jude this way again. It isn’t fair. He touches my collarbone, my cheek, and then before I know it, his lips are on mine.

  And the memories stop.

  The wall is up, built instantly, because I can’t possibly read his past when I’m so, so busy with the present. He kisses me, and I step closer and kiss him back. He tastes like coffee and salt water and sweetness, and I lean into him. I feel brave, I feel reckless, I feel all the things I never thought I’d be able to feel because of the power.

  When he pulls away, our hands find each other’s easily.

  “Don’t look now,” he whispers, letting his eyes leave mine, “but there’s a small chance your sisters and my roommates are staring at us.” I whip my head around to the coffee shop. The window is crowded with the four of them and a few random onlookers, laughing and making faces at us. Anne and Jane look both delighted and horrified at once. They’re going to tease me mercilessly when we get home, I can tell.

  But they’re my sisters. It’s their job. We’re stronger together.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Naida

  I’m able to push to the front of my mind as soon as I break the surface of the water—Lo falls back easily. I think she might be letting me win, though, letting me control the body we share to make up for her bolting from the Pavilion last night. Or… I think it was last night. I can’t tell—I feel like I’ve been asleep. Celia is already on the shore, looking at me worriedly as I emerge from the waves. I smile at her.

  “Are you all right?” Celia asks, handing over the shoes. I slide them onto my bleeding feet; ocean water and blood slicken them quickly. She’s holding a piece of fabric—a dress, since I suppose the one I was wearing when Lo took over is lost to the ocean now. I pull it on quickly, grateful that Celia is averting her eyes.

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry about… the Pavilion. It was Lo, she was just… she suddenly was so strong, too strong for me to stay… here.” In my own body, the body that was mine long before it was Lo’s, I think bitterly.

  Celia pauses a long time. “I was scared when you didn’t meet me the other day.”

  “What day is it?” I ask.

  “Wednesday.”

  “Oh. I didn’t even realize…” Five days? I lost five days? Celia seems to understand and nods. We walk toward the church together; she swoops in when pain shears through my feet, lets me lean on her. It’s different now than it used to be—instead of constant pain, it’s a dull ache punctuated by moments of absolute agony, like a knife is scraping away my bone.

  “It’s like Lo got sick, so I got sick,” I explain. “When we were away from the water, I mean. The longer I was away, the worse it got, and the more desperate she got to go back.”

  “It was a stupid idea, anyway. I should never have convinced you—” Celia starts.

  “What would we have done instead?” I ask. We reach the church. I lean away from her, sit on the church steps. “Sat here. Again. Talking.”

  “It’s better than you being in pain,” she says.

  “Is it?” I ask. “What if even when I remember everything, I can’t leave the shore?”

  Celia is silent. She sits down next to me. “Then…” She draws half circles in the sand with her toe. “Then we’ll have to renovate the church, because it’d be a god-awful apartment as is.”

  We laugh together, and it warms me, like the summer air is evaporating more than just the water from my skin.

  “So,” Celia says after a few minutes pass, “Jude and I… we sort of… we kissed,” she confesses, biting her lip.

  “Really?” I ask, not even trying to hide the gleam I feel in my eyes.

  “Yes,” Celia says. “It wasn’t what I expected. But that was what made it good.”

  I wait, try to relax my mind, hoping that her story will finally trigger a memory I confess I long for—something romantic. Something about a boy who loved me, or a boy I loved, something sweet and perfect that will make me feel like a normal girl again. Nothing comes. I grimace, hold out my arm for Celia.

  “Help,” I say, sounding meek. “I can’t find it on my own. Did I have a boyfriend? Did anyone want me like Jude wants you?”

  “I… I might not be able to find it. That sort of thing is usually hidden—”

  “Behind the screaming,” I say, sighing.

  “I’ll try, though,” Celia says hopefully, and touches my arm lightly. She waits a long time, longer than usual. I hold my breath. I hope I had a boyfriend like Jude—not like him, exactly, but… funny. Clever, the kind who tells jokes. I don’t care if he was a musician, but maybe something artsy, like a painter or—

  “I… I don’t see anything,” Celia says. She opens her eyes, meets mine. “I don’t see anyone, or any memories of kissing.”

  “I’ve never been kissed???
? My voice sounds small, not at all the way it usually does.

  “Or it could just be a really deep memory,” Celia says quickly.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say, but I don’t believe her. I’ve never been kissed, and now my skin is blue and I live underwater.

  Maybe I should just leave now. Go back to my “sisters.” They understand me; they’re my home. Why am I playing at being human again? Remembering when you had a soul isn’t the same as having one. And underwater, everything is beautiful, quiet, perfect….

  “Naida?”

  I inhale sharply, jerk up. Celia is looking at me, pity in her eyes. I stare back. Why is she helping me?

  “Does he love you now?” I ask.

  Celia’s face falls a little. “Lo,” she says quietly.

  Lo? Am I Lo? No, I’m Naida…. I’m Naida, but I’m buried, watching Lo speak through my lips.

  “No,” she finally answers my question, sighing, “or, I don’t know. Love doesn’t happen that fast.”

  “I know. I tried to make a boy love me once.”

  “What happened?” she asks, voice frigid.

  “He drowned. I drowned him. I had to try it. It’s the only way we can get a soul. Make a human love us, then kill him to take his.”

  Celia jumps a little, leans away from me a little, studies my face. She’s afraid, she looks sick. She’s right to be. She takes a breath, reaches forward—her hands are shaking, and I feel bad. I didn’t mean to scare her any more than I meant to drown the boy. Celia places her fingertips on my shoulder delicately; I flinch at the feeling of her skin on mine—everything feels so dry.

  “Your sister’s name, it started with a C. No, an S.” Her voice is thick, like she’s keeping herself from vomiting.