Haunted (13 page)

I didn’t see him walk to the water’s edge. There was a small curve in the shoreline there, and he was just out of my range of vision. I’d been concentrating on spearing a small fish with a stick when I heard him cry out—a deep, ragged wailing that startled me and made me drop my stick. What I remember most is that I was angry. I was hungry, and whoever it was had made me lose my potential supper. And then I saw them. Lena’s father was kneeling at the water’s edge, his face ashen. And Lena—she was floating in the water, her long blond hair fanning out around her like pale snakes. She was dead. Peter, the blacksmith’s son, had the bad fortune to get her pregnant and then die of influenza when she was about three months along. I’d seen Lena muttering to herself the past few weeks—her face streaked with tears, her hair often uncombed and matted, her clothes dirty. But there she was, floating dead, her father weeping uncontrollably on the shore.

I also remember what happened next. He stood up—this huge bear of a man who I knew was responsible for the purple bruise on Lena’s cheekbone, because in a small village, not much goes unnoticed—and began to wade into the stream to retrieve his daughter’s body. Even now, I don’t think he ever really knew I was there, watching. So he didn’t know that I witnessed the rest of it. How Lena sat up in the shallow water, her blond hair dripping. How she grinned at him with sharp teeth. Or how the creatures that I later learned were rusalkas reached up their hands and pulled her under and away. I turned and ran, heart pounding crazily in my chest, until I’d reached home, where I might be hungry, but at least I felt safer.

I never told my family what I’d seen. I was too afraid that it would come find me. It was the first time I knew that there were things beyond the regular world. It was the first time I wondered if there was something other than death. Maybe, I think now, that really was the beginning of my own journey. Not my parents’ death. Not meeting Viktor. But my sight of this nineteen-year-old girl whose body never made it to a grave.

Later, the story was that wolves had dragged her off—that she had drowned herself, and when her father pulled her from the water, the wolves had come from the forest and taken her. But the women in the village—the ones who sometimes drank tea at our kitchen table with my mother—they whispered otherwise. Rusalkas, they said. “The water sisters have taken her. Perhaps it is for the best.” No one talked much about the rest of it—about the series of drownings that happened for months afterward. Always men. Always of the same height and build as Lena’s poor dead Peter. And then one day, they found Lena’s father floating facedown in a shallow stream at the edge of his land. No one ever knew how it happened. A huge man like that, dying in a stream? But it doesn’t take much to drown.

***

“Do you really think she wants something from you, Ethan? This rusalka, Lily?” Anne asks again.

“I don’t know.” I run my fingers over the little hair clip lying on the table. “I think Tess is right. I think there are connections within connections, like Lily told you—stories within stories. Some will be true, but not all of them. I think it comes down to two things—she blames Viktor for what’s happened to her and for the loss of her daughter, and she seems protective of you, especially when it comes to men, including me. What she’ll do about either of those, I don’t know.”

“And yet she hasn’t lured you into Lake Michigan.” Tess grins at me. Anne flashes her a look of annoyance.

“So what now?” Anne’s annoyance shows in the tone of her voice. “Do we just wait until she makes an appearance again? And if she does come back, then what? Go back to the forest and help Viktor escape so she can get vengeance on him? Why would I do that? Maybe he did what she said he did. Maybe she’s lying. You’re the only other one who was there, and you don’t even know. Maybe what she really wants is to hurt you somehow. Or hurt my family. Or me.”

She picks up her cup, then puts it back on the table without drinking. Her voice gets softer. “There’s something else. Let’s say Viktor was responsible for her death. Okay. But I’m sitting here right now because of him. Because when your Brotherhood’s stupid spell still compelled her to take a Romanov, he offered himself to Baba Yaga. That means he not only let Anastasia go back to die with her family, it means he went with the witch instead of me. Baba Yaga could have taken me, Ethan. We never talk about that, you and I. But it’s the truth. Viktor’s trapped there now, and I’m here living my life. So maybe I don’t care what she’s asking me to do. Maybe I don’t want to know if it’s true or a lie. Because even if Viktor did everything the rusalka said he did, the way I see it, he still sacrificed himself for me. I can’t forget that part. I just can’t.”

“You can’t feel guilty about that,” I tell her softly. But I know that she does.

Over at the counter, the baristas call out some more orders and loudly steam milk for lattes. The hiss and chug of the cappuccino machines is background noise. A tall, slim, gray-haired woman chats with the barista at the register. Other customers have continued to come and go while the three of us have sat here, the rusalka’s hair clip on the table between us.

Anne rests her elbows on the table and holds out her hands. Slowly, a shimmering of blue and white appears on her palms, flickering and sparking just beneath the surface. “Lily keeps telling me I’m supposed to heal someone. What if she’s lying? What if that’s not what I’m really supposed to do with all this power? What if I heal the wrong person and end up hurting someone else? I can’t do that again, Ethan. I saved you, but I helped Anastasia go back to die. I can’t do something like that again. It’s too much. It hurts too much.”

She places the hair clip in the palm of her hand. The rubies and pearls sparkle in the glow of the fading energy beneath her skin. “Maybe we should just leave this here when we go—let someone else have it. Lily told me I’d know what to do with it when the time was right, but maybe we’d all be better off if I just left it here.”

Hair clip in hand, Anne pushes from the chair, strides over to the couple we’d noticed earlier—the girl in the jogging shorts and her boyfriend. “Here.” Anne sets the little jeweled fan on their table. “It’s your lucky day. Wear it. Sell it. Give it to someone. Your choice. I’m done with it.”

I move in behind her and scoop the clip off the table. “Excuse her. She’s not quite herself today.”

“I absolutely
am
myself. And this is what I want to do. Just because you and I—well, it doesn’t mean that you’re suddenly the boss of me.”

Keeping my hand on the small of her back, I nudge Anne back to our table, collect her things and Tess, and head to the door. She protests only slightly.

“Great. Now I’m beginning to sound like a two-year-old. Did I actually just say, ‘You’re not the boss of me’?” Anne mutters once we’re outside. She swipes at her hair, pushing it behind her ears. “Plus, my hair is really gross, isn’t it? On top of everything else, I couldn’t wash my hair because I was afraid the mermaid would pop in again while I was taking a shower.”

When I laugh, she punches me in the arm. Hard. But still she lets me pull her into a hug. I ignore the fact that Tess is still standing on the sidewalk next to us and press my lips to Anne’s hair. “Your hair is fine,” I whisper to her as I hold her against me. “And you’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I’m in this with you, Anne. Whatever it is that you have to do, I’m here. Know it. Believe it. You need to believe it’ll be okay.”

Her humorous tone disappears. “Promise me,” she says. “Ethan, you have to promise. Maybe last fall, I just didn’t know enough to be really scared. But this time, I am. Promise me that it will be okay, that you won’t leave again before it’s over—even if you have to lie right now. Promise.”

“I promise,” I tell her. “I promise.” And I wonder—even as I tell her that I’ve got some things to do, but I’ll call to check on her in a couple of hours—how it is possible to mean something and still feel like I’m not telling the truth.

Anne

It’s Tess who drops me off at the Jewel Box. My mother and I are scheduled to work the same hours today, and she thinks I’ve spent the night with Tess. Correction: she thinks I’ve spent the night with Ben but lied to her. She is, of course, right about the last part.

“So.” Tess pulls up to the curb. She slams on the brakes hard enough that I lurch forward and the seat belt tightens. The little pine tree air freshener she insists on dangling from the rearview mirror rocks back and forth. Either she’s in a hurry to get rid of me, or she’s got some kind of agenda. “No more Ben? For real?”

“I think so.”

“You good with that?”

I nod. “Yeah. Weirdly I am. I like Ben so much, Tess. I really do. You know that. But Ethan’s just—I don’t know. But there’s something different there, and I—yes. Done with Ben. Just need to tell him, obviously. Which is so not going to be easy. Am I horrible? Crazy? Wait, don’t answer that.”

“Crazy, maybe. Horrible? Never. But it
is
weird, you know, right? You macking on this guy who’s old enough to be—well, whatever he’s old enough to be, even if he is undeniably hot and starting over again at eighteen.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s Ethan. He’s—”

Tess puffs out an impatient breath and taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “Yeah, yeah. He’s Russian perfection. I get it. He’s back two seconds, and suddenly, you’re breaking up with Ben, getting chased by a mermaid and making spreadsheets so you can track the crazies. Business as usual.”

There’s an edge to her tone that worries me. Not that she’s incorrect on some level. Things have unfolded quickly between Ethan and me. Maybe too quickly. Maybe so quickly that it’s possibly a good thing that Lily popped out of the bathroom when she did. But there’s something else under her comment—except it’s Tess, so I know better than to push her. I just roll my eyes and wait. I don’t have to wait long.

“I broke up again with Neal last night. I texted him while I was at the movies with my brother.” She says it like it’s no big deal, but I know it is. Some of her blond hair has come loose from the single braid that’s hanging down her back, and she twists the strand around one finger.

“Why?”

“It was just time. I’m better than that. I can’t keep taking him back and worrying that he’s cheating or whatever.”

I stay quiet—partly to let her say what she needs to, and partly because her words remind me of what I’m doing to Ben.

But Tess isn’t my best friend for nothing. “You know I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “I didn’t mean to imply that—”

I lean over the gearshift and hug her. “I know. But it’s true. I just cheated on Ben. When I break things off, he’s going to be hurt. And angry. And for good reason. But if you’re sure you need to break up, then that’s what you should do.” Said by the girl who isn’t really sure what she’s feeling anymore.

Tess nods. “Very sure.”

“Okay, then. We’ll talk more later. Or sooner, if Mrs. Benson fires me this morning for cutting out on her. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

I grab my purse. I’m already ten minutes late for work, and after yesterday’s little disappearing act, I’m really pushing things if I want to keep this job.

Tess puts her hand on my arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt. And I think you’re going to.”

I know she means well, but the words still cut deep. Why does she assume that something will go wrong? Worse yet, why do I think she might be right?

“Ethan won’t hurt me, Tess.”

“Maybe not on purpose. But c’mon, Anne. Think about it. He’s back one day, and already you’re dumping Ben for him. One day, Anne. I know it feels like longer when he’s around. I know that. It’s like whatever happens between the two of you happens in some sort of overdrive. God knows, I can’t judge people’s choices in guys. But—well, when it comes to Ethan, you don’t think straight. And that
isn’t
like you. That’s why I love you so much. You always think straight. Me—I’m a mess. You’re not. You’re way stronger than I am—than anybody I know, especially about the whole guy thing. Don’t make a face when I say it. It’s true. If I was like you, then I wouldn’t have ever gone back with Neal. So maybe Ethan won’t hurt you. But that doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt.”

She’s got her pit bull expression going, and I know better than to argue with her. “Did you notice that I’m not commenting on how you broke up by text?”

Tess laughs. “It was easier that way. Definitely limited his response to just a few choice words. And I don’t want to argue. I just want you to be careful.”

“I will. You’ll see.
Careful
will be my middle name.”

Tess shakes her head. I pretend not to see. I just say good-bye and hoist myself out of the car. I nod when she says she’ll come check on me at noon after teaching her ballet class.

She’s right, of course. But what does that mean? Lily loved her Misha, but that didn’t stop them both from being hurt. My family loved David, but that didn’t stop him from dying. Ethan loved the girl named Tasha, but he had to leave her. Ben loved me, but I’ve never loved him back—I just pretended to love him because he makes me feel secure, which isn’t the same as love at all. People love each other, and people get hurt. It’s just the way things are. But what Tess has said to me lingers in my brain. Is acting on what I feel for Ethan something I normally wouldn’t do? It’s a scary thought and not one I’d like to examine too carefully right now.

***

My mother—dressed in a white three-quarter-length-sleeved blouse and khaki skirt, her auburn hair hanging loose to her shoulders—is setting up a display of vintage gemstone bracelets when I walk in the door. Her face breaks into a smile when she looks up and sees me, then turns serious before I’ve crossed the room to the counter where she’s standing. I realize that I haven’t changed clothes; I’m holding the bag Tess brought me and still wearing the jeans and tank from last night. Mrs. Benson has not yet arrived. Suddenly, I’m thinking that it might be easier dealing with stalker mermaids and my confused feelings for a certain formerly immortal Russian than it will be to deal with my mother.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry. Just a little. Tess dropped me off.” I say this like it will explain everything. It doesn’t. “And I’m sorry about how I left yesterday,” I add because I realize that I am. “I’m sorry I yelled at you and Daddy.”

My mother presses her lips together. “I’m sorry you did too,” she tells me after a few beats of silence. I watch her scan me and resist the impulse to smooth my less than stellar hair. “What’s that?” She points to the bag.

“Tess loaned me some clothes so I didn’t have to take the time to go home. We wanted to go for coffee.”
And some of that is even the truth.

“You and Tess? At Java Joe’s?” She gestures across the street to the place Tess and I normally meet.

“Yes, Mother. Me and Tess. And, um, Ethan, actually. We went to that place over in Evanston—Coffee Spot. The one off Orrington near NU.” So what if I’m leaving out a few crucial details?

My mother tilts her head and observes me. She’s still holding a topaz and silver bracelet in her hand, but she seems unaware of that at the moment. “And Ben? You left last night with Ben.” She’s clearly not leaving interrogation mode anytime soon.

“Yeah, but Ben—well, I don’t know what’s going to happen with Ben and me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t know. Meaning I’ll let you know when I do.” If there’s some middle ground between guilt and annoyance, I’m standing in it.

A million years ago, I was the person who told my mother almost everything. We were one happy tell-it-all family. Even last fall, when my world had turned upside-down, she’d sat on my bed and asked me what was wrong. Now we do this dance instead. Tell a little; withhold the rest. Not just me, but her too. To prove my point, I ask her, “So where were
you
yesterday? When you weren’t here?”

With a slow precision of motion, Mom arranges the topaz bracelet with the others on a royal blue velvet display cloth, then tucks them all into the glassed-in showcase under the counter. She pulls the stretchy key chain off her wrist and locks the display door. Only the less expensive costume pieces ever sit out. The real stuff stays under lock and key.

“I needed a day. I went into the city. Walked Michigan Avenue. Did a little window-shopping. Actually bought your father a tie for his birthday. I know he’s told us he doesn’t want any more ties, but this one—I’ll show it to you. It’s silk and—”

I don’t want to be angry with her, but the anger rises in me anyway, which is totally hypocritical, since she’s definitely not the only one in the room with secrets.

“You know what, Mom? I don’t care about the tie. You could have bought a tie half a mile from here at the mall. Daddy won’t know the difference, and you know it. This is not about your need to go tie shopping when you’re supposed to be at work.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Anne.” She slips out from behind the counter. The heels of her peep-toe pumps click on the shiny wooden floor as she walks around to me.

“I didn’t realize I had one.” I stare at my mother and think about how very much she looks like Lily. Can I believe that? Or is it just a trick, a magical shifting of molecules meant to confuse me? She stares back. Her eyes are brown, not rusalka gray, but the shape really is the same.

Mom reaches out and pushes some stray strands of my unwashed hair off my face. “Sweetie, did Ben do something?” It’s the oldest mom trick in the world. Change the subject from her own issues to mine. Still, the concern in her voice is real. “Is that what this is about?”

“Ben didn’t do anything, Mom. Ben is just fine.”

“Because if he’s—or if you two are thinking about… Well, if you’re ready to—um, if that’s what this about, then—”

Fabulous. We’re about to embark on the safe sex talk, or possibly the “Are you still a virgin?” conversation. Ironically, either would be easier territory than,
Hey, Mom, did you know your birth mother is now a mermaid?

“God, no. I mean—no, Mom. Ben and I aren’t—well, it’s not that I haven’t thought about it…”

“Well, of course I know you’ve thought about it. You’re seventeen. I just wanted to—”

“Mom. I promise I’ll tell you if I decide to have sex, okay?” I sigh. I actually don’t know that at all, but it sounds better than anything else I can come up with. My mother’s a whiz at diverting me anytime I poke too hard at her own issues, which are always the same: David died. She feels guilty. She’s grieving. She’s going through the motions and not moving on. Of the things she’s done lately that haven’t been predictable, this part always is.

“So now tell me.” I glance at the clock. It’s almost ten-thirty, but there’s not a customer in sight—nothing to interrupt our little mother-daughter mini-drama. “What’s going on with you? All this cutting out of work and shopping or whatever. You don’t even like shopping, Mom.”

My mother shrugs and rubs a finger over an imaginary spot on the pristine counter. “I’ve been having these dreams,” she says, and my stomach does an unexpected flip. I think of last fall—of her telling me how she used to dream she was Anastasia.

“Oh?” It’s so not what I expected to hear that my voice quavers on that one tiny word.

“It’s silly, Anne. Really, it’s nothing.”

I could leave it at that. She’s given me an out. But I don’t. I can’t. “Dreams aren’t silly. At least not to me.”

“Well, that’s sweet, honey, but it’s just so—I’m underwater. And there’s a woman with long black hair, and she’s holding my hand and swimming with me. When I look into her face, I feel like I should know her. We swim deeper and deeper, and I keep thinking she wants to tell me something. But she never does. And just when I think I’m going to run out of breath, she lets me go, and I wake up. I know it’s just a dream—but it feels so real. Crazy, huh?”

The connection between my brain and my tongue feels severed.

“I just keep thinking it’s a message or something,” Mom goes on. “I know that sounds absolutely out there, Anne. My God, don’t ever tell your father. He’s worried enough about me these days. To tell the truth, I don’t even know why I’m telling
you
.”

The last part hurts. Is this how it is now? Me not telling her my secrets, and her feeling that she can’t talk to me?

“You can tell me stuff, Mom. Believe me when I say you can tell me. I am seriously the perfect audience for weird.”

Mom’s brow wrinkles. “Oh? And what is it exactly that gives you all this weirdness experience?”

Gosh, Mom, where do I begin? Oh, that’s right. I don’t.
But I have to say something about the dream, something that might— “Who do you think she is?” I blurt out. “The woman in the dream?” The one who’s clearly your mermaid birth mother.

I can see my mother hesitate, like what she wants to say will sound so odd that she doesn’t feel comfortable saying it.

“Someone you know?” I prompt her.

Mom looks startled. “Now why would you—? Yes. Well, sort of. That’s the strange thing. When I dream it, I’m absolutely convinced that she’s someone close to me—like a relative. Someone who knows all about me. And she’s in such pain. It’s hard to explain. I just know that she cares about me somehow. I know it’s ridiculous to let a dream upset me, but it just brings up all sorts of emotions. David’s death…and other things.”

“Things like Lily, right?” I go ahead and blurt that out too. We haven’t talked about Lily since that night I’d come back from Professor Olensky’s—the night I’d learned our line of descent and how it connected through my mom.

Mom looks at me with a combination of relief and nervousness. She nods. “Okay, maybe you
do
understand more than I was giving you credit for. But I’m a grown woman. I’ve known I was adopted all my life. Why would I suddenly now be dreaming about some woman who makes me think about my birth mother?”

“Maybe she’s thinking about you too. Did you ever think of that?” Suddenly, my mouth seems to have developed a mind of its own.
I’ll tell her everything
, I think,
just get it over with and tell her.
“Maybe she wonders how you are. Maybe she wants to know. Stuff like that happens, Mom. I mean, have you ever tried to find her? Do you want to find her? People do that all the time now. Maybe the dream means that you should—”