The Tail of Emily Windsnap (7 page)

“Was he pleased?”

“Very. He gave the town a dolphin as a thank-you.”

“So, did the meetings stop?” I asked. “Between the merpeople and the humans?”

“Sadly, no. They continued to meet in secret. I don’t know how they lived with themselves, defying Neptune like that.”

“And the marriage . . . ?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Yes, there was a merman. A poet. Jake. He married one of the women at Rainbow Rocks —”

Something stirred in the back of my mind; thoughts that I couldn’t quite grasp, like bubbles that burst as soon as you touch them.

Shona didn’t look at me. “What was his last name?” she asked, her voice jagged like the library walls.

Mrs. Tailspin patted her bun again. Tutted. Squinted. “Whirlstand? Whichmap? Wisplatch? No, I can’t remember.”

Looking down, I closed my eyes. “Was it Windsnap?” I asked.

“Windsnap! Yes, that might have been it.”

The bubbles turned to rocks and started clogging up my throat.

“And they had a daughter,” she continued. “That was when they were caught.”

“When exactly was this?” I managed to squeeze out.

“Let’s see . . . twelve or thirteen years ago.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Gave themselves away with that. The silly woman brought the child to Rainbow Rocks and that was when we got him.”

“Got him? What did they do to him?” Shona asked.

“Prison,” Mrs. Tailspin said with a proud smile. “Neptune decided to make an example of him. He said Jake would be locked up for life.”

“What about the baby?” I asked, swallowing hard while I waited for her to reply.

“Baby? Goodness knows. But we stopped that one.” Mrs. Tailspin smiled again. “That’s what you’ll be doing when you’re a siren, Shona. You’ll be as good as that.”

Shona reddened. “I haven’t completely decided what I want to be yet,” she said.

“Very well.” Mrs. Tailspin glanced around the room. Mergirls and boys were still reading. Some were talking quietly in groups. “Now, girls, if there’s nothing else, I must check on my library group.”

“Yes. Thanks,” I managed to say. I don’t know how.

We sat in silence after she’d gone.

“It’s me, isn’t it?” I said eventually, staring ahead of me at nothing.

“Do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Shona swam in front of me and made me look at her. “Emily, maybe we can find out more. He’s still alive! He’s out there somewhere!”

“Yeah, in prison. For life.”

“But at least he didn’t want to leave you!”

Perhaps he still thought about me. Perhaps I
could
find out more.

“I think we should go back to the shipwreck,” Shona said.

“
What?
No way!”

“Think about it! Your mom’s dream, what Mrs. Tailspin said in the lesson. They might have gone there together!”

Maybe she was right. I didn’t have any better ideas. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Give me a few days.”

“Wednesday, then.”

“Okay.”

“Look, I’d better be heading back.” I slithered over to the spiral tube.

“Will you be all right?”

“Yeah.” I tried to smile. Would I? That was anyone’s guess.

I swam home through the silent water, my thoughts as crowded and unfathomable as the sea.

“Are you eating that or playing with it?” Mom asked over the top of her glasses as I stirred my cereal, watching the milk turn brown and the flakes fade into a soggy beige.

“What? Huh? Oh, sorry.” I took a mouthful, then stirred some more.

Mom had the
Times
spread out in front of her. She flicked through the pages, tutting every now and then, or frowning and pushing her glasses farther up her nose.

How was I ever going to find out what was going on? It’s not exactly the kind of thing that crops up naturally at Sunday breakfast: “Oh, by the way, Mom, I’ve been meaning to ask. I don’t suppose you married a merman, had his child, and then never saw him again? OR THOUGHT TO TELL YOUR DAUGHTER ABOUT IT?
HUH???
”

I squelched my cereal against the side of the bowl, splashing milk onto the table.

“Be careful, sweetie.” Mom wiped off a splash from the edge of her paper with her hand. Then she looked at me. “Are you all right? It’s not like you to ignore your breakfast.”

“I’m fine.” I got up and emptied my bowl into the sink.

“Emily?”

I ignored her as I sat back down at the table and pulled at my hair, winding it around my fingers.

Mom took her glasses off. That meant it was serious. Then she folded her arms. Double serious. “I’m waiting,” she said, her mouth tight, her eyes small. “
Emily,
I said I’m —”

“Why do you never talk about my dad?”

Mom jerked in her seat as though I’d punched her.
“What?”

“You never talk about my father,” I said, my voice coming out quieter this time. “I don’t know anything about him. It’s as though he never existed.”

Mom put her glasses back on; then she took them off again and got up. She turned on one of the gas burners, put the kettle on it, and gazed at the flickering flame. “I don’t know what to
say,
” she muttered eventually.

“Why not start by telling me something about him?”

“I want to. Darling, of course I want to.”

“So how come you never have?”

Her eyes had gone all watery, and she rubbed them with the sleeve of her sweater. “I don’t know. I just can’t — I can’t do it.”

If there’s one thing I can’t
bear,
it’s Mom crying. “Look, it’s okay. I’m sorry.” I got out of my seat and put my arms around her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.” She wiped her nose with the edge of the tablecloth. “I want to tell you. But I can’t, I can’t, I —”

“It’s okay, Mom, honest. You don’t have to tell me.”

“But I want to,” she sobbed. “I just can’t remember!”

“You can’t remember?” I let go and stared at her. “You don’t remember the man you married?”

She looked at me through bloodshot eyes. “Well, yes — no. I mean, sometimes I think I remember things. But then it goes again. Disappears.”

“Disappears.”

“Just like he did,” she said quietly, her body shaking, her head in her hands. “I can’t even remember my own husband. Your father. Oh, I’m a terrible mother.”

“Don’t start that,” I sighed. “You’re a great mother. The best.”

“Really?” She smoothed down her skirt against her lap. I forced myself to smile. She looked up and stroked my cheek with her thumb. “I must have done something right to get you,” she said weakly.

I stood up. “Look, just forget it. It doesn’t matter. Okay?”

“You deserve better than —”

“Come on, Mom. It’s all right,” I said firmly. “Hey, I think I’ll go over to the arcade, okay?”

She pinched my cheek. “Munchkin,” she sniffed. “Pass me my purse.”

She handed me two dollars, and I headed up the stairs.

I dawdled as I made my way past the video arcade. Not fair. Nothing was fair. I couldn’t even waste a quarter on the Skee-Ball. On top of everything else, I didn’t need Mandy turning up and going after me just for being there.

I bought some cotton candy from the end of the pier and wandered down to the boardwalk, my head filled with thoughts and questions. I didn’t notice Mr. Beeston coming toward me.

“Watch yourself,” he said as I nearly walked into him.

“Sorry. I was miles away.”

He smiled at me in that way that always gives me weird shivers in my neck and arms. One side of his mouth turned up, the other reached down, and his crooked teeth poked out through the dark gap in between.

“How’s Mom?” he asked.

That’s when I had a thought. Mr. Beeston had been around a long time. He was kind of friendly with Mom. Maybe he’d know something.

“She’s not doing that great, actually,” I said as I took a bite, the pink fluff melting into sugar in my mouth.

“Oh? Why not?”

“She’s a bit sad about . . . some things.”

“Things? What
things
?” he said quickly, his smile gone.

“Just . . .”

“Is she ill? What’s the matter?” Mr. Beeston’s face turned hard as he narrowed his eyes at me.

“Well, my father . . .” I pulled at my cotton candy and a long piece came away like a loose thread from a fluffy pink ball of mohair yarn. I folded it over into my mouth.

“Your
what
?” Mr. Beeston burst out. What
was
his problem?

“I was asking her about my father and she got upset.”

He lowered his voice. “What did she tell you?”

“She didn’t tell me anything.”

“Nothing at all?”

“She said she couldn’t remember anything. Then she started crying.”

“Couldn’t remember anything? That’s what she said?”

I nodded.

“You’re quite sure now? Nothing at all?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

“All right, then.” Mr. Beeston breathed out hard through his nose. It made a low whistling sound.

“So, I wondered if you could help me,” I continued, trying to sound casual.

“Me? How on earth can
I
help you?” he snapped.

“I just wondered if she’d ever talked to you about him. With you being her friend and everything.”

He examined my face, squeezing his eyes down to narrow slits as he stared. I wanted to run away. Of course he wouldn’t know anything. Why would she talk to him and not me? I tried to hold his eyes but he was staring at me so hard I had to look away.

He took hold of me by my elbow and pointed up the promenade with his other hand. “I think it’s time you and I had a little chat,” he said.

I tried to shake my elbow away as we walked, but he held it tighter and walked faster. We’d gotten all the way to the end of the boardwalk before he let go and motioned for me to sit down on a bench.

“Now, listen to me and listen well, because I’ll tell you this once and once only.”

I waited.

“And I don’t want you bothering your mother with it afterward. You’ve upset her enough already.”

“But I —”

“Never mind, never mind.” He raised his hand to stop me. “You couldn’t have known.”

He wiped his forehead with a hanky. “Now then,” he said, shifting his weight onto his side as he put his hanky away. His trousers had a hole just below the pocket. “Your father and I, we used to be friends. Best friends. Some folks even thought we were brothers; that’s how close we were.”

Brothers? Surely Mr. Beeston was lots older than my father? I opened my mouth to speak.

“He was like a kid brother to me. We did everything together.”

“Like what?”

“What?”

“What things did you do? I want to know what he was like.”

“All the things young boys get up to,” he snapped. “We went fishing together. Went out on our bikes —”

“Motorbikes?”

“Yes, yes, motorbikes, mountain bikes — all of that. We were best friends. Chased the girls together, too.”

Imagining Mr. Beeston chasing girls, I shuddered.

He cleared his throat. “Then, of course, he met your mother and things changed.”

“Changed? How?”

“Well, one might say they fell in love. At least, she did. Very much so.”

“And what about my dad?”

“He did a very good impression of love, for a while. He certainly didn’t want to fool around with cars anymore.”

“I thought you said he liked bikes.”

“Cars, bikes — whatever. He wasn’t interested. They spent all their time together.”

Mr. Beeston stared into the distance, his hands in his pockets. He looked as though he was struggling with something. Then he jingled his coins and said, “But of course it didn’t last. Your father turned out not to be the gentleman we all had believed he was.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is rather a delicate matter. But I shall tell you. Let us say he wasn’t the most
responsible
person. He was happy enough to lead your mother up the garden path, but not prepared to stay by her side when they got to the gate.”

“Huh?”

His face reddened. “He was content to sow but not reap.”

“Mr. Beeston, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good grief, child. I’m talking about responsibility,” he snapped. “Where do you think
you
came from?”

“Do you mean he got my mom pregnant with me and then ran off?”

“Yes, yes, that is what I mean.”

Why didn’t you say so, then?
I wanted to say — but didn’t dare. Mr. Beeston looked so angry. “So he left her?” I asked, just to make sure I’d got it right.

“Yes, he left her,” he replied through tight lips.

“Where did he go?”

“That’s just it. No one ever heard from him again. The strain was obviously too much for him,” he said sarcastically.

“What strain?”

“Fatherhood. Good-for-nothing slacker. Never willing to grow up and take responsibility.” Mr. Beeston looked away. “What he did — it was despicable,” he said, his voice becoming raspy. “I will never forgive him.” He got up from the bench, his face hard and set. “Never,” he repeated. Something about the way he said it made me hope I’d never get on his wrong side.

I followed him as we carried on along the boardwalk. “Didn’t anybody try to find him?”

“Find him?” Mr. Beeston looked at me, but it was as though he were seeing right through me. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Find him?” he repeated. “Yes — of course we tried. No one could have done more than I did. I traveled around for weeks, put up posters. We even had a message on the radio, begging him to come home and meet his — well, his . . .”

“His daughter?”

Mr. Beeston didn’t reply.

“So he never even saw me?”

“We did everything we could.”

I looked down the wide boards of the promenade, trying to take in what I’d heard. It
couldn’t
be true. Could it? A young couple ambled toward us, the man holding a baby up in the air, the woman laughing, a spaniel jumping up between them. Farther down, an elderly couple were walking slowly against the wind, arms linked.

“I think I need to go now,” I said. We’d walked all the way around to the lighthouse.

Mr. Beeston pulled me back by my arm. “You’re not to talk to your mother about this, do you hear me?”

“Why not?”

“You saw what happened. It’s far too painful for her.” He tightened his grip, his fingers biting into my arm. “Promise me you won’t mention it.”

I didn’t say anything.

Mr. Beeston looked hard into my eyes. “People can block things out completely if the memory is too much to cope with. That’s a scientific fact. There’ll be all sorts of trouble if you try to make her talk about this.” He pulled on my arm, his face inches from mine. “And you don’t want trouble — do you?” he said in a whisper.