Undertow (5 page)

Photos and graphs depicting the ocean floor lined one wall. The headers were science speak: Axial Seamount, Hydrothermal Vents, Juan de Fuca Ridge. Underneath, the pictures showed elaborate maps of an underwater mountain range, basalt pillow formations and lava pillars. Structures like caves. Caves that could hide strange creatures which lived in the sea.

She studied the maps. Hot magma from volcanoes on the sea floor created sulfur-rich regions which were inhabited by bizarre creatures. Some distance from these hydrothermal vents, the water was warm rather than hot.
Of course! If anything below the waves needed warmth, that’s where it would live.

Before leaving, Marissa scouted the place to make certain that Ned guy wasn’t lurking nearby. She slipped out the front door and scanned the parking lot, relieved that his green van was gone and she'd managed to escape the stalker.

Her mind spun with the new information she'd gained at Hatfield. All those mermaid stories her mother read to her made sense now. The beings were in the deep ocean, shielded from human detection, living in caves, maybe even below the sea floor itself
.
And wherever they were, one waited for her return.

Maybe Bethany was there, too. She wished she could tell her mom.

Marissa cringed as she remembered her next destination. Groaning, she fetched her keys and squeezed them, steeling herself for the ‘celebrations’ ahead.  

Seven

M
arissa was thirteen, it was the weekend before Christmas, and the house lacked any sign a holiday was imminent. No decorations, no music, no gifts. Finally, around noon on Sunday, she worked up to asking her mom, “Aren’t we going to get a tree? It’s only four days away.”

“Oh,” her mother said, her voice like feathers in the wind. “I guess we should—do you want one?” She frowned. “I mean . . . well, honey, yes, we should get a tree . . .” Distracted, she let her sentence trail off.

The tree lot had already been picked clean by the time they got there. “All the Goldilocks trees are gone,” her mother complained. “You know: the ones that are just right.” By this she meant, not too tall or short, fat or spindly, expensive or cheap. It was a stupid joke and hadn’t been funny since Marissa was about eight. Through an icy drizzle, they wandered around examining rejects until they settled on a silver fir tree whose top she could reach by standing on her tiptoes. She feigned delight and tried to get her mother to play along, but failed. Lately, she always failed.

On Christmas Eve, her mother boiled water for hot chocolate and cut chunks off a refrigerated roll of cookie dough, her sole attempt at holiday treats that year. She dusted off her Christmas Classics album and put the vinyl disc on their old record player; it was scratchy but her mom said that made it nostalgic. Marissa just thought it sounded bad, but didn’t say anything. After setting a plate of the still-warm cookies and a mug of cocoa on the coffee table, her mother disappeared into the kitchen. A mug filled with eggnog was in her hand when she returned. Marissa could see the dreaded rum floating on top.

“Let the holidays begin!” Her mother’s voice was strained, but she laughed, putting on a show of gaiety.

Marissa cringed. Her mom wouldn’t go through this stupid charade, if not for her. She ignored the crawly feeling in her stomach and helped trim the tree. Despite its puniness, it took them nearly an hour and her mother downed another drink before they’d finished. Soon, her mother would cling to her like the sticky resin which still coated bits of bark on the fir.

 “I’m wiped out, Mom,” Marissa said. “My stomach hurts, too . . . maybe I ate too many cookies.” She attempted a laugh, and continued churning out excuses in hopes of reaching a critical mass which might allow her to escape. “I’m going to bed now . . . love you.” Before her mother could entrap her, Marissa turned away, carefully avoiding her eyes.

With the bedroom door safely shut behind her, Marissa rocked on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, as she had done since she was little. For what seemed like forever, her mother wept, her soft sobs commingling with the sappy Christmas music playing over and over on the stereo. Marissa stared at the wall, trying to blot out the sound.

At noon on Christmas day, her mother appeared in the living room, where Marissa sat near the tree, a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table in front of her. She continued sorting the remaining pieces into neat piles until her mother stood beside her. The pained expression she wore broadcast her guilt. Hoping to forestall a disaster of apologies, Marissa produced a spurt of holiday cheer.

“Merry Christmas, Mom!” She leapt off the sofa and launched herself toward her mother. Marissa wore the only holiday attire she owned: a red sweatshirt with a puffy white snowman grinning with a licorice twist smile. Two years old, the shirt was tight around her middle. She grabbed her mother in a clumsy hug.

 “Good morning. Or is it afternoon already?” Her mother squinted and blinked at the light filtering through the blinds.

“Oh, that’s okay,” Marissa chirped. “Let’s go make some cinnamon rolls and open the presents.”

“Coffee’s good for me.”

Keeping up the act in spite of her mother’s lack of enthusiasm was tough, and Marissa scowled before forcing her face back into its happy mask. “Great!” she said. “Then let’s just open our gifts now. We can eat later.” She flipped the switch on the stereo and strains of “You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout . . .” burst into the silent space.

Her mother, lips set in the tight line they made whenever she pretended she was fine, everything was fine, and there was nothing at all to worry about, sat down beside the tree. She grabbed the nearest package. “This one’s yours, Mari,” she said, handing the box to her.

“Who’s it from?” Marissa read the tag and answered her own question. “Grandma Johansen. Oh, I always love her presents!” The old lady had pretty good taste. Better than her mom’s. Excited, she ripped open the package to find a teal sweater inside. She held it up. Just the right size for her, not one size smaller or larger like her mother always bought, and the yarn was soft.

“Wow,” her mom said. “Gloria really outdid herself this time.”

Marissa turned away so the tears which sprung to her eyes wouldn’t show. Determined to make this a good Christmas, she squeezed her thumbs inside her fists. Her mother gazed absently at the painting on the wall, lost in her own world again. Hopeful that she could bring her back from the edge, Marissa fetched the elaborately wrapped gift from where she’d hidden it underneath the tree and pressed it anxiously into her mother’s shaking hands. “This is for you, Mom. Merry Christmas.” She stepped back and prayed.

Her mother’s lips stretched into a tight smile again. “What’s this?” She gave an exhausted sigh, and picked at the ribbon robotically.

“I made it, and it’s really, well, it’s nothing big.” Marissa said. “If you don’t like it, that’s okay.”

The scarf unfurled as her mother lifted one edge from the box. Bits of gray mohair flecked the scarf, along with purple wool and olive felt, strands from all the skeins of yarn she’d unearthed in the linen closet when she taught herself to knit that year. Her mother’s veneer of normalcy cracked and she burst into tears.

Marissa stroked her mother’s hair while wishing she could strangle her with the scarf, and made a silent vow:
Never again
.

Eight

E
very Christmas since that last horrible one five years ago, she’d spent the holiday with her father. It was better that way. He got to exercise his precious visitation rights, and Marissa got to dodge her mother’s annual mega-misery fest.

Until today.

She shoved her finger in the doorbell and held it in place until her mother opened the door after a minute or so, hair wrapped in a towel and robe pulled tight around her. Marissa ignored her mother’s impatient scowl and slid past her into the foyer, giggling.

“My God, Mari!” Her mother’s shock crackled. “What are you doing here?”

Marissa snorted, laughing harder. “Nice to see you, too, Mom.”

“Well, I didn’t mean . . .”

Way to throw out the welcome mat, Mom.
“I know what you meant,” she said. “Thought I’d just surprise you. Surprise!”

“Oh, you did, that’s for sure.” She adjusted the turban atop her head to keep it from toppling. “You could have at least called to let me know you were coming.” Pursing her lips, she seemed twenty years older, like some disapproving old lady shaking her head at this year’s hemlines.

“Didn’t think I needed an invite.” Irritation nipped at her, and she was losing the battle to hold it at bay.

“Don’t get testy, Mari.”

Her mother’s attempt to smooth things over allowed some of Marissa’s hostility to slip away, letting her mind drift back to the ocean. Back to the creature it concealed.

Her mother’s hands were on her shoulders, gently shaking her. “Mari, honey . . . are you all right?”

Marissa jumped back, startled. Blinking, she stared at her mother, not really seeing her. It slowly came back to her: she was at Mom’s for Christmas. She giggled.

“Mari?” Her eyebrows did that weird dance they did whenever she was
concerned
. Marissa looked at her mother’s head, tilted to one side, turban leaning precariously at an angle. She wondered if it might topple and pull her waif of a mother over. Marissa pictured her mother in a pile on the floor, struggling against the weight of the towel, and laughed.

“So, Merry Christmas and all that,” Marissa said. She didn’t care whether she was being snotty; her mother deserved it. She pirouetted and curtsied. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, the groove between them deepening into a canyon. She didn’t answer.

“What? Can’t I visit you for Christmas?” Marissa demanded.

“Of course you can.” Her mother snipped each word off neatly. “It’s just . . .”

A man appeared in the arched entry way to the living room, and her mother blushed. The man was short, even shorter than her mother, and wore jeans and a gray polo but no shoes. He looked entirely too comfortable.

“Who’s that, Mom?” she asked, foregoing any pretense at civility.

Her mother sighed. “George, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Marissa. Marissa, George.” She gestured for him to join them in the foyer.

George crossed the room in a few long strides and offered his hand. Smiling a wide, car salesman kind of smile, he said, “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

She ignored him and wheeled on her heels to face her mother, cowering by the door. “What the hell, Mom. Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” She glowered at her. “When were you going to tell me, ever?”

Her mother straightened her body and sputtered, “I’m sorry, honey, really, I . . .”

George looked first at her mother, sympathy softening his eyes, then at Marissa. He gave her a guarded smile. “I’m going to go find my shoes now, I think. It is such a pleasure to meet you, Marissa.” He glanced again at her mother and strode out, disappearing down the hall.

“Mari, I have a life, too, you know.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “I don’t have to consult you for permission to date.”

“Is that what this is? Dating?” Marissa said. “And stop calling me Mari. You know I hate that.” She was acting like a petulant child, but she didn’t care. Her attention was wandering again already. Something about the man’s eyes, gray blue like the sea . . .
.