Undertow (7 page)

“I fell asleep on the beach.”

“Are you crazy? You’re lucky somebody
didn’t
rape or murder you. You could have been killed,” Kelly voice was full of dramatic reproach.

How ironic. She was right, Marissa had nearly been killed. She laughed. “I was so wiped out, Kels, I just couldn’t help it. And maybe I didn’t care so much what happened to me at the time, you know?”

“Damn you! You better damn well care. What about me? How did you think I’d feel if something horrible had happened to you?” Kelly went full-out drama on her now.

She stared at her and debated whether she should continue, but it was too late—now the dam was breached, she couldn’t stop. So it spilled out in a torrent of words and emotion: the dream that visited her each night, the film her subconscious made of that terrifying night; drowning in the cold ocean, getting rescued; the creature that saved her. A merman.

Marissa was so engrossed in her story, she didn’t notice Kelly’s expression turn from curiosity to disbelief. When she finished the story and her eyes refocused, she was stunned. Marissa had been prepared for astonishment. Shock, even. But not this; Kelly looked scared. No, not scared, it was beyond that, there was a different emotion on her friend’s face.

Kelly looked horrified.

Eleven

A
n array of vegetarian delicacies covered the table: Tofurky, sliced and arranged on a holly-festooned platter, surrounded by green beans and cranberries; acorn squash stuffed with rice and wild mushrooms; fruit salad. A veritable vegan Norman Rockwell scene, Marissa thought. Mom had really knocked herself out. This new guy must be pretty hot or something.

She smiled at her mother. “Looks yummy, Mom. Was George a veggie before you met, or did you make him convert?” Marissa gave George her big saucer eyes. Questioning minds want to know; it worked every time. Let her mother fume.

George fidgeted with his silverware. Her mother froze her eyes and mouth into a plastic yuletide glee and laughed. The noise she produced was like a sputtering starter on a car when the ignition won’t turn. He jumped in before she could speak.

“Actually, my dear, I don’t claim to be a vegetarian at all. Sometimes I eat fish. But not meat or chicken.”

“So what does that make you? A fishatarian? Unlucky fish.” Marissa said.

He chuckled, sort of—it sounded more like a snort. “I believe the proper term is ‘hypocrite,’ isn’t it? A vegetarian who eats animals.” He winked.

Okay, funny guy.
Well, at least the guy owned up to his stuff. She figured maybe he’d be okay, not like the other men her mother dated. There had been a bunch of losers dancing in and out of her mom’s life since her parents had divorced, creeps who took advantage of her mom in one way or another. Jerks, like Drake. A couple of them even came on to Marissa, hoping to score some teenage candy. She pushed away the bitter memories and forced herself to stay in the present.

Her mother spoke first, breaking the awkward silence. “George teaches literature at Portland Community College. His family came here from Denmark—they were fisherman in the old country.”

Why her mother offered that bit of useless information, Marissa couldn’t fathom.

“You might suppose that I would have tired of fish. I believe my mother knew how to cook little else,” George said, playing along. “Ah, well, I am certain that my dietary habits are of no interest to you. Please, tell me instead what you are studying in school.”

 “Umm  . . .  well, I’m pretty much just finishing up my generals now,” she said, sidestepping the topic. She sneaked a sidelong peek at her mother to see if her mother was preparing to pounce, but her eyes were locked on George, thankfully. Marissa trained her own eyes on the plate and pushes the fork around in the rice like a prospector sifting for gold.

George’s voice commanded her attention and she looked up. His eyes held a reassuring dose of comprehension, maybe even compassion. “Naturally. You are still early in your college career. My Joanie could not decide on a major until her third year. Unfortunately, she had to study an additional year in order to earn her bachelor’s degree. So, tell me, what
fascinates
you?”

“The ocean,” Marissa blurted out, before she could restrain herself.

“Since when are you interested in the ocean, Mari?” Her mother took a drink of wine and reached for the bottle to refill her glass.

He rescued her. “Really? Well, certainly, there is no more fascinating subject than the sea.”

Marissa’s mother clenched her jaw. With a voice like ice shards, she said, “Mari, are you out of your mind? The ocean, for God’s sake! Of all things. I am not paying you to go to college so you can mess around with the ocean. Don’t you already know enough to just stay away from it? How can you torment me like this?”

By now, her mother was trembling like she had Parkinson’s and her face was powder-white. Marissa felt sorry for George. Poor guy, stuck here on Christmas Eve
.
His face softened as he reached out and took her mother’s hand; in response, her mother relaxed. An exhalation escaped her body in a ragged wave.

They act like they’re in love
, Marissa thought.
Can this be happening?

“So tell me, Marissa—what about the ocean interests you so?” His voice softened.

And it was clear to her that her mom hadn’t told George
any
of it. About Bethany. Why she moved the family here, hundreds of miles from Santa Cruz. Why they never went to the beach after they came to Oregon. He probably had no idea that her mother wouldn’t go to the beach, ever. Or that Marissa wasn’t actually an only child.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Marissa said, lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I guess just because it’s so
vast
and
deep
.”

George laughed and her mother tried to join in, but she wound up tittering nervously instead.

“Certainly, the sea exerts a spell on those she touches,” he said.

Her mother’s skin was so blanched now that she was practically translucent; the strength of will her mother was exerting made it obvious she didn’t want to lose this guy.

Oblivious to her mother’s discomfort, he continued. “My mother told us endless legends passed down from her father, tales of adventures on the open sea. Denmark, you know, is mostly surrounded by the water.” He winked at Marissa again.

“Umm, actually, I think I pretty much forgot any geography I learned in middle school,” Marissa said, digging her fingers into her knees. How long before her mother’s armor cracked?

“Ah. Well, Denmark is not such a fascinating country that you should have dedicated yourself to memorizing its circumstances,” George said. There was actually a glint in the man’s eye. He was clearly enjoying this. “But tell me, Marissa. Is it the ocean itself that intrigues you? Or, rather, is it the life it contains?”

Careful,
Marissa told herself,
just relax
. It was too late to rewind the moment; both George and her mother were staring at her as though she had just sprouted a third eye on her forehead. She coughed into her napkin and sipped her cider. “Swallowed wrong.”

He was undeterred. “So, young lady. Is it the sea that you care about? Or what is in it?”

Recovered now, Marissa shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

George toasted her with his glass. “To the ocean, then, and those for whom it is home.” He clinked his glass against her mother’s, smiled crookedly, and said, “I have many tales to share with you, my dear Marissa.”  

Her mother groped for the wine bottle and poured it into her glass, sloshing it over the side. The red liquid spread across the white lace tablecloth like a star going supernova. It didn’t matter; George was lost in his story, and her mother’s eyes were glazed and watching some distant memory.

Twelve

“H
ow’s my little elf on Christmas morning?” Jim asked. She actually heard
the man smile, even fifteen hundred miles away.

The ringing of her phone woke her from a fitful sleep. Her mind had careened from one scene to another in some wild race through the terrain of her psyche, fueled by George’s folk tales.

“I miss you, sweet plums,” Jim said. “How are you holding up at your mom’s?”

Marissa rubbed her eyes and stretched. “Good, I guess. She’s got a boyfriend. I think she’d rather hang with him for the holidays. Think I’m busting her groove.”

Jim chortled, a sound like waves crashing. “Glad the old lady’s getting a little action.”

“Please, Jim! She turned
fifty last summer. You’d think she be over that already,” Marissa said.

“Yoo-hoo! Such a little prude you are,” he said, laughing harder.

“No I’m not, Jim. It’s just . . .”

Jim, quieter now, finished the sentence for her. “It’s just that maybe she got over your dad before you did?”

Marissa felt the heat rush to her cheeks and was glad he wasn’t there to see her flush. The denial jumped from her mouth before she could restrain herself. “No, of course not,” she said. “And don’t psychoanalyze me. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, appeasing her. “Down, girl. Sorry to flip your switch.”

Her jaw unclenched at his soothing voice. She shouldn’t have snapped at him like that.  “Sorry I bit your head off. But I am totally
over my dad leaving, Jim. I’ve been over it for years.”

“I believe you, baby. Let it go, okay?” Jim said. “So, tell me about the new Romeo. What’s his name?”

“George. He’s—nice, I suppose. Mom’s crazy about him. You should have seen her last night, hanging on every word he uttered as though honey was flowing from his lips.”

“Hmm . . . sounds serious,” Jim said, in that teasing tone of his, triggering another rise of blood to her face. Typical Jim, he turned everything into a joke. Not like her. She turned every joke into a tragedy.

“How’s the skiing?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Gotta love it,” Jim said. “Awesome powder, blue skies, sunshine. Nothing beats skiing in the Rockies.”

“Nothing?”

“Uh-Oh—caught me, didn’t you?” He laughed. “Actually, one thing tops hitting the slopes: being with you, sugar.”

Marissa smiled, surprised to feel her heart leap.
Must tread carefully
, she told herself. Kelly’s words echoed in her mind:
On the rebound, dumped for another woman; you're in dangerous territory, Issa.

“You’re just messing with me, like you always do.”

Jim’s voice, lower and quieter now, came through the receiver as he enunciated each word with precision. “No, Marissa. I. Am. Not. Teasing. I miss you, miss you bad. No day of skiing in Colorado is worth being away from you.”

She reeled, suddenly dizzy. Was he for real? Could this be happening? Jim, funny, sweet, brilliant Jim, loved her?

Jim’s voice, fragmented and unsteady, was saying something else. Marissa strained to decipher his words through the blanket of fog that crept over her brain; she caught a snippet of his last sentence.

“Sorry, too soon, I know.”

Springing to life, she rose from the edge of the bed, dumping the duvet to the floor. She paced across the room and stammered into the phone, “No, no. It’s good. Of course, I miss you too,” she said, trying to keep her voice light and casual. “No snow here to keep me occupied, though. My mind’s turning to mush.”