When We Believed in Mermaids

by Barbara O'Neal

A wave of mingled anticipation and terror rolls through my chest, sloshes in my gut. “Holy shit. What if she’s really still alive?” “I guess I’m going to have to kill her,” Suzanne says.

Auckland feels the quakes, but they’re not centered here—it’s always somewhere else. Instead, they cheerfully predict a volcano will someday incinerate the city, but it’s the kind of thing you can’t believe will ever happen.

“Thanks, Mom.” “Love you, sweetheart.” I nod, giving her an open wave before I hang up. Mad at myself for not returning the endearment. She’s been so good for so long, but I still have trouble letting her in. What does that say about me?

A sense of rage rockets through me. How did my loser sister, the druggie and alcoholic who stole everything I owned at a time I could barely feed myself, land on her feet like this? When I am— What? Alone. I am alone. With no family. No children. No husband.

the TV is on, playing the evening news. For a moment, I look at all the disasters happening around the world, and my drama seems ridiculous and small, all of my own doing. But it’s not about comparison, as my counselor used to say. My pain is my pain.

“All I’ve done since I met you was talk about myself.” For a moment, he only looks at me. “Your quest is powerful. You needn’t apologize for the space it takes.” He covers the hand he’s holding with his other. “That you take. You are important too. Not only your sister.” I swallow, looking away. Nod.

At last, I come to rest on the cupped curve of a tree trunk, which has clearly been worn smooth by other bottoms over time. It cradles me perfectly, and as I lean back and stretch my legs in front of me, I feel all the sorrow and anger and dismay drain right out of me. It almost feels as if the tree is vibrating very subtly against my body, nourishing and aligning me. I take a breath, look up to the canopy of leaves, and a breeze rustles them softly, touches my face. It’s like being in the ocean, waiting for a wave. Sometimes I don’t even care about the wave. It’s just so quiet to be out there, in the middle of this ancient body, part of it and not part of it.

He looks at her as if she’s the sun, as if she might command flowers to bloom and birds to sing. It’s clear that he’s trying to hide it, to be cool, but he’s smitten with her.

I love her like she’s one of my own organs, my eyes or my heart. “No one ever protected you the way they should have. But I would have.” She’s crying. “I would have.”

The human body is a delicate, amazing creation. It takes almost nothing to completely destroy it, and yet it takes a lot.