Beneath the Waves

“Why can't you just grow up?" Those were the words that made you choke on air.

"Oh, stop with the waterworks, they don't work on me."

You couldn't help it. It wasn't like you cried on purpose when your mother yelled at you. Even now, as an adult, she could render you small enough to crush beneath her heel, every accusation a stab in your aching chest, every insult a slap to the face.

"It was cute when you were five, talking about fairies and maaaaaagic, but you're twenty-five! There aren't goblins in the walls keeping you up all night and brownies stealing your car keys so you're late to work. Grow. Up. And take some accountability for your actions. I didn't raise you to be some job-hopping flake." She didn't 'raise' you at all.

"You got fired from the grocery store. THE GROCERY STORE. A minimum wage job that requires minimum competency and you managed to lose it. How many times did the so-called fairies make you miss your shift? Excuses don't pay the bills. Just...get out. Go. I can't look at you right now. We'll talk in the morning."

You staggered out of the kitchen, blinking through the tears, and fled the only home you knew. All you had on you were the clothes on your back, your wallet, and a pair of keys to a rickety sedan with a quarter tank of gas and more dents than a tin can in a dumpster. It was more than enough to get away, to escape her sight. As you slammed the door and turned the key, your vision clouded, and your body shook. Pitiful. Pathetic. Childish. You stepped on the gas and backed out of the driveway, wishing that Nan was still alive. She understood. She was the one who actually raised you. It was her house and memory that haunted your flight. Your mother was a barely-there presence until a few years ago when Nan got sick and you dared drop out of school to take care of her.

Now, it was just you two in that too-small house that your mother now owned, and you couldn't leave. Not when you put all your pennies into paying off debt for a degree that would never be complete, and trying to keep up your half of the rent. There was nothing to spare. And in this no-horse town by the sea, where work was sparse and part-time, you just lost your flimsy financial security. All you had to do was show up on time. And you messed that up. You always messed things up. You messed up your mother's life by being born. You probably messed up Nan's by existing too. But at least Nan understood. She listened to your childhood tales of seeing wings in the gardens, and eyes in the dark. She never judged. Instead, she read to you myths and shared folktales from her home country. And warned you not to go looking for magic lest it found you first and took its due in blood.

"She's a wee bit touched," you once heard her say to your mother.

"Touched in the head is right. She is too old for this nonsense," your mother's harsh dismissal never failed to sting. "Ouch! Mam!"

"Shut ye mouth about what ye don't understand, girlie. Brought ye up better than tha'."

"She climbed the fence during recess because she thought she heard a voice calling her. That isn't normal."

"Easily tempted. Vulnerable. But a child, still. If we were back in my home country, she'd no doubt be of interest to the fair folk in the hills. They have a habit of takin' youngins that were born too close to the veil. And ye have had a changeling in the cradle instead of yer own babe."

Your mother scoffed, and the conversation ended then, leaving you to wonder if you were crazy. The kids at school liked to call you that. Crazy. Weirdo. Freak. That stigma chased you into adulthood when you came home from college and never left the town where everyone knew your name and reputation. The girl who heard voices from the trees. The girl who always tripped on her laces and muttered about little imps untying them. The girl who fell in the river during flood season and should have drowned, but turned up 3 days later, a little bruised but unscathed, with no memory of how she got back home. The girl whose own mother half-abandoned her for a new life in the big city.

You tried shutting it all out. Tried moving on. But when you made a habit of zealously organizing your belongings and things kept vanishing, only to turn up in the garden, or on top of the cabinets, it was hard to place the blame of forgetfulness. Your car keys go into the dish by the door. Yet for the past week, you found them in the oddest places.

It didn't matter now.

You pulled over to the side of the gravel road and stepped into the crisp sea breezes. The beach was a comforting place. Many a long summer spent on its shores. One had to be careful. It wasn't the sandy sort, but craggy and rocky, littered with stones smoothed by the waves. With a sniff, you scrubbed your face and headed for the water, eased by the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the roar drowning out your riotous thoughts. Worn sneakers crunched along on uneven pebbles, your footing sure from years of practice, and soon the soles were soaked, seafoam bubbling around rubber. You shivered and zipped your hoodie a little higher, unsure if it was the stress or the wind that left your skin prickled.

"Miss you, Nan," you murmured, words swallowed by the cry of gulls and the crash of waves. "Miss you so, so much. I wish...I wish you were here." Your hands curled into fists. But before you could profess your woes to the sea and cry your heart dry so that you could face your mother without falling apart, a shadow fell over you. Instinct had you pivoting, the sun dazzling you as you faced it unblinking. "Who?"

"Easy, easy, didn't mean to spook yer, sweetheart," rumbled the stranger. His voice was low and accent thick, like he was from one of those big cities in the movies, with skyscrapers and muggers and balding guys on corners with hot dog stands. Squinting through the light revealed his broad frame and old-fashioned suit. It looked expensive but a few decades out of date... which meant he fit right in with the locals. At least it wasn't plaid. He smiled, the glint of a gold crown gleaming at the corner of his smile. You let yourself blink, and he adjusted his hat. "Yer alright? Sun gettin' to yer?"

"I'm... I'm fine... just catching some fresh air."

He was tall, you realized, not just broad. His build was, to put it in complementary terms, stocky, all torso and shoulders, not a lot of leg, a bit of a gut, and likely a whole lotta muscle in those arms. It was... hard to look at his face, and you weren't sure why. But he had a wide smile. Clean-shaven. You caught a whiff of cologne beneath the scent of salt. He extended a hand, rings and a wristwatch glittering against olive skin. "My apologies if I caught yer at a bad time," he said, and you carefully shook his hand. His handshake was firm, businesslike and cool. You weren't the only one feeling the chill in the air. "Price. Butch Price at yer service."

As you gave you name, you noticed that Mr. Price had a cart behind him. He wasn't just trolling the shores in that suit, but selling things. Seaglass and shells dangled and jingled among shards of pottery and silver chains. "I'm sorry, I can't buy anything," you murmured, and he tsked, leaning against his cart without a worry in the world.

"S'okay. Wasn't plannin' a pitch. If yer don't mind a gent askin', what's got yer down in the dumps, dollface?"

You narrowed your eyes at his casual use of endearments, but his hands were at his pockets, and he wasn't looming like a dog after a steak. Some folks were just like that. They didn't mean any harm. "Lots of stuff, I guess. Today's been... rough." Tears again prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you were quick to wipe them aside. "Just, ever have one of those days where everything that can go wrong, goes wrong?"

"Think everybody has," he replied with an understanding nod. "Heh. I've had some real doozies, m'self."

"Ever lost your job in a broke town while having five bucks to your name, rent due at the end of the month and almost no gas in the car?" Mr. Price whistled. You continued, "Accompanied by the realization that you're a grown adult living with a mother that hates you for the same reasons that said broke town doesn't trust you to bag their groceries anymore." A small, manic laugh escaped, and you cradled your head. It was hard to think straight.

"Sure does sound like yer are havin' quite a day," he said, voice soft with empathy. "If it makes yer feel any better, yer ma prolly don't hate yer. I mean, yer got all yer teeth, don'tcha?" His grim joke made you sputter, and he chuckled. "My ol' man was a real piece o' work. Mean when he wasn't boozin' it up, and outright nasty when on a bender. Literally kicked me and my brother out when we wuzn't even grown. And it wuz storming! Those were some bad days, BUT, here I am, got m'self a nice lil business on the beach, and nobody but me remembers the bastard's name. Karma has a way of makin' things right."

The weight in your gut felt heavier than ever. He had real issues he overcame. You were just whining over spilt milk in comparison.

"Hey now, chin up, sweetheart. Didn't tell yer all that to make yer feel bad. I 'ave a weakness for pretty ladies when they get all teary-eyed, so don't go breakin' this heart of mine by cryin' more," Butch fished a handkerchief from his suit pocket and offered it up. "Clean yer face. There we go. So, yer ma and yer had a fight cuz yer lost yer job? Sounds like an easy fix. Meet me here in the mornin', eight am sharp. I'll have work for ya."

"W-what?"

He thumbed at the cart, "I'm thinkin' a smart business investment is hirin' a pretty lady to help me sell my wares."

"Are you sure...?"

"As I am that the sun is gonna rise in the morning," he winked. "How's ten an hour plus commission sound?" Your eyes went a little wide. That was more than the grocery store paid you.

"Why?"

"Why not?" Mr. Price challenged back. "Now, if yer gonna be workin' for me, yer gotta be wearin' somethin' to help promote the business." He rubbed his chin, "I got just the thing." He rummaged in one of the drawers on the cart and pulled out a little pearl hanging from a leather cord. It wasn't round, but more oblong like a raindrop. "Put this on, darlin'."

Slowly, you accepted it, "This is too much."

"Nah, like I said, business investment."

"I could take this and run off and never come back."

"Yer could. But yer won't."

"Wanna bet?"

"Sure thing. I'm a gamblin' man."

Swallowing the dryness in your mouth, you looped the necklace over your head, the pearl settling at your collarbone, "It's pretty."

"Aint it? It's yers now. Called a Mermaid's Tear, that one. Make sure yer wear it and somethin' nice and breezy when you come back tomorrow. No jeans or sneakers." He pointed at your now uncomfortably wet shoes. "Can ya do that, dollface?"

"Yes. Yes, I can."

"Heh. Bring yer smile wit yer. Now, run off. Go make nice with yer ma. Tell her the good news."

Curling your hand around the pearl, you nodded, your heart suddenly racing. Run, run, whispered the ocean as you waved your new boss goodbye. Run, run to me. You jogged back to your car, though it was hard to ignore the 'Voice' when it called. Run, run into my embrace. You settled behind the wheel and started the ignition. You weren't a selkie. To flee into the ocean would steal your breath. And there was a chance that the waves would be far less kind than the river, and wouldn't return you to shore.