Warning: racial epithets and violence My name is Brad Chao. I'm living in Chicago now but I spent my growing-up years in the Mississippi Delta. It’s now 2001 and I just turned 80 years and have been thinking lately about my early life down south. I never fit in there despite my goal of trying to be accepted. The worst thing that ever happened to me took place there when I was only a teenager. The events almost cost me my freedom and life. I ultimately had to flee for suspicion of murder with the sheriff on my tail. We Chinese were a handy target for the bullies in town but I’m getting ahead of myself.

You may be curious about how I got to Mississippi in the first place. I was born in 1921 in a poor area in southern China. Rocky, dry land, and large families with too many mouths to feed. At age 15, I took off, seeking a better life. I made my way to Canton, now Guangdong, and was hired as a mess boy on a passenger ship bound for New York. I jumped ship when we arrived in port. I quickly found work in a Chinese laundry in Brooklyn but it was not a satisfying life for me, particularly since I was by myself. My uncle, Charlie Chao, had come to the U.S. around the turn of the century and settled in Rosedale, Mississippi, which had a small Chinese community. A speck of a town with a handful of rundown stores, one of which Charlie rented to sell groceries to black people. Chinese grocery stores played an important role in Mississippi rural culture because white store owners wouldn’t sell goods to them. Their stores, small shacks really, filled an important function in small towns. They served as gathering places for blacks who wanted to socialize with their neighbors and also for job-finding. They also offered credit that was essential to the very poor people. Anyway, Charlie was growing quite frail. He had sent a letter to me in Brooklyn, offering me a job in his store which I quickly accepted. I was his only heir and also his only family. He had lost his wife about 30 years previously and had no kids of his own. It was tough work, mainly because of the long hours. Sun up to sun down, 365 days a year. None of us Chinese had been to school back home and spoke poor English and, perhaps, even poorer Chinese. We lived in the back of our stores, squeezed together like sardines.

Our social status in Mississippi was somewhere between the whites and blacks. We were shopkeepers which did earn us some degree of respect. But we also weren’t allowed to go to school with the whites. The county did set up Chinese school rooms for our kids, usually taught by a white teacher. We made enough money to put rice on the table but not much more. Most of the Chinese kids in town caught a bus heading out of town as soon as they could. Family ties did keep a number of Chinese in the state but under continuing and difficult circumstances, particularly from the local Klan. I won't go into that here. *** Shortly after I arrived in town, Uncle Charlie took sick and died. I then became the sole proprietor of his store which I had inherited. The Chinese community was always very supportive of me and I never felt lonely or heartsick. My life was as good as it gets down there until one evening when I seemed to have become a criminal with no special effort on my part. Bursting through the front door of my grocery store one evening came Mr. Beauregard Tavernier, dragging a large, heavy burlap sack behind him. I knew who he was from town gossip but, of course, he had never set foot in my store. I did know that he owned the largest cotton plantation in the area. He entered in a rush and obviously in a foul mood. He was grunting as he pulled a heavy sack into the room. I came out from behind the counter and respectfully bowed to him, anxious to find out what why he was there. My humble gesture didn’t seem to put him in a better mood.

“Don’t just stand there, boy,” he said to me.  “Can’t you see that I need help with this here load,” he shouted. “Help in what way, Mr. Tavernier? I'm sure what kind of help you need.” My question definitely put in an even fouler mood. In retrospect, it truly was a stupid question but chalk it up to me being scared shitless. “Quit your yapping, boy! I need to store this here sack out of sight for a while,” he said, glancing around the premises.

He then said: “Where does that door yonder lead to?”

"My storage room for canned goods and sacks of flour," I replied. "No customers are allowed back there," I replied. "That suits my purpose for my package ," he replied. "Now help me get it back there." The two of us pulled his heavy sack back to the room. Both of us were straining because it was so heavy and flopped around. “You hear me good now, boy. Y’all hold onto this for a day or two until I find a more suitable

place for it. Right now, your store is my best choice, at least for a spell. No one’s gonna think of your place when lookin’ for the

corpus delicti . But that’s pretty fancy talk for y'all. Pay it no mind.”

“Anyone asks,” he continued, “you never seen me this night or any other. I’m goin’ to send one of my boys back here tomorrow night to collect it. You’ll need to help him boost it onto the truck. Don’t let anyone see what you’re doing. The dark night will help but there are a lot of ‘eyes’ in this part of town.”

He then rushed out of the store as quickly as he had entered, never looking back. I just stood there, shaking my head and wondering what had just happened. I did not have a good feeling about it. It was clear that I had few or no other options so I went along with his directions. *** The next day around lunchtime, a sharp rap came on the front door. This time it was Sheriff Burnley who stepped inside. No one ever knocked on the door so I was on high alert to see who was there. His visit, though, set a new record for me—two high profile, white men showing up out of nowhere in my store in just two days. He looked around suspiciously and then beckoned for me to come over to him from behind the counter. I was in a state of shock, continuing from the previous night, and aware that I was in deep trouble. “You Brad Chao? he asked.

“Yes, sir, how can I help you.” “Well, to start and unfortunately, there’s been a lynchin’ of a colored boy in town. Age 16 years. You may have heard some talk about this? It’s on everyone’s lips. This gossip will truly be the death of me.” “No, Sir. What you are saying is none of my business. I don’t pay no mind to town gossip. I try to keep a clean record and just run my store for my black customers who are also good citizens.” “I decide who’s a good citizen,” the Sheriff replied. “More to the point, I was told by one of your neighbors that Mr. Beauregard Tavernier was seen entering these premises last night. That seemed strange to all of us back at the station. White men don’t usually have no truk with the the Chinese and their shops. Did you, by any chance, see him last night?”. I replied, trying to keep my cool and provide him with the best, honest answer I could under the circumstances: “Sheriff, you of all folks, know that no white men would be caught dead in a Chinese grocery in town, particularly at night. Only for black folks.” “That’s sure true, the Sheriff replied quickly, stroking his beard and still looking at me, squinty-eyed. “The story didn’t make no sense to me but I am trying to cover all the bases. Lynchin’ has become less ‘popular’ these days in the state and I am starting to feel some pressure from above to find a guilty party. ” For a moment, he appeared to be suspiciously eyeing the back of my store. That’s the last thing in the world that I wanted. “Watcha' got stored back there, boy? he asked suddenly. "Your stock or, perhaps, even some other goods?" “No need to search the store any further, Sheriff” I responded. “You don’t want to go back there. That’s where I live. Very messy. I also cook there on a hot plate. Kind of smells bad. You won’t like it. Best stay away.” He seemed to be satisfied by my words, and also not inclined to stay in my store any longer than necessary. He suddenly wheeled around and strode out the front door, not even giving me a backward glance. I was glad to see him gone, but I didn’t know what to do next. I finally realized that I was in a heap of trouble, none of which was of my own making. I was now apparently on the sheriff’s short list of possible suspects for the lynching, although it made no sense at all. He just wanted to arrest someone but certainly not a prominent white man. *** It was the next night and I was sleeping. I heard a soft knock on the back door. I opened it carefully to see Aaron, a black man who worked for Mr. Beauregard. A truck was parked in the back of the store, idling.

“Boss man, sent me to pick up a ‘package’ that you holdin’ for him in your store,” he said. “He tole me not to let anyone see me transport it. So here I am.” I got out of bed and helped Aaron load the sack on his truck bed and then covered it with a tarp. He motioned me over to him and placed his mouth gently to my ear.

“Mr. Chao, I don’t know what you done and I don’t even want to know. You been kind to us. People in town doin’ a lot of talkin’ about recent events, however. The sheriff lookin’ for someone to pin this lynchin’ on. The ‘trouble’ seems to be puttin’ the town and state in a bad light. You yourself now seem to be the perfect choice for blamin' for the crime. They won’t never pin a lynchin’ on a black man and you may be the next best choice.” With that he hurried over to the truck and drove away in a cloud of dust. *** I began to go over my options to stay alive. They were to stay in town or jump on a bus headed north. It would not be good for one of our community to be under a magnifying glass. Best thing, I finally concluded, would be to catch the bus for Chicago that left early the next morning. The sheriff would soon be looking for another patsy. Unfortunately for him, to charge a black with a charge of lynching would be laughable. I packed my suitcase in a hurry, reserving a place for a small Chinese shrine with the ashes of my Uncle Charlie. Nothing much else of value to take with me. A few wrinkled clothes. I knew that hightailing it out of town made me look guilty. I knew for certain that the large number of white people in town who had actually witnessed the lynching knew that I was not involved. All the sheriff needed to do was to ask a few questions in town which he didn’t seem to want to do. No, he would merely let this incident fade in people’s memory with his most important suspect gone to “who knows where up north.”


It’s a hard day. Somehow, Amy doesn’t see it coming. The season is in full swing. She’s busy with the onslaught of calls and emails from work that always pick up as the year winds down, and the towering heap of papers and midterms from school, and the lines at coffee shops for pumpkin-flavored drinks that get sweeter every autumn, and the department store lookout, shuffling her nephew down fabric aisles in search of a cape that’s the right shade of red for the superman costume he

insists  has to be homemade. It’s a busy time of year. She gets caught up.

It’s all so startlingly familiar: the shadow settling over the old house, the oxygen pulled from the air. Like an echo. Autumn doesn’t feel so wonderful anymore. All at once, she remembers that the falling leaves are dead. All at once, she remembers that October was lovelier when her mother was still here with it. It’s an ache that doesn’t ever fade, the

losing . Even when her brother smiles for the first time in months and it feels like the sun is finally rising. Even when Amy looks at the family photo on the desk in her bedroom and doesn’t lose all the air in her lungs. Even when her father gets behind the wheel of a car again. Even when they all start to heal. The ache sticks around, like honey on their fingertips. They’ll never be as whole as they used to be. There’s a longing that lives in her ribs, like a chirping bird, nestled beside her heart. It makes a child of her; she feels grief like a little girl. She misses her mother, helplessly. And all she can do about it is cry, pray that the hurt will go away. But the hurt—cracking her spine and slumping her shoulders and salting the skin of her cheeks—the hurt means that the love won’t fade either. She thinks that’s something she can live with. Even so, knowing it doesn’t make it any easier, and anniversaries are as terrible as ever.

 Amy wakes up today with a lump in her throat and a text from her brother. Her chest is sore, like someone’s been knocking against it. She finds it sort of funny how a number on a calendar can make time so unsubstantial, can make the months feel like minutes. The grief sits behind her eyes as heavy as the first day she ever felt it. She taps at her phone until it opens, the light blinding her in the darkness of her room, curtains drawn. The time is 8:28. The date taunts her in blocky letters. October 16 th  makes her remember things she’d rather not. Gripping the porcelain edges of a sink so tightly her nails begin to crack and bleed. Her brother meeting her eyes with the sorriest expression she’d ever seen on him. The tightest hugs in the world. Streaks of makeup down flushed faces. A pair of ripped tights under the only black dress she owned. Her father’s weathered hands holding a bundle of lilies so delicately she would’ve believed it if you told her they were made of glass.

October 16 th . Crying so hard she had to swallow bile. Her brother with his face in his hands. Her father with his brows bent in sorrow. It’s a hard day. She checks the message from her brother, trying to shake herself from her reverie, climbing out of memories like they’re quicksand.  There are three texts on her notification screen, all from Ben.

Ben:  amy

Ben:  have you talked to dad?

Ben:  it’s the sixteenth She reads them slowly, already fatigued. Her phone beeps again. Another text.

Ben:  i love you She clicks off her phone and drags herself out of bed. She feels too delicate for the harshness of the world. It’s all too weighty, her bones are thin like a bird’s. She stumbles to the door, tugging a sweater over her head. All the lights in the house are off, like the color is hiding itself. She walks around like a ghost, floats to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She watches the tiles on the floor, not brave enough to glance at her mother’s smile in the photos that hang around the halls. When she looks in the mirror, Amy sees her mom in her eyes and her jawline. She ducks out of the room, texts her brother back.

Amy:

love you too She drifts to the window in the kitchen, overlooking their front yard. She tugs at the blind until they crack open. Her father is on his knees in the garden, like the curling tomato plant is an altar. His fingers are shaking in their rubber gloves and there is dirt up to his elbows, a smear of soil across the bone of his cheek. Behind him leaves fall like raindrops, heavy and swirling and beautiful orange. Autumn is the best time for growing tomatoes—no gnats or flies to swat away. The moderate cold is like fertilizer.

Amy takes a deep breath, not bothering to check her phone again even as it buzzes in her pocket. She tosses it on the table, makes for the front door. When she pulls it open, the smell of the season hits her like a wave—rotting leaves and dirt, wind that’s just chilly enough to warrant a sweater. “Good morning,” she calls, taking a hesitant step out onto the grass. It’s overcast today, the sun is hiding behind half-darkened clouds. She forgot her shoes. Her father doesn’t look up, it’s like he didn’t hear. He tugs at a leaf of the tomato plant, twists it with his thumb. She keeps walking until she stands before him, barefoot and shaky.

“Bà?” She reaches for his attention, a branch to the sun, a daughter to her father. He startles in the weeds, dropping his shears in a pile of soil. He finds her eyes, almost surprised that she’s stood here. There is a moment of silence. Not exactly acknowledgment, but something like it. She chews at the inside of her cheek.

“Yes?” He says eventually, with a drag in his voice that she is unused to. “Are you alright?” She says softly, afraid to speak too loud. Everything feels like it’s on the brink of shattering. She doesn’t want to push. “Ben was asking about you.” He looks at her a long moment, and then shakes his head. “Not today, love,” he says plainly, picking his shears up. “Are you?” She glances down. The ache is a bursting well within her. She flexes her hand. “No,” she answers. “No, I don’t think so.” Her father nods again, silence and birdsong sitting in the air. The wind blows. The leaves fall. “But I’m here,” she continues, like an afterthought. She drops her hands to her sides. He gives a small smile, still on his knees like a man praying to tomatoes. “I know,” he looks like he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t. “And I thank you for that.” Amy reaches out and puts her hand on top of his, feels the grit of the dirt against her palm. It’s a desperate gesture, built of longing and grieving and trying. Her father continues. “She loved you.” He says, simple as that. “I know,” she replies, water in her eyes.

“I love you,” he says. And that’s not enough. But it’s what they have.

“I love you too.”


My wife and I met in college, I was a freshman, and she a sophomore. Obviously, she didn’t know I existed. You may realise this has had no effect on the fact that we got together anyway. You see, I was a bit shy at times; often focusing on my studies, getting good grades, and finishing first. Some might have called me a geek, but I wasn’t. Besides, whoever said geeks don’t get the girl? I enjoyed working out at the gym, so my physique was impressive, for a seventeen-year-old. An undisclosed advantage till then.    When summer came I finally had the nerve to approach her at a pool party, hosted by a common friend. She wore her one-piece stunningly. The issue was, however, that a boy is not to ask a girl who happens to be a year older. ‘A bold move’ my friends considered it. No worries on my part; I went for it. At that moment I wasn’t quite sure if she pretended to like me to help me save face in front of my friends, or that her feelings were genuine, again, no worries; I took what I could get. We spent the entire summer together. She would sleep over sometimes, but I never made a move. I respected her, and I was quite sure I was falling head over heels in love with her. A year passed without us parting, and another party passed by. The same pool, the same friend, the same feelings. I asked her if she liked me when I first asked her to go out with me. Her face showed agitation, but confusion clouded her thoughts. She thought she had made it obvious from the start: she had loved how in love I had been and had felt the same from the start. Since then, the notion of not loving her left forever, and I would never leave her.    We graduated and got a job in the great town she grew up in, it was like it was meant to be. At times, she would remind me what a fool I had been for not realizing that she liked me as much as I liked her that day at the pool. I loved her for it. It showed me her feelings were real. Our love deeply rooted; fortified thoroughly by our commitment to each other. We were connected, we shared one heart. It made us grow together and be happy.

   As some years passed, we found we enjoyed enjoying the tiny things. A sunset above the lake. A party with friends and family, or just a walk in the woods and getting home right in time for the rain to come rumbling down. Soon we were fortuitous enough to find our first house. She fell in love with it when she saw it, yet it felt out of reach. I just knew I had to buy it, for her, for us. With the help of her lovely parents, I was able to surprise her on a walk one day. As she was about to walk past the house and turn her head to the left to look at it, like she always did when she lingered past, I stopped. She asked me what I was doing with her bright blue eyes and expecting smile, thinking I was crazy for walking up to someone else’s house. I stopped at the front door and turned around, she had tears in her eyes. She looked at me the way she did when I first told her I loved her. In fact, she looked at me as if I had just made her the happiest woman in the world. It made me feel the way I wanted to feel for the rest of my life. That night we made love in our own little house for the first time; right after I had asked her to marry me. Six months after we moved in, we got married in her parent’s backyard. I thought I had seen all the happiness in the world when I gave her our house, but I was wrong. This time she was glowing, and I was the one who had to wipe away a tear. This was the life I had wanted for her and more. As happy as we were as newlyweds and with our perfect little house, I had a feeling that it was not going to last. I wish I had been wrong. We were talking about making our family complete. She had always loved to be a mother, and I was ready for fatherhood. But as we were discussing names for if and when this would come to pass, she fainted. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I would be lost without her. My heart stopped. That night was the worst night of my life, so far. She had a tumour on the left side of her brain. It was supposed to be operable; things would be fine, and my lovely wife would be fine. I assured her there would still be time to start a family. First, we were going to beat this, together. But we didn’t. The cancer did not go away after the surgery. In fact, it had already spread to other parts of the brain. The only thing to do was to make sure she was comfortable. I did what I could, and she said it was enough. But her faint breath told me it wasn’t. We moved in with her parents. I needed to pay the bills, and she needed to be home. Though home was with me, and she would only feel good if I were there, she said time and time again. Still, I knew, she needed to be home. Every afternoon I would come home, and she would be sitting in front of the attic window where we had our little nook. She had somehow found the strength to make herself some pillows to sit on. I should have been angry with her for wasting her strength and energy, but I understood. She had felt she needed to show me she was still there. That confident beauty from the pool was still there, waiting for me to make a move. I shed a tear every time I think of whom she used to be. I still love her, as does she love me as we have always loved each other. As I came to her every day after work, we would sit in that window to look at the paths we used to walk together. We could see our perfect little house, and we would dream about growing old together there, surrounded by our children and grandchildren. The hardest part was knowing that would never happen. As we sat in that same window, me talking about how I would love to go out for a walk with her and how the fresh autumn air always smelled so nice right before the rain. She would say it was time to go home, and we would make it just in time before the rain set in. This time I was the only one who was going to make it. I remember her smiling as she said she could feel the rain, even sitting in front of the window. But it wasn’t the rain she felt, it were my tears as I felt her breathing get softer and her heart grow weaker. She lay in my arms as she used her last breath to tell me she loved me. She was thirty-two years old when she died in my arms. Since her last beautiful afternoon, I still went up to that attic every day for two weeks to reminisce about holding my dying wife in my arms. Two weeks after she had passed, I decided it was time to move back home. I went up to the attic to sit on her pillows and look out the window one last time. As I sat down and looked down, there stood my wife. Dressed in her most comfortable walking outfit, ready to go for a stroll with me. My heart skipped as I saw her. I ran down and out the front door, but there was no one. I fell to my knees and screamed her name, but it wasn’t enough to bring her back. It had been a memory. I knew I had to let go, I knew then that I had to keep her memory alive. So I decided to go to that attic to sit by the window every week to reminisce about the beautiful life I had with her. The second time I saw her, I ran down again. And once more, nothing. I felt heartbroken all over again. It was starting to be too hard for me to reminisce. I felt I was losing her over and over again, so I made a choice. Two weeks later, she was walking past on the street when I looked out the window. She looked at me, beckoning me to come with her. I stood firm in my choice. I got up, walked to the door of the attic, and turned around. I looked around and said goodbye. It took all the strength and courage I had to make my move and ask her to date me that day at the pool, and I never regretted it for a moment. That’s why I knew I wouldn’t regret what I was about to do. I ran towards the window as fast as I could. I didn’t stop. When I got up from the pavement, my wife was still there, and we walked hand in hand to our perfect little house, together.


       “You’ll never guess who called me this afternoon,” I can recall my mother saying. It was dinnertime, and she was at the stove spooning something lumpy from a frying pan into Tupperware. We — my father, my brother Lester, Bradley Willis and I — were at the opposite end of the kitchen around a pink and gray formica dinette.          “Who?” asked Bradley Willis, mouth full of steak.          “Why Helen Leam,” said my mother, looking at my father. “You remember Helen from Rebekah Lodge.”          “Jeez,” said my father, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure. Helen and Wally Leam.”          “They split up, you know,” said my mother, “two years ago. Helen’s still living out by Forty-First, but Wally’s moved to Hollister.”          “Well for God’s sake,” said my father.          My mother put down her spoon in the pan and turned to face us, a hand at her throat. “It seems Helen’s had a bit of a tragedy. Her apartment was broken into and burglarized night before last.”          “They catch the guy who did it?” asked Bradley Willis.          “No,” said my mother, and snapped the Tupperware shut. Then she opened it again and took one last teensy bite. “Helen was off at the movies by herself and when she got home the door had been jimmied and all her silver was gone and her mother’s brooch and some watches. Some other things too, she said, looking at my father significantly.

         “Like what?”          “Nothing, Bradley. Personal things. Anyway, Walt, I’ve invited her to come and stay with us for a few days. She says she’s taking Valium like M&Ms and hearing noises.” There was a pause.          “Oh hell,” said my father.          “Well Al, it was the least I could do.”          “No, Mona. It was the most. I mean she hasn’t picked up the phone in two years. Why you?”          “But I didn’t pick up the phone either.”          “Okay, okay.” My father threw his napkin across his plate and stood up.          “I wonder if the guy crapped on the floor,” whispered Bradley to Lester. “I heard cat burglars always leave a calling card. The real pros, I mean.”          “Bradley,” I said, “I don’t wish you to feel yourself unwelcome in our home…”          “Just don’t feel yourself in our home,” said Lester. Guffaws.

         “…but kindly clean up your language and/or leave.”          “Get off Bradley’s ass, willya Brenduhhh?” said Lester in the long-suffering whine he reserved for me. “You in love with him or something?”          “No,” I lied. “I am not in love with your odious friend.” Hoots.          And so, the next evening at dinnertime the doorbell rang, and it was Helen Leam, with a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet in the other. When she saw my mother, she burst into tears. She was a small woman in her late thirties with protruberant hazel eyes and pale hair already silvering at the temples. The hair was swept back into a twist of penitential severity; not a tendril escaped to charm the rigid center part. The back of her neck was naked of wisps. The bones of her face—good, even bones, I noted—stood out so vividly from this harsh frame that it was difficult to look at her; she was too exposed, too unprotected. I glimpsed a short upper lip and dark hollows beneath her suffering eyes before lowering my own. She set down her suitcase and turned to Lester and me, hands clasped to her bosom.          “So these are the children,” she said, and sobbed anew.          “Oh God,” said my father under his breath, “she’s nuts. Hello Helen,” he said aloud. “Uh, how have you been?”          We set her up quarters in the basement, in a chilly makeshift bedroom paneled in knotty pine and redolent of concrete. Her clothes hung in a cedar closet that also contained my father’s old Air Force uniforms. Moments before her arrival, Lester had removed a collection of tattered pornography from under the bed.          “I hope this is okay,” said my mother, beefy in red bermuda shorts, her head porcupined with pincurls. "And here’s an old TV. It’s ugly, but it works.”          “Thank you,” wept Helen, hand to head. “You’re too good.”          “I don’t want to hear it,” said my mother and hugged her.          And then we left and trooped back upstairs to compare notes. My father, listening from behind the newspaper, snorted with derision at intervals. We were all waiting impatiently for Helen to reappear and validate or contradict our speculations, but she did not emerge at all during that evening, nor during any other evening. She huddled downstairs like a troglodyte for three weeks, and more than once we heard her crying through the grate.          Many years have gone by since the Helen Leam episode, and oddly, as if through an ever-focusing lens, I see this time in sharper detail with each passing year. Recollected conversations assume new significance. Gestures and expressions return to jolt me as I start the car or wash my hair. Heads turn, eyes meet, bodies glide toward one another, then away, with surreal clarity.          I was fourteen at the time and nearly six feet tall, gaunt with social anxiety, ravaged by the assaults of ferocious hormones. Like a volcano, I burned, churned and erupted. I was failing math. I couldn’t dance. My nose, forsaking its childish unobtrusiveness, loomed bony and stippled with blackheads. I cut my own hair, surveyed the catastrophic results and cut even more. I came to live in the deepest circle of adolescence, loathing myself with a perverse, demonic energy.          My brother Lester, in contrast, seemed as serene and correct as a wolf within nature’s ineluctable definition. He combed his hair with a towel and proudly slung his massive jockstraps all over the bathroom, while I timidly hung my cupless bra on my doorknob, where it dangled sadly, like the skeleton of a small bird.          Lester and my father communicated with one another in a cryptic language of yelps, guffaws and curses. They punched one another playfully on the deltoids and feinted for wrestling holds. Helen Leam, a troubling enigma to me and my mother, was a standing joke to them. “That screwball down below,” they called her.          Every morning at seven, Helen would dress and leave for her job as secretary to the overseer of a mushroom cannery. She would return at six, parking her old Chevy far from our driveway, apologizing herself in the front door, through the kitchen and down the stairs. Only after our shrill, bickering dinner was over would she emerge to fix herself a tray of soup and toast and descend again, china clattering thinly.          “Poor gal,” my mother would pronounce after each nightly exit. “This has been too much for her.” And I understood. After all, a whole gamut of legal indignities lay before her. Her self-confidence, laboriously established after a divorce from what my mother labeled “a barrel full of pickled tightwad” had been dealt a mighty blow.          “Can I ask you a question?” said Bradley Willis to me after Helen had been with us for weeks. “How do you guys put up with her down there? Don’t get mad.”          “Why would I get mad? I don’t care what you think. And if we can put up with you, we can certainly put up with her.”          “I mean, what is she doing here?”          “Well she’s scared. Wouldn’t you be?”          “No. It seems to me,” narrowing his eyes and concentrating on a point beyond me, “the last place that burglar is likely to hit again is her place. I mean he cleaned her out, supposedly. So why doesn’t she go home? She’s going to have to sometime.”          “Maybe she’s lonely.”          “Then why does she skulk around down there like some troglodyte instead of…”          “Some what?”          “Never mind. I have to think about this some more.” And he ambled off, lips pursed in a silent whistle, receding absently into his future.          Gazing hopelessly after him, I see his cornsilk hair just touching the collar of his shirt; his hands are in his pockets, elbows turned sharply out. I see the heels of his sneakers and the backs of his ears.          His I.Q. was “astronomical” my mother had informed me when he first started coming around. He had learned to read spontaneously at age three and later skipped a grade. But now at sixteen, Bradley Willis,had become a daydreamer, a cutup, and his grades were poor, his ingenuity wasted on forging attendance excuses or concocting exotic diseases to sicken of during homeroom.          I cannot say precisely when I first realized I was in love with Bradley Willis. I do remember that early in the year, the sound of his voice began to both irk and attract me, and I began to provoke him clumsily, burning with the helpless realization of knowing myself an ass.          I plucked my eyebrows completely out, stuffed my bra and painted my eyes. I would appear one day in flounces and lace, the next in funereal black. I affected a British accent. Come bedtime, I would turn on my music and the umber boredom of my room would vanish, to be replaced by the dazzling scenario of the Eternal Triumphal Prom. And I became That New Girl and Bradley was my boyfriend. His arms held me tight. His ring thumped my bosom as we glided, eyes locked, among admiring dancers standing still as stage props. Hour after hour in the dark, I partied with Bradley Willis at the neverending prom of my soul.

         My obsession with MTV was a running family joke. So I am still puzzled at my father’s failure to remember that on Fridays at four, while my mother was sure to be at Red Cross Auxiliary and Lester at basketball practice, I was equally certain to be home, glued to the television.          Which is where I was when I first heard the voices coming through the grate above Helen Leam’s bedroom. At first, I paid no attention. Then I turned down the sound and crouched by the grate on my hands and knees, pressing my ear against the cold metal grid, breathing old burnt dust and seeing the pile of the carpet close and huge.          “All right, Helen,” my father was saying, and I thought I heard fear behind the reasoned testiness. “We’ve been all through that before now, haven’t we? I am asking you just how long you’re going to keep this up.”          “That’s what I’ve been asking you for the last three years. Three years.”          “Oh no. I want a rational explanation, delivered in a reasonable manner. What in the hell do you mean by moving in here, camping here on some thin pretext…”          “I couldn’t help it. I had to be near you, even like this. I couldn’t stand it any more. I trusted you and you broke your promise. You said you would tell her. You’ve said it a million times and, every time I believed you. I want you to keep your word.”          “You blackmail me like this and you’ll end up with nothing.” There was a sob.          “So what do I have now?”          “Oh Jesus,” said my father. “How’d I get myself into this fucking mess? Helen, this isn’t worthy of us, of our love.”          “I don’t care anymore. I’m desperate. I lie here at night and think about our clothes in that closet. Our clothes can be together. Why can’t we?”          “I don’t believe you’re doing this to me. It’s like something out of a bad movie.”          “Do you think I wanted to? I was losing my mind. My God, after I called the police I actually thought about just driving my car over a cliff. I thought, if they find out they’ll put me away in the nuthouse for sure.” There was a pause.          “Wait a minute. If they find out what?”          “Well that I did it myself.”          “Did what yourself?”          “All of it. What’s the matter? Couldn’t you guess?”          “You mean to tell me you burglarized your own house? You stole your own panties and bras?”          “Yes,” in a little girl lisp.          “You wrote those filthy words on the mirror? And the watches and silver? You did all that yourself? There wasn’t any man?”          “No.” A giggle. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you I couldn’t go on.”          “This is insane, Helen.” A scuffle. “Get up. Stop that. Stop acting like a nut, will you?” There began a shrill crying, almost an ululation, and then I heard my father cursing first Helen then himself in the sibilant expletives of despair. At last, he began to murmur words of comfort. The crying became muffled.          “Take your hair down,” my father commanded in a hoarse voice. “Shake it down.” There was another brief scuffle, then the sound of tearing cloth and a deep sob, this time from my father. “Oh God, I love you so much. How you enslave me.”          “Oh Al, Al. Everything I have is yours.”          Choking with horror and laughter, I stumbled to my feet, joints stiff from kneeling. I put my hand over my mouth and pinched my nose shut. The blood beat red behind my eyes. Like a hostage escaping, I made for the front door, taking huge steps on legs rubbery and numb. .        It’s no big deal, I told myself over and over. It happens all the time. Shaking, I let myself out and headed down the street as fast as I could walk. My laughter had turned to dry sobs that racked my chest like coughs.          Down the block, I could make out Helen’s old Chevy, and I toyed with the idea of busting all her windows or putting sugar in her gas tank. But that would not make my father love her less, nor would it undo their affair. With a deep sigh, I crept slowly back toward my house to sit glumly on the curb in front until it grew dark, my feet in the gutter.          The next day, Helen Leam packed up, left our house and went home. She and my mother said goodbye at breakfast very affectionately, and Helen thanked us all and said she had been so frightened, but now she was herself again and ready to forge onward.          Life was tragic sometimes, replied my mother, but these things passed, and Helen said yes they did, with the help of God and good friends. I kept my eyes on my bowl of Kix, and Lester whined where the hell was Bradley to give him a ride to school because his generator was arcing and he bet Bradley had forgotten. My teeth suddenly started to chatter, and I left the table.          I don’t know to this day if my mother ever found out the truth about Helen Leam, and I don’t know what became of my father’s affair with her. Days passed, then weeks and months, and no divorce ever materialized, no storm ever broke. The lie that was our family continued smooth and self-contained: Newspapers were read, food was consumed, holidays observed, necessities purchased.          I came to exist in a permanent state of disbelief, cringing before a blow that never fell. My apprehension bore down so on me that sometimes I could scarcely breathe. I slept poorly and began to smoke, surly and furtive. At the sound of Bradley Willis’s voice, I would flee to my bedroom and light up, holing out until he was gone.          In April, my hands broke out in eczema, and I watched MTV all month wearing polyethylene mittens full of white goo. All hope left me.          In June, Lester and Bradley Willis graduated, and Lester went off to USC in a new Camaro with four on the floor. Bradley made two listless starts at City College, then dropped out and eventually joined the Army.

         “He just shot it all to shit his own self,” Lester pronounced. “But maybe the Army’ll do him some good.” And that was the last I heard of Bradley Willis until my mother mentioned years later that he had been killed.          “Do you remember that friend of Lester’s with the blond hair?” She said. “The kind of oddball who could never find himself?”          “Bradley,” I said, staring at the green and steel walls of my college dorm room.          “Well he was killed in Iraq,” said my mother. “Isn’t that a pity? Lester read it in the paper. They had lost touch, you know.”          “I know,” I said. Then I hung up the phone.          But there is another, better end to the Helen Leam episode, and sometimes I go back in my mind to that afternoon I found out about my father.          Once again, I am stumbling from the front door, alone and in despair. But this time Bradley is there, and I fall into his arms. He understands at once what has happened and doesn’t need to ask me, and I don’t need to tell. It will be all right, he says. He is there for me because he loves me.          I cry onto his shoulder until I am empty of tears, light and purged and free. Then, happier than we have ever been, we get into his car and drive up the coast to Half Moon Bay. We park on a cliff overlooking the beach and watch the sunset, talking in murmurs, saying everything in our hearts. At last, when it is dark, he takes me in his arms and we make love. I see him above me, his face lit by moonlight. I can feel his body trembling and hear the ocean below us.          And then, because I have never done this before, and because I can’t think of anything else to say at such a moment, "Oh Bradley," I whisper, "everything I have is yours." ###


Jenn immediately regretted her decision.

The contractor’s garbage bag was wedged three quarters of the way into the clothing drop-off bin, and there it rested awkwardly. With cartoonish effort, she crouched beneath the dangling portion and pushed feebly upward, hoping it would somehow slide forward ending the whole ordeal. Nothing. She realized that she had actually been holding her breath and it came out in a defeated puff as she shrunk down to the blacktop.

The hazard lights of the Kia blinked and the signal ding ding dinged while Jenn sat there pathetically hoping no one else pulled into the back of the lot this late at night. She had watched too many true crime shows to know how this must look. The scene was prime for Keith Morrison’s iconic narration:

But what, or rather, WHO was hiding in that black bag that Jenn so desperately wanted to make disappear that cold night in January? There’s no dead body in there, Keith. Only dead clothes. “So we’re just going to live with this now, right?”

Earlier, Dom’s voice had had that bear-baiting edge in it. He was making a choice. “You asked me to bag it up, and I did that,” Jenn said without taking her eyes off the phone’s screen. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Scroll, scroll. No response.

“As usual, everything is half-assed with you.” He kicked the bag for good measure before skulking into the hall bathroom.

That’s all it took. Not to be outdone, Jenn leapt up and swept the bag up in one red swell of anger-induced adrenaline. But without an audience this wouldn’t land, so instead of carrying it down the stairs, she heaved it over the banister. If the thwack of the plastic hitting the foyer tile didn’t reach Dom’s ears, then her feet thundering down the steps would. But if he came out to investigate, Jenn didn't know because she was already peeling out of the driveway.

She kept telling herself she would stop leaving the house during a fight, but this was different: she was dropping the clothes off merely to get Dom to shut up. Nothing more than an important errand… that absolutely needed to be done at 11:00 at night.

The SUV drove along the winding, dark roads. Where was a clothing drop when you actually needed one? Any other time, they popped up like eyesore dandelions in random lots, but tonight? Nothing. The Presbyterian Church in Howard Falls had a pretty big box, but it would mean driving an extra 20 minutes in the opposite direction, likely worrying Dom.

Fuck it.

Dom didn’t get it because he hadn’t actually gone to therapy. He wasn’t putting in the work: sitting in Dr. Palmer’s small office that smelled a little off, the walls adorned with random photographs his wife took on their world travels. When she wanted to keep from crying, she would fixate on the framed shot of a vibrant toucan above Dr. Palmer’s head while he wrote out a refill for Ativan.

The blogs and message boards also validated Jenn’s process. Even fucking Hamlet reinforced the message: grief is not a set amount of time for everyone. Shakespeare knew it in 1599, and nothing’s changed.

The church and its grounds looked so different at night under the street lamps. A brand new swing set had been constructed earlier that spring. It was made of that good composite wood and surrounded by safety turf. For a moment, she thought about walking over to sit down on one of the shiny red swings. Jenn’s legs started to get tingly from sitting on the ground. She stood up, wobbling slightly, reaching up to the lopsided sack to help steady her feet. It wasn’t going to move, so the only thing to do now would be to open the bag and throw the individual articles in the bin until the bag became manageable.

Come to think of it, the bag hadn’t even been in the hallway that long—maybe a month? Had it been since before Thanksgiving? That wasn’t the point. The point was that the clothes were in the bag–out of sight. Just taking the jackets and shirts off their hangers, emptying the chest of drawers, was progress in its own right. She knew it, she had read all the steps, it was something, a big step in the right direction. What's more, she wasn’t even given credit for how quickly she got the clothes cleared out. It wasn’t like all the other times she had been organizing her closet or purging seasonal items. Jenn would not allow herself to get distracted, because she knew that’s what everyone would expect. Open the door and you’ll see Jenn falling to pieces in the center of the room, clutching a random item of significance. No way, each piece came down and disappeared into the bag’s black hole without a second glance. There were no sentimental pauses, or recollections, no sniffing for traces of— Suddenly, the bag was open and the number 38 looked up at her. White satin stitched onto the pale blue jersey. There was still a stubborn grass stain from when he dove in centerfield to catch the final out. Jenn attacked it with every chemical under the sink, but the streaks remained. Beneath the jersey were the camp t-shirts: obnoxious neon shades, easily spotted on field trips to the water park or planetarium. Lime green in 2014, orange for 2015, purple in 2016. So many summers, breezing through play dates and recreation sign-ups, birthday parties, and trips down the shore. Even when one faded with the last streaks of sunset during a Labor Day barbecue, there was always the promise of rebirth next Memorial Day.

Until there wasn’t.

They were spread out now in a semi-circle on the ground, articles of clothing from an 11-year-old boy who would never see 12. The once bulging donation bag was dwarfed now, about half the size from earlier. Jenn pushed it easily down the chute and the hatch sprung back into place with a satisfying click. She picked up each remaining piece, gave it a good look, and in turn, sent them into the box.

The jersey was last, of course. Jenn hesitated reaching for the handle. Instead, she draped it around her shoulders like a cape. As she walked over to the swings, the car’s headlights lit the way.


We're 25,000 feet above ground as I look at the photos from the day before and a tear escapes my eyes. I stop to admire the handsome man sitting next to me whose hand is still clutching one mine even as he snoozes. I'm happier than I've been in years, but as those photos tell me, someone will always be missing. I can see my father in my mind’s eye. I can't help but think that he should've been the one to walk me down the aisle, not dear Uncle Ben. I'm positive that he would have tears in his eyes that would mirror my own. My reveries are interrupted by the intercom. The pilot announces we're about to land as a flight attendant tells me I should wake Dan up. I whisper his name by his ear as my free hand caresses the stubble that covers the brown skin of his face. He looks at me, eyes slowing focusing before he drops a tender kiss to my lips when he comes to. *** The view from the airplane had been fantastic, but on the ground it's even more breathtaking. After spending some lazy days sunbathing in Cancun, we go on a road trip to Belize. We stop by any and every interesting beach, park or tourist attraction on our way. We chat with the locals, learn about their lives and make new temporary friends. I don't remember feeling that free since I used to go on boat trips with my dad. Our destinations were always uncertain and involved lots of open sea swimming and diving. It feels like going back home even if the Caribbean sun makes my skin look almost as red as my hair. Dan jokes that I no longer look like the Little Mermaid, as my dad used to call me. He says I look like the little shrimp now and I playfully punch his toned arm as he applies sunscreen to my burnt skin. It's certainly easier to swim in Florida where the sun is a bit more forgiving. Still, considering that I haven't swum or been to a beach there in over 10 years, this is perfect. *** We're having lunch one day when Dan excuses himself to go to the toilet. He comes back talking to a man who gives him his card. He has a broad smile on his face as he returns to our table. “Who was that?” “That guy was the owner of an amazing resort focused on sports and nature here. From what he’s showed me, my gym pales in comparison. They have everything there! He’s invited us over. Do you wanna check it out tomorrow?” We drive over the next day and Carlos, the owner, shows us around. His attire is much more casual today as he isn't wearing a suit and his exposed dark skin shines under the sun. He and Dan end up spending a lot of time talking, so it is a relief that his teenage daughter, Alicia, stays with me. Our group goes horseback riding next to a river and then we Canopy walk until we reach a zipline. I feel alive as my body glides down towards the ground. I wonder how I could keep myself so far away from nature for such a long time. It's true that all sorts of creatures swim around the corridors of the aquarium I work at, but this is different. I'm so lost in my thoughts that I almost get kicked in the backside as Alicia is gliding down. Her black curls, that are even darker than her skin, dance in the wind until her feet hits the ground. They cover her face for a moment and she’s brushing them away when a boy screams from far away. “Lici!” Alicia looks at the group of people the boy is in. He says something to her in what I assume is Kriol, the Belizean Creole. Her eyes dart between me and them. “I should go. Will you be okay?” “Yeah, sure. Dan is right over there.” Alicia is already a few steps away when she turns around. “You know what? We’re going to take some of our guests to the Great Blue Hole tomorrow. I bet you’d love it, Becca!" She raises her voice as she continues, "I’m sure dad won’t mind talking some more to Dan, right dad?” "Definitely not! You gotta come with us!" Carlos exclaims as he proceeds to tell us about Amberguis Caye, the island close to the Blue Hole. “Thanks. We’ll think about it,” I tell him, but I'm sure I won't be going. We decide to stay the night as the sun is about to set and we sit by the beach to watch it. Dan wraps an arm around me and drops a kiss to my temple as he asks me about going to Ambergris Caye. “I don’t know…” I trail off. “We don’t have to dive or go on the boat trip at all. We can see how it’s like there while we wait for the other tourists to come back.” In the distance I can see Alicia and her group of friends having fun. Spending the day with her reminded me of my own girlhood. It makes me realize I'm keeping myself from doing things I used to dream of. “Actually, we should. I can’t be held hostage by fear forever, Dan. It’s been too long since dad went missing and I can’t let go of it. He went fishing, there was a storm, his boat capsized and it is scary, but I need to go back to the sea. That’s what I love!” I confess and I feel his hands squeezing mine. *** Ambergris Caye is just as splendid as both Carlos and Alicia had told us. Dan and I look at each other when we get to the Great Blue Hole. We reach a silent agreement, so we reply in unison when Alicia asks us if we would rather go snorkelling or diving. Alicia warns us about the dangers of the Blue Hole and tells us not to swim too deep or too far away. Dan and I look at the fish and I point at the ones I hadn't seen in real life before. I see a barracuda and follow it from afar for a few seconds only to resurface to talk to Dan. I dive again when I don't see him and after a few attempts I rush to the boat to ask for help. Some sailors dive with me as we look for him until Alicia grabs my hands and pulls me to the surface. "Your tank is almost empty," she says as she points at it. As we return to the boat she tells me we have to go back. They'll ask the coastal patrol for help, but as it's almost night they'll only conduct the searches on the following day. It will be too late by then. All I could see were reruns of the fateful day in which Uncle Ben called me during class to tell me they could not find my dad. To these days I wonder if we could have found him had I convinced the other fishermen to keep looking after the coastal patrol gave up. I was not about to make the same mistake again. “I’m going back in. Give me another tank,” I state, but I can hear my voice breaking. “Becca, we must go back. The sun will set soon and everyone’s lives will be in danger if we don’t make back in time. We’ll miss the airplane, too. We have nowhere to stay here.” “I can’t leave him,” I say through the tears I can no longer hold them back. "If you want to go, just go, but I'll keep looking for Dan." Alicia walks away from me and I hear her talking to her father in Kriol. I'm sure they have a small argument before Alicia comes back. “Come on, we’ve got 30 minutes. Gear up,” she explains as she grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet. We put on our masks and grab new tanks. We move straight down as quick as possible. I'm looking around as frantically as I can for any sign of Dan. I end up losing sight of Alicia until she materializes next to me while pointing at something. I notice her other hand is clutching a beautiful necklace I don't remember she had on before. She lets go of it as she starts guiding me towards the direction she had pointed at. I see the necklace has a bright blue pendant in the format of a shell attached to it. My mind snaps out of it when I see a figure stuck to a rock a couple of minutes later. It’s Dan. Alicia and I proceed to pull him with us and we keep swimming upwards until we finally resurface. Dan is taken to a hospital once we get to the shore. Carlos rushes to the airport with the other guests, but he arranges reservations with a friend for us and Alicia before he goes. I stop pacing and sit next to her. I thank her for saving Dan's life as I see her toying with her necklace and decide to ask her about it. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Just a childhood gift from my mom,” She says as her long ebony fingers trace its length and stop at the pendant hanging from it. I feel like it’s bewitching me again until she hides the pendant underneath her blouse. “What happened to her?” “She comes and goes. This is the only thing she’s ever given to me.” “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like not to have your mom with you. Mine passed when I was very young and then my father passed, too." “I'm sure your parents are watching over you from wherever they are, though. We were really lucky to find Dan in time, Becca.” “We were…” I clutch my coffee and tell her to go get some rest. I pace some more after Alicia is gone until a nurse informs me that Daniel Sanchez wants to see me. She guides me to his room and I dash towards him. I was the one supposed to soothe him, but I can't stop crying. As I calm down, Dan tells me he's seen something weird when he was underwater. He describes people in colorful clothes talking to him. I tell him it was probably the lack of oxygen that caused him to see those things, but he insists that he wants to go back there. I try to dissuade him from this idea, but as I can't I decide to go back with him against my best judgment. *** We've been swimming for a couple of minutes when Dan suddenly stops. He points at a piece of rock that looks unlike any other and proceeds to palm it, as if he was trying to find a lock or something that would open it up. Nothing happens and I pull at his arm, desperate to get back up and leave this place that almost turned my biggest dream into my new worst nightmare. Dan is starting to follow me, visibly defeated, when Alicia motions us to stop. I look at her in horror as she removes her mask and gets her necklace from the inside of her swimsuit. She turns it towards the rock and it jerks slightly. She pulls it aside and a tunnel appears before our eyes. Dan and I can only stare at each other. She tells us to follow her and we surprisingly can make out her voice despite the fact that we're many feet underwater. Before I'm able to stop him, Dan follows her and I have no option but to follow them. We reach the other side and I'm appalled. It was like walking into an underwater castle. Colorful reefs and pearls adorned the walls of the caves as the light touched them. "Luminescent algae," Alicia tells me as she sees the confusion in my face regarding the origin of that light. "It's beautiful, isn't it? Welcome home." "Home?" I ask and the noise reverberate inside my mask. Alicia moves towards me and started to remove my mask., but I hold tight onto it. "Come on, take it off. You can breathe down here." I remove it reluctantly and I'm shocked to find out that I wasn't drowning. "See? You weren't called Little Mermaid for nothing." "How do you know that? I've never…" I start to ask as she rushes towards Dan and stops him from removing his mask. "She can breathe down here, but you can't. If you want to die you take it off!" she warns. "Why can we stay without the masks but he can't?" "We're… mermaids," she explains as she makes air quotes with her fingers, disdain written all over her face. "Well, not mermaids as they picture in fairy tales, but we can do pretty much everything they do. We don't lure poor fishermen to kill them, though. And actually, not having a fish tail is a plus." I glance at Dan again and I wish I could hear what he's trying to tell me. This is madness and maybe he could talk some sense back into me. "Are we dead? Did I lose my consciousness or am hallucinating?" I scream and manag to scare some of the fish that had been peacefully swimming nearby. "Not at all. Come, someone is eager to see you." As she pulls another rock, we enter what looks like a huge covered patio. Half a dozen people — if I could call them people — who were going about their business stop to look at us. Most of their mouths are agape and they seem to be just as shocked by seeing us as I am by seeing them. Alicia keeps moving until we reach another arc. She yells and a somewhat familiar face greets us. She hugs Alicia and then stops to look at me. “Rebecca Stewart?” “Yes. Rebecca Sanchez now, this is Dan, my husband,” I tell her while turning to look at him. He's still by my side and holding my hand even if his eyes can't stop roaming the space around him. “Who are you?” “I’m Hellen. I'm Lici's mom and Ben’s daughter.” “Ben’s? As in Uncle Ben’s?!” “Yes. Haven’t you told her anything?” Hellen asks Alicia, who shakes her head. “Well, there’s a lot of catching up to do, then.” Hellen explains that we're merpeople. Alicia and I were first cousins once removed. Uncle Ben and his wife had met through my parents and fallen in love. Her mother had to come back to the sea because of her and Ben stayed in Cortez as he wasn't a merperson. “I couldn’t live up there, not for long. Some of us can’t, we don’t know why.” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “I met Carlos one day when he was diving here and we had little Lici,” she says nodding towards her daughter. “Not little mom,” Alicia said irritated, but I could barely pay attention to her as all the information sunk in. “Oh, teenagers… Anyways, I went back visit my father when my mom passed as he couldn’t come himself. Your father was taking me to open sea so that I could meet our people and swim back. He went underwater to greet them, but we were attacked as we were approaching them.” “Attacked? By whom?” "We don't know for sure, but there are many groups of merpeople who are against us mingling with humans. Apparently they found what allows us to breathe when we're on land and they did something to prevent us from going back. Your father lived with you and your mom there for almost 20 years. I could stay there for a month or so. Now we can't stay even for a couple of minutes." "We? Does that mean that..." I can't bring myself to finish the sentence. I had to let him go. I couldn't create false expectations... "Your dad is alive, yes. He's the one who found Dan here when he was out there trying to sneak a peak at you. Luckly Alicia was around." We swim towards another arc on the other side of the cave and a man pushes the hanging beads aside. "Dad?!" I scream and I grimace, certain that tears would be rolling down my face if we weren't underwater. “Little mermaid!” He squeezes me in his arms. "Why didn't you tell me? I've missed you so much!" "I've missed you, too! I made sure Alicia kept in touch with Ben, but..." "I mourned you, I still do! You could've let me know!" "It was dangerous to contact you. As much as they hate those of us who live outside the sea, they keep in contact with humans. They could find you and keep you from living on land. Your entire life was in Florida..." I step back from his embrace and glance at Dan. Him, dad and now Alicia. They were the people I cared the most about. "No, dad. My life is right here." *** Dan and Carlos work together at the resort now while I work at a marine reserve. Alicia starts studying Oceanography and we help each other out. I explain the most complicated subjects to her and she gives me a hand at the reserve on weekends. Whenever we can, we study merpeople anatomy as we try to discover what enables us to breathe as humans and fish. Each month we head to Ambergris Caye to spend time with our underwater family. Every time we dive with Dan and Carlos we hope someday we'll be able to reunite again. On water and on land.


Birds were chirping, the wind was blowing, moving the branches of trees around the Eastorwine estate in a suave dance. It was a wonderful October day, much warmer and sunnier than usual, as if the universe was preparing for the event that was to take place in three days. "When did you decide this?" asked the bride, Helena Eastorwine. Behind the 24-year-old was her mother, a little hunched from the time spent sewing. Mrs Eastorwine was a chubby woman, although she often tried to hide her shapes in the very tight corsets she wore, she used to wear her hair loose because it was short and curly and her face was rather intimidating. She was not a beautiful woman but she was a proud woman who, despite the difficulties she had lived, wanted to give her daughter a better future. "Not more than a month ago. Mr Greyheart agreed relatively quickly and gave us a positive response. You should be proud of yourself, Helena. Mr Greyheart is-" "Mr Greyheart is a source of rumours, and not all of them are about how mysterious and rich he is," retorted Helena in an insolent tone. The young woman was so mad that she could only stand on her feet with her hands hanging loosely along her sides. Her frustrations were not solely based on the idea of being gifted to a man only because in return he could pay for her family’s expenses but for the idea that her mother planned it in the first place. "Many women want this man but he chose to be your husband. Accept without question. " "Why is this man still alone? Why do these women want him, but they do not even approach him? Why did he choose me, knowing very well the financial situation we are in? Hmm?“ pestered the girl, trying to keep herself in check, though she was riled on the inside. All those questions were pointless because Mrs Eastorwine was not ready to give answers. Being small in stature, especially beside her tall daughter, she seemed unable to hold even a verbal fight. Nevertheless, Mrs Eastorwine frowned and left the room, not before, however, to look at her daughter with a scowl and say: "Mr Greyheart will arrive this afternoon. You'd better not miss your first date with your future husband, “announced Mrs Eastorwine, and then left. Alone in her bedroom, Helena could finally exteriorize her inner hurricane. She screamed and grabbed anything near only to throw wherever she could. By the time she calmed down, sheets and dresses were torn apart, making sure that Mr. Greyheart will not fancy her. "Mr Lucas Greyheart, I am so happy to meet you!" The young man turned towards the door in the very back and saw a thin yet very tall and gentle looking man walk towards him in a very funny way. Following him closely was a round woman, wiping her hands on her apron. "Do not laugh. It's not the time to make a fool of yourself." advised his trusted butler Papillon with a straight face. "I'm extremely happy to have you in my humble home, Mr Greyheart," started Mr. Eastorwine once he reached the younger man, "It's quite a surprise that you came all that way in the first place. I am flattered."

"You'll see you have made the best choice, sir. My dear daughter is an excellent woman and will be a great wife to you." said Mrs. Eastorwine, her eyes scanning him from the top of his head to the toes. "I cannot say for sure how compatible we are since we have never met, but from what I have heard, she is a unique woman." answered Mr. Greyheart, trying his best to be polite and ignore Mrs. Eastorwine’s looks. He was uncomfortable and knew he might end up doing a mistake but still, it was better to marry than stay a free man with so many rumors surrounding him and his family. "Where is the lady, if I may ask?" Mrs Eastorwine chuckled lightly and glanced at the stairs towards the first floor. Nobody was coming down, even if the noise was enough of a sign. "I'll bring her," said the woman with a tint of annoyance. Mr Greyheart nodded and watched the old woman move up the stairs with a frown. He sighed and turned to the man of the house. Mr Eastorwine smiled and invited his guest to sit by the window before he drew out his pipe. Mr Greyheart watched bemused how his white moustache was moving every time he'd breathe in the tobacco. Seeing how his guest was staring so intensely, Mr Eastorwine gave the younger man a pointy look. "Listen here, sir. I do believe wedding my daughter off is not the most honourable gesture as a father, but you are the only gentleman left. I don't know what you have heard about my family but I'd like for you to ignore them just as we ignored all the rumours about you." The elder man had reasons to defend himself but so did Mr Greyheart. He was ready to answer in the same manner when he heard Mrs. Eastorwine's voice on the stairs. She walked in, followed by a woman with big blue eyes, so round that it looked like she could see into his soul. She was nothing like he imagined and she was nothing like her parents. "Miss," greeted Mr Greyheart but the girl didn't sketch a single gesture. "Helena," her mother pushed the girl closer to him before she continued, "This is Mr Greyheart and he will be your husband." Helena only looked into his eyes, which to be sincere intimidated him a bit. She was a blunt woman, he could see from the way she was staring at him with defiance. Her character was probably not very feminine but her looks were enough. She was taller than most women he had met and what really drew his attention was her long, elegant neck. It was empty, she didn't wear any jewelries and she wasn't wearing a dress but pants with a tight corset, amplifying her breasts' visual effect. She was a decent woman, beautiful if she'd try. She was enough for him. Mr Greyheart himself knew that he was not an ugly man either. He was tall enough and handsome enough. He wasn't a man that would be drawn by falsity and Helena was anything but that from the tense position of her body. "Nice to meet you, sir. I was rather surprised that you accepted to be wedded to a woman 10 years younger. I'm afraid I have already been discovered," said Helena with a mischievous glint in her big eyes. "Helena," said her mother, slapping her daughter’s back lightly. "I'm sorry, Mr Greyheart. She's hostile with strangers." "Exactly," interrupted the girl, "You are a stranger and I shall not express joy when meeting my future husband only three days before the marriage." added the young woman, raising an eyebrow as of telling him she was not inferior to him. Mr Greyheart's eyes widened, flustered she could speak so coldly. Her mouth did not have a limit and he found that to be troublesome. The dark haired heir glanced at Papillon for help but the stiff servant was not to be bothered. "We don't have to know each other in order to marry." mumbled Mr Greyheart , moving his eyes on her. "What about afterwards? Shall there never be love between us, no intimacy and no respect?" "What makes you believe there will be no respect?" asked Mr Greyheart, intrigued by her opinion. "Or intimacy, for that matter," "You. You look like the many men that entered this house before, asking for my hand. You dress well, you smell well and you talk well. What makes you different from the others?" she started. "My inheritance?" asked the man, bemused. "Your mind and your eyes. The way you look at me is not the same as when you lay your eyes upon a woman but upon responsibility. And your mind, you're foolish to come here and agree with an arrangement where you offer more than you receive." "That is my choice, not yours." "Then do I have no choice in this arrangement? Am I only the contract that needs to be signed?" "Exactly," answered Mr Greyheart, looking at her with empty eyes. The two didn't speak for the rest of the time. Mr Greyheart arrived in time for supper so Mrs Eastorwine invited him to dine with his future in laws. Maybe at first he didn't think much about it but he regretted it after five minutes. "So, you are the famous Mr Greyheart. Not much to be interested in, to be sincere. Not much." said a boy that looked to be around 18 years old. "That is the youngest son, Alfred." Papillon informed his master, "Across you is Miss Helena's twin brother, Matthew and next to you is missing the elder brother, Blaise." "Well, Lucas, we heard a lot about you." hearing Matthew speak informally to the guest, someone hit him under the table. It was quite strong because the whole table jolted. "We heard you hate women, so how come you're marrying my sister?" continued Matthew, the table trembling again quite obviously. "I assure you, I do not hate women. That is just a false rumour." answered Mr Greyheart, acting as polite as he could. "Is any rumour true? For example, where is Blaise at this hour in the night? Should we believe the rumours?" Mrs Eastorwine asked, knowing how it sounded but still trying to make Mr Greyheart understand they were on his side. Just as the woman commented about him, Blaise Eastorwine barged into the eating room, looking disheveled and worried. His eyes caught onto Mr Greyheart and patted his hair quickly, making himself presentable. Then, he approached the table and sat on his designated seat. "I'm sorry to be late. I had business that needed my full attention." "Of course you did." mumbled Matthew. "If only it would pay off, it would actually be helpful." commented Alfred, glancing at Mr Greyheart with a smirk, "If you beat Blaise, you can have Helena." "What do you mean? Beat him how?" asked Mr Greyheart, confused how these brothers were so protective of their only sister. He was sure he didn't look that dark, Papillon made sure of that. "It doesn't matter. You're here so of course, I won't disappoint my family." Helena said just as coldly as before. She wiped her mouth elegantly and excused herself, going out. "If I were you, I'd accept fighting Blaise and then lose. You don't know who you're marrying." Alfred added when he was sure his sister couldn't hear. "She doesn't look dangerous," Mr Greyheart mumbled, taking a spoonful. The younger brothers glanced at each other before they fell silent. Blaise on the other hand started to speak about his day at work, trying to draw the attention over him rather than Helena. Next morning, Mr Greyheart walked downstairs very early and strolled through the garden, getting on the same place she saw the two siblings talk last night. He looked forward before he turned to his bedroom window. No one was there but that wasn't suspicious. It seemed that Helena was not an early riser but everyone else was. Breakfast was loud, if he could say. Alfred was the young trickster, going around and messing with everyone. His bright blond hair was probably inherited from his father because Mrs Eastorwine was a ginger. Then, the middle brother, thin and fragile looking just like his father, with bright blond hair as well and an affinity for wine, it seemed. And there was Blaise, drinking tea while reading the newspaper. He was the only redhead in the family, except his mother, and he was the type of man that Mr Greyheart had seen at the few diners he had been to. He was a fortune digger and liked women as much as they liked him, but he was never involved and never taking responsibility. This reminded Mr Greyheart just how Helena looked: different. Papillon walked behind his master and waited patiently for the man to question him, knowing there were many curiosities about the Eastorwines. “They all hate me already.” Mr Greyheart started feeling like he may be entering a trap by his own will. “Especially the bride.” “We did not come here to make friends, sir." Papillon answered. Mr Greyheart rolled his eyes but had to agree with his companion. “Mr Greyheart, sir, maybe we should have a small chat shall we?" Blaise approached the darker man with a polite smile. "But Miss-" he looked at the stairs upstairs but there was no sign that Helena will come down anytime soon. "Helena is not like the women you meet at diners, Mr Greyheart. It would be wrong to presume she likes what many women do." Blaise began as soon as they walked out of the house. Mr Greyheart chuckled bemusedly, taking the elder brother as an overprotective factor, not necessary intimidating too. "Are you trying to make me change my mind? Because just like your family, I do have a status I must protect." "Once a deal made, everyone knows it's unpleasant to go back on your word. I have heard much about your Lair yet you only came with your butler." pointed out the ginger. "I assure you Miss Helena will be living well in my home," assured Mr Greyheart. "For that to happen, it’s best if you don't question her or whatever she does." Blaise started, stopping in front of the entry to a labyrinth in the backyard of the house. "Shall we continue our discussion while we reach the center?" Mr Greyheart followed Blaise into the labyrinth warily, sensing some kind of hostility now that no one could really see them. "I'm sure you believe my family is trying to get money from you so they chose to give you their daughter in return. That is not entirely true. My mother chose you in particular, Mr Greyheart." started Blaise, his tone changing slightly. "Why?" "Because Helena needs to leave this house. She has the right to live, especially after all the sacrifices we made for her. You see, Mr Greyheart, Helena has certain tendencies ever since that accident last summer." "Lord Sickney's son died while being in vacation with Miss Helena." "He drowned,” corrected the younger man, “Helena had nothing to do with it since she doesn't know to swim. However, bad mouths have decided she was responsible and the rumour spread rapidly." "Does she have nightmares?" "No. But she has violent tendencies. If you make her angry, she might break your neck without the smallest regret. Are you having second thoughts, sir?" Blaise asked with a tinge of irony. Helena was a woman that did not seem to care much about what others believed about her or just in general. It was obvious from the way she did not move from her seat in the living room that she didn't care if Mr Greyheart arrived or not. She had her back turned to him but heard the door crack open. Only one set of steps entered so she figured whose. "Do you like literature, Mr Greyheart?" She asked in a nicer tone than yesterday. "I do, yes. I like to read when I have the time." He answered walking towards her. "What genre do you enjoy the most? For example, I like romance. The idea of having one soul next to you for the rest of your life is dreamy." She continued, looking out the window with a book on her lap. "Such love doesn't exist. Selfishness is far above loyalty." replied coldly the older man. "Maybe. Have you been heartbroken before, Mr Greyheart?" She pestered on the subject. "To be heartbroken one has to first fall in love." Helena hummed and placed the book aside. She got up and turned to look straight into his eyes. Those wide blue orbs looked so empty that Mr Greyheart wondered what exactly she was thinking of when laying her gaze over him. "Let's never fall in love, Mr Greyheart. Love brings death and I'm sure the Lair doesn't need more rumours surrounding it." She was not talking only about love; Mr Greyheart was curious what exactly she meant when using that word. Well, it didn't matter since once married, they would not see much of each other even if they will live in the same house. "Why did you accept my mother's one sided proposition?" She asked, genuinely curious. "Does it matter?" "Yes. It does. I want to know what made you believe a wedding will change your life. As you can see, you’re not welcome in this family no matter how my parents fawn over you." "It won't change anything. And it won't change your life either, I assure you. You'll be free to do however you please, go wherever you want to go and speak to whomever you want to speak." "But at the same time, I have to protect and defend your pride, don't I? The Greyheart name has to surface from the mud and blind every nobleman until everything they can see is what you want them to see." "Aren't you seeking details where there are not? I want to marry you and that should be enough." Combated Mr Greyheart, growing annoyed. "Do you really? Or am I just a diversion?” the young woman asked, straightening her back so much that it looked like her breasts were going to pop, “Just what is the real secret of the Greyheart Lair?” Mr Greyheart watched her closely as she walked past him, incredibly close while doing so, their hands brushing each other.


I told Bryan that I was a Seer , living in a world filled with half-humans and half-supers. That was the world we lived in. Perhaps we always had, and until a few years ago, it became common and acceptable to allow us “Supers” to peacefully exist within our society, without fear of segregation.

But the biases and judgments were still there, despite the High Court’s rulings. New York wasn’t as bad though, compared to smaller towns. I was thankful to be born and raised here with my “special abilities,” since so many others around the world were still being persecuted, mainly in the shadows. I looked around and I could see them, all of the people with their “abilities,” whether they were Supers or not. As a Seer , that was my gift. I don’t know where it came from or why I had it but I did. Like all Supers , I was born with it. I had often seen too many Seers using their special abilities for a life of crime. That wasn't me. I didn’t use my abilities to manipulate or use mind control like others did. I was no hero though. I was just a regular 22-year-old trying to start a career and live a normal life, hopefully with a family one day. Bryan was the love of my life. We'd only been dating for a year but when you know, you know. Bryan was ordinary, I could see straight through him. I always wore my special glasses around him. I didn’t want to use my abilities to ruin the fun of getting to know him. I wanted to be surprised; I wanted to learn about him from experience. When we met, I didn’t have my glasses on. I had tried to run away but it didn’t work. Now, here we were, one year later, young and in love. I'd always been terrified to tell Bryan who I was. Some Supers get worse reps than others, and Seers were one of those. Fortunately, I had a wonderful “Special Abilities” doctor who had me prescribed a pair of “Power-Inhibitor” glasses, so that I could be like everyone else. When I took my rose-colored glasses off, I could see the world completely different, the way it could be. It was beautiful and it was perfect, but it wasn’t real. It could be, but it wasn’t the reality of the world we lived in. Not every Seer had that ability. In fact, I was the only one that I knew of that could do that. It was nice but I felt like I was living a lie that way. The people that I saw with my “seeing” eyes were all better versions of themselves and everyone was happy. No one was evil because everyone had learned how to overcome the darkness. I could see people like they were meant to be, all of them living up to their potential. Admittedly, it was pleasant to live in this fantasy world where there was no pain or suffering. Everyone got along and made the world better. It made me sad to put the glasses on and see that wasn’t in fact, the reality we lived in. Who was I to tell people that they could be better, that they weren’t being the people they were meant to? They'd know I was some type of Seer and I could be bullied or worse. But Bryan had to know. If we were going to get married, he deserved to know the truth. I was terrified of how he'd react. He seemed more progressive, especially as a New Yorker, but who could ever really know? Yesterday was a long-time coming. This is what happened. I texted Bryan in the morning. “Good morning, sweet boy. Coffee at our spot in one hour?” Bryan and I had made a tradition of getting coffee at our favorite, local joint as many Saturday mornings as we could. This would be no normal Saturday morning though. “See you in an hour, babe!” He responded. I got there a little earlier to try and go over what I'd say to him. I sat and stared out the window, overcome with fear. What would he think of me? Would he accept me? Would he walk away? Would he be scared? Scared of a future with someone like me? “Hello, sweet darling!” Bryan gave me his usual, warm smile. I stood up and hugged him, but not before taking a deep breath and trying to exhale my nerves. Could he tell I was shaking? We sat down, and just like Bryan, not even having power, he still managed to sense something was off. “Babe, you okay? You seem nervous.” “Yeah, I’m fine.” I was already lying. “Actually, no I’m not. Could we take a walk?” We left the coffee shop and headed out onto the busy streets towards Central Park. “Babe, you’re scaring me,” he said, “what’s going on?” “You know how obsessed I am about always wearing my favorite glasses?” I asked, trying to cut straight to the point. “Yeah?” “Well, it’s not just that they’re my favorite glasses.” “Okay…” “You know how more and more people are coming out as Supers ?” “I do.” “What do you think about all that?” “I don’t see what this has to do with anything…” “Please, just answer the question,” I begged. “Okay, sure...well, I think it’s great actually. Is this really what you want to talk about? I didn’t think you were into these kinds of things?” “Let’s sit down.” I pointed to a patch of grass on a hill in the middle of the park. Bryan put his arm around me and leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I love you, sweetie, and if you are suddenly into Social Justice issues, we can talk about it.” I let out a deep breath of air, as I was reminded of how sweet and understanding Bryan was. Surely, this wouldn’t be so bad right? Bryan laughed, “Wait, I got it. You want to run for District leader in our Zone?” He laughed, knowing he was off. “Bryan,” I said, seriously. “Yes, love? I’m sorry. Go ahead...you were saying?” I turned and looked at Bryan and saw his father. That made me more nervous. I'd seen Bryan without my glasses on and knew he was nothing like his father but that still didn’t change the fact that I knew what kind of man his dad was. His dad was a political figure who was formerly a Prosecutor. He had put away many Supers . Now, he was all over TV advertising for his Campaigns, being well-known to promise harsh “punishments” for rule-breaking Supers . It was obvious he didn’t trust people like me and he would target our kind as a potential leader. I hadn’t taken my glasses off to read Bryan’s dad. I didn’t want to know. I usually only saw the best in people that way, and what their future could be like, but it didn’t guarantee that it would. I didn’t want to believe the best in Bryan’s dad only to be let down and put myself in danger. I wanted to live in “reality.” I had seen Bryan as he could be when I first met him. I tried to forget about it so I could be pleasantly surprised getting to know him. I still found elements of surprise in the details but I always knew in the back of my mind that Bryan was the type I was attracted to. He was meant to lead people gently, patiently, and kindly. He could potentially be well-respected and loved by many, yet he wouldn’t let that go to his head. He was a man wise beyond his years with a heart just as big to match it. I had experienced that getting to know him over the past year and believed that he could actually fully become the man I saw when I met him. He was not far from totally being that guy already. It was hard to not love him. It was also hard to imagine that his own father was so different than he was. They were both leaders, but his father, by force and intimidation. His father was trying so hard to undo all the good work that was done on behalf of people like me, by the local representatives in my city, a city generally known as a safe-place for Supers . If his father succeeded, it could be a sad day. “Rosie? Hello? Anyone home?” Bryan snapped me back to reality. “Oh sorry, I was just, lost in my head a little.” “What’s going on Sweet Rose? What did you want to talk about?” I let out a sigh, it was now or never. “You said you believed all the work being done on behalf of the Supers was good? Why do you say that? What about your father?” Bryan sighed. “You know how I feel about my father, Rose. I love him, man I have to, but damn if I don’t disagree with everything he stands for. He puts people in a box, Rosie. He does. He doesn’t seem to understand the times we live in and that Supers shouldn’t have to hide in the shadows anymore. It’s a new day.” I smiled. I knew Bryan would get it. But what about when I told him that I was one of them? “Bryan, I have to tell you something…” “Okay, I’m here.” He squeezed my hand. “It’s just that. It’s just that…” I took my glasses off to make a point and right when I did, a huge gust of the North-wind suddenly swept by and took my glasses with it. “No!!” I exclaimed and jumped up to run after them. I took off with Bryan behind me. “Rosie! Rosie, wait! How can you run so fast?! Come back! Wait for me!!” One advantage of being a Super was that we sometimes could do other things a little better than most too, like running, at least for me. Bryan was still on my tail though, a runner in College. My glasses teased me as they blew off down the streets of New York and up under a car where I lost them. I fell down on the sidewalk feeling defeated and discouraged. Great, what was I going to do now? I would have to wait at least a few days before I could order and receive a new pair. A few days of seeing the world as a peachy, wonderful place where people were much better than they really were, seemed like too much of a farce for me. I didn’t know if I could handle it and how could I even look at Bryan? I would read him instantly and know the man he was fully destined to be. Bryan caught up to me and fell down on the sidewalk next to me, panting and out of breath.

“Wow, Rose! Where did you learn to run like that?!!!! I thought I was the runner!!!!” I couldn’t look at him. I buried my face in my hands and began to weep. I didn’t want to be like this. I wanted this power gone. Now! Somebody help me! Anybody. I wept uncontrollably. “Sweet Rosie!” Bryan rubbed my back. “It’s okay, they were just glasses. You can always get another pair.” “No, no Bryan! You don’t understand!” I lifted my head up to face him but kept my eyes clenched tightly shut. He slightly laughed, “Why are you closing your eyes? Am I now suddenly too awful to look at?” Quite the opposite, I thought. “No, Bryan, it’s not that. I’m a Super !” I blurted out. “Okay?! And not just that, but a Seer . If I look at you, I can read you.” I buried my face back in my hands and started crying hysterically. Bryan pulled me closer to him. “Aww...Rosie! What?! You’re serious?! Don’t be ashamed. That’s SO cool Rose. And I don’t care if you read me. But the glasses, they must’ve prevented you from seeing things, yes?!” I nodded, still keeping my head buried but listening intently to the words he was speaking. “Rose. I love you.” He said, leaning down talking directly in my ear. “I don’t care if you are a Super , let alone a Seer. Who cares? But I do think it’s really cool. You have powers Rose. How many people can say that?!” He was trying so hard.

“It’s okay if you look at me Rosie, I’m not afraid of what you might see. I have nothing to hide.” I squinted my eyes at him, before quickly shutting them all the way again.

“I can’t Bryan. I’ll know the man you could be. I will see you perfectly, not as who you are now but who you could be. It won’t be real. I don’t want to believe you’re something you’re not. I like you, love you, just as you are.” “Wow, that’s cool Rose. But listen, I know. I know you love me for me. But I want to know. I want to know the man I could be. What if this gift that you have, what if it’s not to hide, but to help people? I want to know more, Rosie. Please.”

I slowly began to open my eyes. I didn’t look at him though.

“Are you sure?” “Positive.” “It’s just that I can see the world and the people in it as a better place, all rainbows and unicorns, you know? It’s not real. It’s just an illusion, just how it could be, how people, each person, could be. It’s a perfect world I see, but not this one.” Bryan grabbed my arm.

“That’s just it Rosie! Listen, unlike my dad, I believe the world needs Supers , like you, who have tremendous gifts to offer. They aren’t powers to be restricted. They aren’t accidents. We might not be able to explain or understand it, but it’s amazing. What if this can help the world become the place you see? What if you see so that you can tell people who they really are?” I loved Bryan. I loved Bryan for this very reason. I didn’t have to read him to know the kind of guy he was and was becoming. He was the best. He might not be able to look at people and immediately see the best in them, but he always saw and believed the best in me, without special abilities. And that to me, was special. He was the real Super here.


There is an elephant tap dancing on my head. That is the only plausible explanation for the pounding happening inside my skull. I risk opening my right eye. It is immediately assaulted by the sliver of sunlight that sneaks in through the gap in the hotel room’s drapes. My lid closes quickly, which only makes the pain worse. Someone has managed to stuff an entire package of cotton balls in my mouth. That is also the only plausible explanation for why my mouth is so dry. Every drop of saliva has disappeared. The only evidence that my salivary glands have worked recently is the gross spittle crusted in the corners of my lips. The quick peek I took showed a man sleeping next to me. I do not recognize him. I roll away from my bedmate and rack my brain for memories of the previous night.

On our way to the hotel, my best friend Jillian insisted that the Uber stop at a liquor store. She proceeded to buy four bottles of Korbel. Immediately after checking into the room we opened the first bottl of cheap champagne. I snagged the to-go cups that the hotel stocked next to the Keurig machine. The first bottle was closely followed by the second and third. The pop of the cork and fiz of the liquid in our paper cups is still audible despite my foggy memory.

With bellies warm from the alcohol, we took turns modeling sparkly outfits for each other. The narrow space between the beds and TV stand acted as our carpeted runway while we decided on what outfits would be best to ring in 2024.

After that, things become blurry until my memory goes completely dark. There are flashes of the club; strobe lights and shot girls with sparklers. I can still faintly feel the humid air hanging over the hundreds of sweaty bodies bouncing to the music. Then nothing. No champagne toasts to welcome 2024 or imagines of the ball dropping on TV screens around the club. Nothing.

Without warning, bile rises in my throat. I kick my legs free of the down comforter and stumble toward the bathroom, suddenly aware that I am nearly naked in only a pair of underwear. My own tangled hair falls in my face, but I am still able to take in the scene around me.

Unfamiliar people, in various states of undress, are passed out around the room. A shirtless man is lying face down on the floor at the foot of the bed. The glitter-covered romper I wore last night peeks out from beneath his shoulder. One of my silver stilettos is lying sideways next to his head.

 A woman is curled into the fetal position on a lime green armchair. Her bodycon dress is bunched up around her waist to reveal a black thong under it. On the couch next to her is another man sleeping completely naked. On the coffee table in front of him are three neat lines of white powder and tightly rolled dollar bills. The cold

bathroom tiles press against my knees as I sink down in front of the toilet. The sudden chill feels good on my warm skin. An inhumane sound escapes from the back of my throat and I retch the contents of my stomach into the bowl. It lands amongst the water with a disturbing splat. The acidic taste of throw up coats my mouth. The smell of sickness fills the air.

Carefully, so as not to induce another bout of vomiting, I push myself to stand. My knees are wobbly beneath my weight. Toothbrushes and clumps of blue toothpaste are strewn across the sink’s vanity. They are accompanied by a curling iron, a plastic comb and a metallic eyeshadow palette. The eyeshadow is cracked and the make up powder stains the granite. I bend over the sink and hold my mouth beneath the faucet. With a flick of my wrist, cool water splashes against my cheek before finally making it into my mouth. It washes away the taste of throw up and briefly combats the dry mouth.

Somewhat refreshed, I make my way back out to the suite. It doesn’t appear that anyone has moved. I look down at my almost-naked body and then back at my romper. It is still tucked beneath the man’s shoulder. A men’s white button-down shirt is crumpled beneath the coffee table. I slip into it. My shaking hands make it nearly impossible to fasten the buttons.

The exit is calling my name. I am shamelessly considering leaving;

barefeet and all. I have not seen my purse or cell phone, so I imagine I wouldn’t make it very far. It would help a little if I could remember the name of the hotel Jill and I booked, but nothing comes to mind.

With a violent exhale, my lips flap together like I am giving a raspberry. I lower myself to the floor, propping my back up against the table with the cocaine to avoid temptation. Out of sight, out of mind. My stomach rolls again, but I make no effort toward the bathroom.

I clamp both hands over my mouth and suppress the hiccups that contract my diaphragm.

An Egg McMuffin and a fountain soda would be a delicious hangover cure right now. My mouth waters at the thought of pulling into a McDonald’s drive-thru. Instead, I am stuck in an unfamiliar hotel room wearing a stranger’s wrinkled shirt. I look across the suite at the bed, the man I woke up next to is still sleeping in it. If we had sex last night I have no memory of it. If we did, were these other people in the room? I shudder. My head hurts more.

When I was eighteen, my freshman year roommate offered me a sip of Malibu from a half-crushed water bottle. The next morning I woke up beneath her desk in our dorm room, still wearing jeans and a peplum top. At twenty-one, I wandered away from my friends at a music festival with a dead phone. I threw up and then spent the night hunched over on a curb wearing my own vomit. At twenty-five I went to my sorority sister’s wedding. The next morning I woke up between two of the groomsmen with no recollection of a threesome.

The hotel room’s rug is uncomfortable where it presses to the underside of my bare thighs. I toy with the too-long sleeves of the shirt as I recall all of the times that I’ve blacked out. I have always made excuses; at eighteen I was just a college student and every twenty-one year old drinks too much. When I was twenty-five, I was still in my early twenties. Who didn’t party in their twenties? At thirty-two I am fresh out of ways to justify the behavior.

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my elbows on them. The material of the shirt is stiff. It chafes against my chest. A hundred thoughts race through my mind; how can I find Jillian without a phone or wallet? If I don’t have an ID how will I fly home? My head hurts. I’m going to throw up again. How much of the coke did I do last night? Did I have sex yesterday? The last thought I have before my bed mate wakes up and groggily smiles at me is: I had my last drink yesterday.