The Siren's Curse

I was only three when I saw my mother as a mermaid for the first time. On a hot summer night, she’d taken me down the beach under cover of darkness. I watched in wonder as my mother’s pale legs glittered in the moonlight and then bonded to form an iridescent tail. For a child who never knew any different, her fins and gills were just more wonderful features my mother had. They were no different than her vibrant blue eyes or her inky black hair. Our night swims were my favorite thing. She’d amaze me with her acrobatic ability in the water, at least, as well as could be seen in the dark. But in the dark or not, it was hard to top swimming with a mermaid as your companion. She used to disappear under the surface, leaving me scanning for ripples and guessing where she would pop up next. She’d explode out of the water and spin rapidly in the air, calling “what am I?” Then she’d disappear again with hardly a splash. Then she’d appear right next to me and I’d gasp, startled.

“Spinner dolphin,” I’d say, breathless.

“Very good!” She’d kiss my cheek.

“Do a whale, mommy!” I’d pat her cheeks with my chubby little hands.

She’d disappear again and I’d watch the water and hold my breath. She’d show only her hip and move very slowly, mimicking the shape of a whale’s back gliding just above the surface and then submerging again.

“Eel!” I’d yell. She’d skim the surface revealing enough to appear long and sinuous. She’d swim in a serpentine fashion, creating the ‘S’ shape with far more accuracy with her flexible body than any human would be able to.

I would stroke her scaly tail, admiring the emerald colors in the moonlight. It was firm and smooth if I brushed it one way, but rough if I brushed it the other way. She could even lift her scales away from her body and make a wave across her tail that caught the moonlight. Her skin was pale and smooth as porcelain and took on a pearly sheen when she was in her mermaid form. She could spiral her long black hair in the water and come up to show me that it had wrapped itself around her like a ribbon round a maypole. She was utterly enchanting; no wonder I grew up feeling that she was the person I wanted to spend the most time with.

“It has to be our little secret,” she’d impressed upon me more than once. I’d always nod solemnly.

“Daddy?” I had asked.

“Even daddy can’t know,” she’d say, and her voice would take on a hypnotic musical quality.

“Why?” Surely daddy loved her as much as I did and deserved to see her in her full glory.

“The world doesn’t believe in mermaids, sweetheart,” she explained. “It would be dangerous for me if people knew, and it might be dangerous for you and your father too. The fewer people that know a secret, the safer that secret is. Do you see?” The violins in her voice soothed my concerns. I would nod and look up at her with adoring eyes.

She used to ask me to concentrate, to see if I felt any different in the salt water, to will myself to transform. But as much as I wanted to, there was nothing I could do. I would lay submerged in the saltwater, eyes closed as I pictured my legs fusing into one and scales sweeping across my skin. But my body simply refused to change.

And so, I grew as a normal child. Well, as normal as one can be who cries almost every night for several years because she’s not a mermaid. My father was completely baffled by this phase in my life. Poor guy.

Sometime around my sixth birthday, I sensed a change in my mother. She grew distant from dad and I. I didn’t know at the time that she was wrestling with a powerful biological need to go back to the ocean. Now that I understand it, I’m amazed that she didn’t disappear. It must have taken some kind of crazy strong will not to leave. I would observe her lost in thought for long stretches of time. She spent more and more time out of the house without having told us where she’d gone. She and my father started to argue about it. Of course, he could never understand what the real problem was and had no way of helping her. I knew that it had to do with our secret, but also had no idea how to help.

I would ask her outright if she was thinking about running away, and she’d kiss me on the top of my head. Of course not, baby. I love you.

But I knew that she was. She had become unhappy on land. I imagined her happy and free in the water, and miserable on land with me and my dad. The contrast I imagined she suffered terrified me. I had nightmares that I’d wake up and run into my parents’ room to find my father dead of a broken heart and my mother gone. Then I’d wake up for real, in a cold sweat but so relieved that it was a dream. But my fear was stirred up again. It was never allowed to die.

I began to get up quietly every night and peek into their room after they’d gone to sleep just to make sure I could count two bodies in the darkness. Sometimes one of them wouldn’t be there, and I would know that she had gone out for a swim. I would go back to my room, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. I’d sit on the floor inside my door until I heard the front door open and close, so quietly that I had to strain to hear it. Then I’d watch for her through the crack. Only when I saw her come back did I go to bed, but I never knew for sure if she was going to come back at all. And just when I was sure we were going to wake up and find her gone and never to return, my father died for real and everything changed.

We never even knew that he’d had a heart condition. He was a young, strong man. He liked to play hockey in a beer league every winter. He’d always come home happy after his games. I would struggle to stay awake because I knew he’d be home before midnight. He’d sneak into my room and kiss me good night. He’d have cold cheeks and the sweet smell of beer on his breath. Sometimes I’d throw my arms around his neck, trying to pull him down. He’d laugh and rub my face with his beard scruff.

But during one of these games he simply collapsed. The doctor told us that he’d likely been dead before he hit the ice and that he’d felt no pain. He was just gone. We grieved for a long time, mom and I. It was hard on both of us but especially hard on her. Because then, not only had she lost her love but she had a daughter who’d failed to turn and yet couldn’t be left alone. She couldn’t even escape the grief by drowning her memory in saltwater. She either had to live through it or abandon her little girl, so she stayed. How she fought the call of the ocean and grieved her loss at the same time, I’ll never know. Years later, she’d joked that she was the only mermaid alive who knew what the five stages of grief were, let alone to have gone through them.