When We Believed in Mermaids(8)
“I will.” Although Josie was two years older than me, seven to my five, I was always the brave one. Filled with a piercing curiosity and a lack of worry over creepy-crawlies, I stomped into the cave, bending over to keep from bumping my head. Even in the darkness, I could see the glitter in the box, things spilling over the sides like cartoon booty. “Treasure!” I cried, and hauled it out to the beach.
Suzanne knelt. “I see. Do you think it was pirates?”
Digging through the pearls and jeweled rings and bracelets and chocolate coins, I nodded. “Maybe it was mermaids.”
She unwound a string of sapphires and dropped them around my neck. “Maybe it was,” she said. “Now you’re wearing their jewelry.”
I adorned her arm with bracelets. Josie pushed rings onto Suzanne’s toes. We drank hot chocolate and sat on the beach in our finery, and we were mermaids with our mermaid mother.
The flight attendant snaps me out of my reverie. “Miss, we’ll be landing in just a little while.”
“Thank you.”
I blink, bringing myself back to now, where that very mother is waiting to hear what I find out about the daughter she lost. For the millionth time, I wonder how to fit the good and the bad of Suzanne into one package, but it’s impossible. She was the worst mother of all time. She was the best mother of all time.
Below, the city is visible, sprawling across a vast, hilly landscape packed with roofs and streets. With a sudden sense of idiocy, I think this is the very definition of a fool’s errand. How in the world will I find a single person in that crowded space? If it’s even her.
The whole thing is absurd.
And yet I know it isn’t, not really. That was adamantly, absolutely my sister, Josie, on that screen. If she’s there, in that city below me, I’m going to find her.
By the time I make it to downtown Auckland, I’m so hideously jet-lagged, it’s like some evil spell. I’m aware of hauling my bag into the foyer of a high-rise residential apartment building, appointed with nods to an Art Deco past it never had. My suitcase rolls over the marble floors with a whisper, and a young Maori woman in a uniform greets me and then hands over a key and directs me to the elevators. A pair of well-dressed Asian girls passes me, impossibly perfect, and next to them, I am a giantess at five ten, my curly hair wild from travel. Whatever makeup I left California with disappeared many hours ago. I wish for the protection and credentials of my white coat reminding the world that I’m a doctor.
Pathetic.
When the door swings open, a middle-aged couple emerges, cameras in hand, and a good-looking man holds the door open. I give him a nod. “De nada,” he says charmingly. I smile faintly as the doors close and rest my head against the wall until I realize I have to press a button.
Eighteen.
I’m the only person in the elevator and emerge on my floor, find the apartment, and let myself in. For a moment, I’m slightly startled. It’s roomy and attractive, with a kitchen to my right, a bathroom to the left, a sitting area with a table and a sofa, and then a bedroom with a balcony looking out to high-rise buildings and a harbor.
But even that doesn’t really register. My phone is nearly dead, and I’ll have to go find a charger, but right now I shed my clothes, draw the curtains against the sunlight, and fall into bed.
When I climb out of my heavy sleep, I don’t immediately know where I am. I’m huddled beneath the covers, curled up against the cold air, but not in my bed.
Slowly, I remember everything. New Zealand. My sister. My mom and poor Hobo. Reaching for my phone, I also remember that I don’t have a charger and it’s dead, so I am not sure what time it is. Without getting out of bed, I reach for the drapes and yank one side open a little.
And there, spread like a winking fabric made of jewels, is the harbor. What seems to be late-afternoon sunlight slants down in buttery glory, and a sailboat cuts cleanly through the water. A ferry scuds in another direction, and in the distance is a long bridge. Office buildings tower around me. I can see people through the windows, walking briskly down a hall, gathering in a conference room, standing around a table, talking. It’s strangely soothing, and I lie where I am for a long while, just watching them.
It’s my growling hunger that insists I get up. Stretching the kinks of the flight out, I putter into the kitchen area, where there is a bowl of fruit and a French press with a sachet of coffee. Milk in the fridge—a generous size for the space—and sugar packets on the counter. A bright-red electric kettle waits. I fill it with water, set it to boil, and head into the shower, which is a luxurious thing, all glass, with fragrant bottles of shampoo and soap. The water revives me better than anything else, and when I emerge, I’m ready to tackle whatever needs doing. The French press is fussier than I’d like, but the coffee is fantastic, and I open the curtains fully to enjoy my view as I scarf down two bananas, two apples, and the coffee. It’ll hold me over until I can get a real meal.
The main thing is the charger. I attempted to buy one before I left, but there wasn’t much time, and the shop had only European, British, and Japanese. At the front desk, I ask a slim young man for directions, and he points me out the back door to the main drag.
Outside, the heat swallows me, a thick, humid envelope. For a moment, I stand just outside the door, suddenly and acutely aware that I’m alone in a city of millions, thousands and thousands of miles from home or anyone I know. I feel a little panicked over the fact that I don’t have my phone GPS to guide me around. My brain tosses out all the things that could go wrong—getting killed by forgetting to look the right way when I cross the street, veering into an unfriendly neighborhood, stumbling into the middle of a fight by accident.