Beyond the Rising Tide Page 4

  I do my best to shut it out and focus on the thin green net. The things I do for my mom. My fingers aren’t quite small enough to reach into the tiny space near the crab’s legs. I tug at the knots, but they remain stubbornly in place.

  The morning sun beats down on me, yet it feels like someone’s holding an ice pack to the back of my neck. My arms and legs have more bumps than the sea cucumber in the tide pool beside me.

  Hiiisssss, the ocean whispers to me as it spills water and words onto the rocks. In the folds of my waves he lies, forever to stay. Hiiisssss. I captured him, but you’re the one who lured him in.

  My eyes are drawn to the shadowed spaces in the cliff wall. And now I’m not looking for Mom, but for him. It’s like an ever-present instinct, even after all this time. As though I expect to see his bones washed up by the tide and caught in a hollow of the rock. My chest feels tight as I think about how it will always be this way now. The ocean I once loved is now my tormentor. My playground and refuge have become a desolate graveyard, my joy and peace buried beneath a vast and sandy headstone.

  ’m not sure if I have a heart, but something in my rib cage swells at the sight of Avery. Her hair shimmers like spun gold in the sunlight, falling over her shoulder and hiding her face. She’s sitting on a sheet of black rock, head bent, and the flowery skirt of her sundress ripples in the breeze.

  If she turns around, she’ll see me. If I speak, she’ll hear my voice. I open my mouth to do that, but it’s parched, hit with an unexpected drought of words.

  I’ve been walking for hours, and I still don’t have a solid plan. I have an end goal, but it’s like looking up at the peak of a mountain when I’m still in the valley. I want Avery to find happiness again, but I have no idea how to get her there.

  One thing is sure—she can’t know I’m dead. Not only would it freak her out, but if I don’t want to be banned from Earth, that’s one rule I can’t break.

  Maybe I can tell her I’m the guy who saved her life, but convince her that I made it back to shore alive. Only, she watched me die. Saw my drowned body ten feet underwater, half a mile from shore. She may not remember what I look like, but she knows the guy who saved her is dead.

  So I guess my plan is this: Don’t let her know I’m dead. And don’t let her know I’m the guy who saved her life.

  It’s not much of a plan at all, but luckily, improvising is what I’m best at. Writing songs on the fly, talking myself out of trouble, and ad-libbing life in general. When I had a life, I was dropped into a new environment every few months with no time for planning. Survival depended on my ability to improvise, because it was the only way to keep my head above water.

  As I inch toward Avery, I turn phrases over in my mind, trying to choose the best way to introduce myself. I hate to think how she’ll react if she recognizes me, but I doubt she will. I saw her run across my picture on a missing persons report once, and she scanned right past it. Besides, I saw my reflection in the shop window this morning, and although my face is the same, I don’t exactly look like myself with my new Jack Frost hair.

  Over her shoulder, I see she’s holding a fishing net in her lap. Her fingers are working with it like she’s trying to free something. A crab. Her hands tremble as she tries to unravel it, so she’s not really getting anywhere.

  Without thinking, I fish the pocketknife from my shorts, unfold the blade, and lower it in front of her in offering. She flinches and whips around to look at me, eyes wide.

  So much for improvising.

  I nod toward the tangled mess in her lap. “For the crab.” Yes. Those are the words I’ve waited six months to speak to her. If Charles comes in the next moment to take back his ring, at least I can live in eternal peace knowing I was able to utter those three words.

  Her brows pinch together, then she shakes her head and turns back to the crab. “I’m trying to free him, not eat him.”

  For a few breaths, I’m speechless. In awe that she just talked to me. She can see me. And hear me. If I reach out and touch her shoulder, she’ll feel my fingertips on her skin. I don’t, of course. I’ve scared her enough for one day.

  “I know,” I say, trying to keep my voice soft and non-threatening. I crouch down and offer the knife again, this time handle first. “It’s for the net.”

  Her hands go still, and then she smiles sheepishly. “Oh. Right.” She takes the knife and goes to work, biting her lower lip as she concentrates on plucking away strands of netting. I wonder why she’s going to so much trouble to free a half-dead crab, but I say nothing because for some reason it seems really important to her.

  The knife makes her task easier, but when the crab is free, she frowns at the water, swallowing hard. Seeing the reluctance in her face, I stand and open my hand. “Here. I’ll throw it in.”

  She deposits the crab in my palm, and I carry the newly liberated creature to where the waves are pitching against the rock. I toss it back home, and it disappears beneath the marbled surface.

  When I turn back, Avery is standing with her arms twined around her waist. As I stroll toward her, the wind kicks up and sends golden strands of hair flying around her. With the way she’s standing there on the rocks, she looks like some kind of mythical siren. I feel just as scared as if she were one, just as bewitched. The haunting song in her eyes lures me in until I’m standing right in front of her. She gazes up at me a long moment, searching my face as if she’s hunting for familiarity. For a minute I worry she recognizes me. But then she folds the knife and hands it back.

  “Thanks,” she says. “Do you always carry a pocketknife?”

  I take the knife and pocket it, recalling the last time I used a pocketknife to save her life, right before I died. “Yeah. You never know when you’ll need a sharp blade.”

  A subtle pensiveness slides over her features, and I wonder if her thoughts went to the same place. I hold out a hand, partly in greeting, but mostly from the urge to steady her. “I’m Kai.”

  As though I’m still invisible to her, she stares through my outstretched hand. But then she blinks, and her eyes find mine. “Avery.” She puts her hand in mine, and as our skin meets, it feels like a long-sought-after prize has fallen into my hand. I close my fingers around her cold palm and savor the warmth that spreads through my body at her touch. The handshake lasts only a second, but it’s enough to make all my trouble worth it.

  There are so many things I want to say, but they’re all mixed up with the things I can’t say, and just as I’m starting to sort them out, a woman’s voice calls Avery’s name.

  I turn to see her mom approaching, out of breath and waving scissors and pliers over her head. I feel thwarted, as though I’ve been skipped in a game of Uno and now I have to wait another turn before making my play. Her mom comes up, her eyes darting around on the ground. “Where is it?”

  “It’s free,” Avery says, and I realize her mom is inquiring after the crab. Now I get why Avery was so determined to free it.

  “Oh!” her mom exclaims, scissors and pliers flying up in triumph. From her wild hair, mismatched clothes, and childlike expression, she looks like she’s teetering on the edge of her rocker. “How did you do it?”

  Avery motions to me. “Kai here lent me his pocketknife.”

  Something lifts in my chest at the sound of Avery saying my name. Her mom gives me an appreciative look, and when she reaches for my hand, I meet her halfway.

  “I’m Beth,” she says. “And that was so nice of you.” She gives my hand a good shake for emphasis, and her shoulders visibly relax as she looks at Avery. “I feel so much better. Don’t you feel better?”

  “Did you eat lunch, Mom? You got back pretty quick.”

  She releases my hand and waves off Avery. “Not yet. I was too anxious over Sebastian.”

  “Mom—”

  “Don’t start. I’m a big girl, Avery. With ample energy storage.” She pats a miniscule pad of belly fat. “And now that our crisis is over, I can eat.” She divides a look between me an
d Avery, and her mouth curves conspiratorially as her gaze settles on me. “Are you hungry? I feel like I should feed you something for helping us.”

  “Uh …” Is she offering me lunch? I wasn’t expecting this and don’t know what to say. Not wanting to make Avery feel uncomfortable, I look to her, wordlessly seeking permission.

  She smiles at me, and it’s like watching the sun rise. “He does look pretty hungry.”

  “I agree,” Beth concurs. “You can tell by the way he’s grimacing.”

  I’m not sure if I’m grimacing or not, but if lunch means more time with Avery, then I’m in. “You’re right. I’m starving.”

  Beth claps and bounces on the balls of her feet, and Avery smooths her skirt and bites her lip into a half-smile that makes my insides feel all funny.

  “Boys are always hungry,” Beth says to Avery like she’s instructing her in the proper care of an exotic pet. I half expect her to add, “But don’t put your finger in their mouths, because they bite.” Instead, she just waves for me to follow and says, “This way. We live up on the bluff.”

  Beth leads the way, and I slow my pace to match Avery’s so I can walk beside her. Beth is going on about how nice it was for me to help free the crab, and how most people would have just joked about taking it home for lunch, and something about the world’s chivalry deficit. The wind is blowing half of her words away, and she’s talking so fast I’m only catching a portion of the rest. Her hands are fluttering like the words that can’t fit through her mouth are fidgeting anxiously at the tips of her fingers.

  Avery’s not really paying attention; she’s just staring at the sea as we walk. Her arms are folded and her shoulders are all tensed up like she’s leaning against an imaginary wind. There’s something in her eyes, a sort of longing as she follows the movement of the waves.

  What are you thinking? I want to ask her. Why haven’t you gone back in the water when you used to love it? Are you afraid? Or is it something else? But I can’t ask her, because that would be weird. She thinks I don’t even know her. So what do I say? How is it that as soon as she can hear my voice, I’m at a loss for words? I let out a sigh, and it must be louder than I think because she turns to look at me.

  “You must actually be hungry,” she says after a couple steps. “You really are grimacing now.”

  I compose my face into a less tormented state. “I am. I haven’t eaten in months.”

  She must think I’m joking because she doesn’t even lift a brow. “So, do you do this often?”

  I hop over a tide pool to keep from stepping in it. “Do what?”

  “You know—help out random people on the beach in the hope that they’ll bring you home and feed you?” The corner of her mouth quirks up in a teasing smile.

  “Usually I get at least a seafood dinner for my heroics. I’m feeling a little cheated, actually.”

  “Well, maybe if you’d freed the crab yourself.” She unfolds her arms, and they fall to her sides. “But I did all the work. All you did was hand me your knife.”

  “Who returned the crab to its home, though?” I say. “That was me.”

  “Not very gently, I have to point out.”

  “Next time, you’ll have to instruct me in the art of habitat reintroduction.”

  Beth, who’s been talking to herself this whole time, turns around and walks backward. “Whatever you want to know about sea life,” she announces, “Avery can tell you. She’s a walking marine biology textbook.”

  I assumed as much from all the books on Avery’s bookshelf. But since Avery doesn’t know I’ve seen her bookshelf, I nod in interest. This is one more reason she needs to overcome whatever is keeping her from the water. It’s pretty hard to study sea life when you won’t go near the sea.

  “Mom—watch out for that tide pool.”

  Beth spins around to walk forward again and starts ticking off a list of all of Avery’s hobbies while Avery groans and begs her to stop. Rock climbing. Hiking. Fishing. Sailing. Longboarding. Volleyball. I’m thinking, Is there anything this girl can’t do? But the thing is, I haven’t seen her do any of these things. And I’m further convinced that Avery isn’t living the life she was before I came into it.

  “Mom—please,” Avery says firmly. “You’re boring Kai.”

  There’s that lift in my chest again. “No, she’s not,” I argue as my eyes find Avery’s. “I want to hear more.”

  Beth smiles at us over her shoulder. “Kai, may I bring you as a specimen to my next writing lecture? Most women these days wouldn’t know how to spot a gentleman if they saw one.”

  “Mom—” Avery’s voice is a warning, probably because this isn’t the first time her mom has mounted this soapbox.

  Beth ignores the warning and goes on about how her purpose in writing screenplays about decent men is to remind women not to accept anything less and to not allow men to treat them any less decently than the men in her stories treat their ladies.

  By the time we reach the stairway, Avery’s cheeks are bright pink, and Beth has barely paused for breath.

  “She gets extra chatty when she’s hungry,” Avery explains as we climb the steps, and she slows her pace to put more space between us and her mom.

  “Hey,” I say with a shrug, “chatty is better than grouchy. I know people who turn into orcs when they’re hungry.”

  As we enter her condo, Beth is giving us a detailed history of the demise of dating etiquette, claiming it all started with the feminist movement. I’m feeling too tense to sit, so when Beth drops into a stool and pulls one out for me, I just stand behind it and grip the curved iron back for support.

  Avery is on the other side of the bar pulling things out of the fridge. A smile plays on her mouth as she removes tinfoil from a large bowl. “Do you like crab salad?” she asks me.

  I smile at the irony of eating crab after just rescuing one, and then nod in the affirmative because there’s no room for a yes in Beth’s diatribe against feminism.

  “It’s not men’s fault they don’t know how to treat ladies anymore,” she’s saying. “Some women don’t want to be treated like ladies and it ruins it for the rest of us.”

  “Mom,” Avery says sharply as she slides a French bread loaf from a paper sleeve and points it at her, “I don’t think you understand what feminism is. It’s not about rejecting chivalry; it’s about mutual respect between men and women and—”

  Beth cuts her off with a passionate and long-winded rebuttal about how it doesn’t matter what true feminism is; it only matters what men perceive it to be and how they see it as a threat. I can’t see most of Avery’s face as she slices the French bread, but the tips of her ears are red. Her knife is moving at jigsaw speed, and something tells me she’s as eager as I am to get something into her mom’s mouth. So I go over to help her. She seems reluctant to hand over the knife, and instead points me to a large spoon anchored in the crab salad. I pick it up and start spreading crab salad on the bread.

  “Kai,” Beth says, and I stiffen at her tone because it’s like a fired-up teacher about to call on a slacking student. “Help me out here. As a man, do you feel threatened by feminism? I mean, what goes through your mind when you see women picketing and shouting at the top of their lungs, ‘Down with men’?”

  Avery rolls her eyes. “Mom—that’s such a stereotypical—”

  “Just—let him answer.”

  How did I go from happily making crab salad sandwiches to standing on a stage under a burning spotlight? I feel beads of sweat surfacing on my forehead. I try to think of something clever to say, but all I come up with is honesty.

  “I don’t know.” I turn around to face Beth and lean against the counter, holding the big spoon in my hand. “I guess I feel … bad. I feel their pain. I think anyone who stands up to demand respect or rights does it only because they’ve been deprived of those things.”

  I think about my mom, how I used to wish she had the courage to demand more respect from my dad. But maybe it wasn’t courage s
he needed. Maybe she just needed someone to tell her she deserved better.

  “People need to know they’re worth something,” I say. “And if feminism teaches women that they have the right to be treated as human beings, then that shouldn’t threaten men; it should motivate them to be better.”

  I glance at Avery, and the way she’s looking at me makes me think I just earned some points on her trustworthiness scorecard.

  Avery’s mom slides her stool back abruptly and stands. Her eyes are wide and transfixed on some imaginary thing, as if she’s staring out a window at a UFO. Only she’s not facing a window.

  Without warning, she circles the counter, takes my face in her hands, and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you. That’s the line I’ve been looking for!” Then she rushes down the hall and disappears into her office.

  I stand there baffled for a moment, and then look to Avery. “What was that all about?”

  Avery smiles and goes back to washing blueberries in a strainer under the tap. “I think your words are about to be immortalized in my mom’s latest screenplay.”

  “Seriously?” I think back on what I said, trying to figure out what was so profound about it.

  “Next thing you know, Jude Law will be repeating your words. You have to be careful with what you say around my mom.” She sets the washed blueberries on the counter and dries her hands on a dish towel. “Have you ever seen The Velvet Sparrow?”

  I give her a blank look.

  “It’s a historical film my mom penned. There’s this scene where the main character dramatically cries, ‘If this is love, then I hate love. And I’d rather tear my heart out with a fishhook than feel love again.’”

  “Is that something you said?” I ask, intrigued and amused.

  She drops a handful of blueberries on one of the plates. “When I was ten, when my cat died.”

  “You must have really loved your cat.”

  She shrugs. “It was my first real-life experience with death. I didn’t take it very well.”

  The sandwiches are done, so I set the spoon back in the bowl and replace the tinfoil. “I don’t think anyone should have to take death well. I mean, it’s probably the worst thing that can happen to anyone, losing someone they care about.” I should know. Over the last six months working with Grim, I’ve seen more than my fair share of the effects of death. “Believe me. No one takes it well.”