When We Believed in Mermaids(11)

“I can trust you, but if I tell you, everything just gets worse, and no one will like me at all.”

“What will get worse?”

She shouts, “I don’t want to tell you! Don’t you understand?”

Reaching through the seats, I wrap my hand around her ankle and just sit there, willing myself to believe her secret is not as dire as mine was when I was just a little older. She’s a well-tended, well-observed child. “All right. There’s your dad. I’ll just pop into the school.”

I meet Simon at the door, and he takes my hand. Our unified front.

The teacher is young and pretty, and she blushes when Simon shakes her hand. “Good morning, Ms. Kanawa.”

“Good morning, Mr. Edwards. Mrs. Edwards. Sit down, won’t you?” She folds her hands on the desk. “How can I help?”

We outline the problem—that Sarah wants to be homeschooled suddenly, and it seems there might be something going on. Ms. Kanawa mulls it over. She says, “You know, I wonder if there might be some bullying. One of the girls is quite the queen bee, you know, and all the other girls listen to her as if she’s a royal.”

“Is it Emma Reed?” I guess. She’s a milk-and-peaches child with ribbons of spun-gold hair and enormous blue eyes—all hiding the instincts of a barracuda.

Ms. Kanawa nods. “She and Sarah have never got on.”

“Why’s that?” Simon asks.

“They’re both”—she pauses, chooses her words carefully—“willful girls. And there is some understanding that they are the children of popular parents.”

“Popular?” I echo.

“Well-known. Emma’s mother is a broadcaster, of course, on TVNZ, and you, Mr. Edwards, are so visible because of the clubs.” He’s the spokesman for his own gyms, the genial host inviting everyone to visit and experience the health of good exercise. He also conducts fund-raisers every year for the Auckland Safeswim Initiative, a drive to make sure every child in the city knows how to swim.

“I see.” I glance at Simon, who is wearing his unreadable genial expression, but I see his displeasure in the hard line of his mouth.

“Have you observed bullying, Ms. Kanawa?” he asks.

“Some name-calling and the like. The girls in question were reprimanded.”

“What names?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s—”

“What names?” I repeat.

She sighs. “They call Sarah Shrek. Because she’s so tall.”

Simon is still dead silent beside me.

“And”—she slants a glance toward Simon—“Science Nerd.”

“That’s an insult?”

She lifts a shoulder.

“I’ll talk to Emma’s mother,” I say. “In the meantime, will you let me know if there seems to be more trouble?”

“Of course.”

Simon’s jaw ripples slightly. “How were the girls reprimanded?”

“Oh, I don’t . . . I can’t remember.”

“I believe you’re lying, Ms. Kanawa, and I do not tolerate lying.”

She colors and begins to protest. “No, I . . . I mean—”

Simon stands, rising to his considerable six-four height. “I would suggest you make certain that any bullying, of any child, is swiftly punished. It’s just not sporting, and it should not be tolerated.”

“Yes, yes. Of course you’re right.” Her cheeks burn magenta.

“And do not lie to me again.”

Simon takes my hand as we walk out, and he’s walking fast enough that I have trouble keeping up and skip behind him. He finally notices and halts. “Sorry. I just hate bullies.”

“I know.” I never liked big sporting types before I met him, but this particular thing, his absolute adherence to fairness and honor, set him apart immediately. “I love you for it.”

His shoulders ease, and he bends down to touch our noses together. “That’s not the only thing.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Oh, it’s not little.”

“No, dear. It surely isn’t.”



After the meeting, I head up to Sapphire House for a walk-through on my own. I want the chance to feel the energy, for lack of a better word, and start to figure out a plan and who I’ll need to hire to do the work.

As I drive up the rutted road sheltered by overgrown brush, I’m already making plans for how each room will be used and how to best catalog the fantastic lot of antiques contained within. A feijoa tree scrapes the side of the car, and I wince, thinking of what it’s doing to the silver paint. My tires must have smashed some of the fruits on the road, because the thick, sweet scent of them wafts in through my open window. On a whim, I stop the car and get out, fetching a canvas carry bag from the back seat.

I’d never heard of a feijoa before I arrived in New Zealand. They’re a small green fruit that looks like a cross between an avocado and a lime on the outside, but inside boasts a fragrant yellow flesh with a texture much like a ripe pear’s. The flavor is an acquired taste—sweet and perfumed, a combination of a dozen other things—but to me, they are just simply, sublimely feijoa.

With a sense of glee, I gather dozens of them into the bag, imagining the ways I’ll use the pulp. Imagining Simon’s face—he is nowhere near as fond of them as I am—I chuckle to myself and tuck the bag gently into the bay of the passenger seat, humming under my breath as I climb the rest of the way up the hill.