When We Believed in Mermaids(67)

“What happened to him, Mom? Before he came to us.”

“I don’t know. He’d clearly been abused physically for a long time; that’s all I knew. He never said.” She wiggles her fingers in front of the bedspread, where a furry black paw shows. “I should have—” She shakes her head, looks at me.

My heart aches. “Yeah.”

“We can’t change the past.”

I take a breath, shake my shoulders. “You’re right. I’m going to start calling surf shops and then maybe get out and do some sightseeing. There’s a bus tour that goes up north that sounds really great.”

“Good. Enjoy yourself.”

“Kiss my cat when you can, okay? And you might get some more straight tuna, see if he eats that better.”

“He’ll be okay, Kit. Promise.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Love you, sweetheart.”

I nod, giving her an open wave before I hang up. Mad at myself for not returning the endearment. She’s been so good for so long, but I still have trouble letting her in. What does that say about me?



At ten, I start phoning surf shops, and on the third one, I hit pay dirt. “Hi, my name is Kit Bianci, and I’m hoping to find a friend of mine who moved here a few years back.”

“Sure, love.”

“She’s very pretty, blonde, great surfer, but the thing you’d remember is that she has a big, distinctive scar through her eyebrow.”

“Oh, sure. That’s Mari Edwards. Comes here all the time. I reckon I’ll lose her now she’s bought Sapphire House, but she’s always been too rich for our blood over here.”

It takes two long seconds for the words to fully sink in, and then I’m scrambling to write the name down. “Mary, as in M-A-R-Y?”

“No, she spells it with an I, M-A-R-I.”

“Don’t suppose you have a phone number?”

“Can’t say I do, but you’ll find her right enough. Married to Simon Edwards, him who runs the Phoenix Clubs.”

“Clubs, like nightclubs?”

“Ha, no, no. Mari’s a teetotaler, and old Simon’s known for being the fittest man in Auckland. They’re health clubs. You can see his ads on the telly.”

“Wow, thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”

“No worries.”

I hang up and type the name into Google.

Mari Edwards.

It comes back with thousands of hits. Most mention her only in relation to Simon Edwards, but there are a handful of photos of her.

My sister. Nearly always pictured with a tall, dashingly handsome man. The rare photos of the entire family show a boy and a girl, everyone hale and athletic. In one, they’re all wearing wet suits, surfboards at their sides.

A rush of cold and heat bursts through my body, running under my skin, making my heart race.

She’s re-created the Tofino fantasy.

When we were ten or eleven and things got so bad between our parents, Josie and I made up a family who lived in British Columbia. We’d seen a TV special on Tofino, a town on the west coast of Vancouver Island known for enormous January waves, and all three of us—Dylan included—were madly in love with the idea of going there. In our fantasy, the mom was a teacher and a swim coach, and the dad went to The Office. Every summer, they took vacations in the car, driving down the coast, singing songs and eating in diners. They had an Airstream, and everybody loved surfing, so they always surfed together, wherever they went.

That was our real family, we said. We were only staying here at Eden because our parents were spies and had to finish up one last job. They’d be back for us as soon as they were done.

Josie—Mari—and her family look just like the one we made up.

A sense of rage rockets through me. How did my loser sister, the druggie and alcoholic who stole everything I owned at a time I could barely feed myself, land on her feet like this? When I am— What?

Alone. I am alone. With no family. No children. No husband.

I leap up from the table and whirl around aimlessly, spun in circles by fresh fury. I want to throw something, break something, scream. She let us think she was dead, and she’s fine. More than fine.

Lava burns and gurgles in my gut, threatening to erupt.

Get a hold of yourself.

I yank open the sliding glass door to the balcony and step out, gripping the rail with tight fists. I take in a long breath, tasting sea and city, humid greenery and exhaust. I close my eyes and breathe out.

The rage eases, leaving behind the most profound urge to sob, but I observe this too and let it go. I open my eyes and focus on the view, objectively noticing the flash of car windows crossing the long Harbour Bridge and a barge passing beneath it. Foot traffic moves on the streets below my perch, miniature human figures dressed up in miniature human clothes.

Had I wished to find her in dire straits? Do I wish her ill? Why am I mad over her beautiful little family?

I don’t know, but I am.

Slapping the tears away, I go back to the computer and slide my finger over the trackpad to bring the photo up again. She has children. My niece and nephew. My mother’s grandchildren. She looks healthy. Happy.

Restlessly, I click back to the search results and see a local news video, filmed only the day before. Heart in my throat, I click on it.