When We Believed in Mermaids(91)

Sooner or later, you have to face things, face your life. Here is my reckoning. “Okay. Short version is: My real name is Josie Bianci. I grew up outside of Santa Cruz. My parents ran a restaurant. Kit is my younger sister. Dylan was our—” I look at Kit.

“Third,” she says. “Not a brother, exactly. Not a relative. But our”—she looks at Javier—“soul mate. Alma gemela.”

“I don’t understand.” Simon blinks, as if he’s trying to see through fog. “Why lie about something so ordinary?”

“Because,” I say wearily, “until a few days ago, Kit and my mother thought I was dead.” I swallow, meet his eyes. “Everyone did. I walked away from a terrorist attack in Paris and let everyone think I died.”

He pales, the skin around his eyes going white. “Jesus! Is that how you got the scar?”

“That was the earthquake.”

“That’s real, then.” He runs a finger over his own eyebrow, a gesture that means he’s striving for control. My heart squeezes—ordinarily I would be the one to offer comfort. “Jesus.”

Kit stands. “I really have to go.”

Javier stands too, his hand on the small of her back.

Kit says, “Simon, I enjoyed meeting you.” She turns to me, and I see that there are tears in her eyes. “You know how to find me.”

All the grief and hope and terror I’ve been stuffing back down into my body now rush upward, and I stand and fling myself into her arms. And for the first time, I feel her wholeheartedly grip me, loving me back. If I let even one tear fall, I will be lost, so instead I am only trembling from head to toe. She holds me fiercely for a long time; then she pulls back and puts her hands on my face. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Don’t worry; I’ll still be sober.”

“I’m not worried in the slightest.” She’s so tall, she kisses my forehead, and I realize in a bright, sharp moment how much time I’ve lost with her, how much I’ve deprived her of. Both of us. “Can I say good night to Sarah?”

“Yes,” I say before Simon can step in, and I go to the foot of the stairs to call her.

She tumbles down so quickly that I worry she’s overheard it all, but even if she has, we need to have a better talk before it all comes out. She halts three stairs from the bottom so she can look Kit in the eyes, she says, “I’m so very glad to have met you. Will you write to me when you go back?”

Kit makes a sharp, strangled little sound. “I’ll do better than that.” She reaches into her purse. “This is one of my favorite pens. It’s a fountain pen, and right now it has my favorite ink, which is called Enchanted Ocean. I’ll send you a bottle, and your mom can show you how to refill it.”

“Oh, this is lovely!” She holds it in her hands, as smitten and awed as I’ve ever seen her. “Thank you.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Green,” she says decisively.

“I’ll send you some green inks too, and you can decide which ones you like best.”

Sarah nods.

“May I hug you?” Kit asks.

“Yes, please,” says my polite little girl.

And they do. “Please come back,” Sarah says in a small voice.

It pierces me, how much my daughter has wanted an ally, a person to look up to. Someone like her.

Had it been that way for Kit too?

Both Kit and Javier touch my shoulder on the way out. I kiss Sarah’s head and send her back upstairs.

I take a breath and go into the lounge to face Simon.



My husband is sitting on the sofa with his hands clasped in front of him. I’m trembling as I sit down in the chair nearby, not right next to him as I usually would.

For a long time, he says nothing. The music is still playing, quiet Frank Sinatra that makes me think of my father, a piece of information that I would previously have squelched. “My dad loved Frank Sinatra.”

“The actual father or the one you made up? The one who was killed in a fiery crash or—”

“You have a right to be angry,” I say. “But you don’t have a right to be cruel.” I raise my chin. “My actual father died in the Loma Prieta earthquake. It wasn’t fiery, but it was violent.”

He drops his head in his hands, a gesture of such anguish that I reach out to touch him before I hold it back.

“There are good reasons,” I say quietly. “I don’t expect you to understand that right away or to forgive me instantly, but in light of the fact that we have made a good home and a good marriage together, I would ask that you at least hear the truth before you make any judgments.”

“You lied to me, Mari.” He raises his head, and I see that his eyes are red and shimmering with unshed tears. “Or Josie, was it?”

“I’m still Mari. Still the woman you loved this afternoon.”

“Are you, though?” He makes a little sound. “You started off lying to me and have lied to me for nearly thirteen years now. Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”

Slowly, I shake my head. “No. I killed the woman I was before for good reasons, Simon. You would not have liked her at all.” It takes everything I have to keep my voice from trembling. “I hated her. Hated myself. The opportunity presented itself, and I just took it. I had to kill her or die.”