Brine by Kate; Smith Page A

back. She looked at the female curiously.
    “What’s your name? Can you talk?” she asked. “I’m looking—I’m wondering if you’ve heard of—my mother.”
    The female moved her head, but Ishmael wasn’t sure whether she was saying no or merely shaking off the question in confusion. “Anna. Her name is Anna Morgan.”
    Again, the female moved in and tried to grab Ishmael’s arm. Perhaps she wanted to lead her somewhere, but Ishmael wasn’t sure she was ready to follow.
    Ishmael pulled her hand away. “I want you to say something.” The female clicked back at her. Ishmael tried to watch her face, to read her expressions, to understand.
    “I don’t—I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” Ishmael said.
    They hovered in the water, fluttering their tails to keep them upright and stable. The female pointed and Ishmael turned at the female’s gesture. All Ishmael could see was the length of the land, expansive behind them.
    “What? Land? What are you trying—”
    The female struggled out a word. “Ga-aw.”
    “Gaw?” Ishmael asked. “Gaw? What’s gaw?”
    The female said the word again, better this time. “Go-ow.”
    “Go? Go where? Where should I go?”
    The female continued to gesture toward land.
    “You want me to go? Go back? You want me to go back to land?” The female only looked at her.
    “Go back for what? What am I going back to?”
    Still no response. Ishmael sighed.
    Go back? To what? A fiancé she’s not in love with who thinks she’s dead? A slew of paintings that would probably never sell now that she’d screwed her connection with the Santorini Gallery? And Allen? Was he worth going back for?
    Wait a second.
    Hadn’t her dad told her once that she had a grandmother named Maggie who lived on some island. Butter Island? Something like that. In South Carolina.
    “Maggie,” she said.
    The female perked up.
    “Maggie?” Ishmael said. “You know something about Maggie?” The female chirped.
    “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” Ishmael’s brain started to buzz. “Maggie ,” she whispered.
    The female watched some birds in the distance. She seemed to be charting where they were diving for fish, planning her next meal.
    “That’s it? I’ve got to go to South Carolina? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She grabbed the female’s shoulders. “But I don’t have any money. No clothes. No ID. No car. I’m dead ! I can’t go to South Carolina!”
    The female jerked and dove, seemingly agitated by Ishmael’s sudden excitement. Ishmael let her go, transfixed by this new idea: an idea that might just work. Her grandmother was her mother’s mother. Maggie would have some answers.
    Ishmael lay on her back and floated, a forearm over her eyes to block the sun. It was amazing how well this new form floated, how buoyant she could be.
    How was she going to get to South Carolina? Plane ticket. No. No planes. That would require identification. She wasn’t ready to come clean and admit she was alive. That ruled out buses as well. Maybe Allen would drive her. Could she convince him? Of course she could. He was still in love with her.
    She heard a noise and shot up. Please, not the shark again. A wave lifted her and she spotted the female in the kelp paddy. The female was picking through the floating field of brown bulbs and leaves, nibbling on whatever was edible. As Ishmael approached, the female held out her hand. Her fingers were thicker than Ishmael’s, clawed and weathered liked talons. And yet, there on that feral hand, perched on the pinky finger, was Ishmael’s engagement ring.
    “That’s not a sight you see every day,” Ishmael said.
    The female took the ring off her finger and shoved it securely into Ishmael’s hand.
    “Go-w,” she said again, her voice untrained like a deaf person. Her mouth stretched out, sort of curved. Was that a smile? And then she went back to picking and eating the critters from the kelp. Ishmael looked down at the ring: a