girl is our neighbor, the child of a mother who works with my father but whom I never see. She’s like him, a hater of the heat. I know her only by her silhouette; at night, she sprints from her carport to her front door with her high heels in one hand, trying to beat the first light lick of non-conditioned air. She doesn’t even wait for Bee, who dawdles by the car until the soles of her shoes start to melt against the driveway, dangling a doll or a worn stuffed animal by one tenuous leg. I know that she’s been playing in our yard when I find doll parts in the grass, little arms and hands and feet, a single googly eye, or, once, a Barbie head staring insolently up at me from the corner of our driveway. The doll in the water is the same one, which means that Bee’s mother, safe in her palace of central air and chilled chardonnay, must have spent an evening performing a lifesaving recapitation procedure.
Bee spotted us our first week in, padding across the quiet drive to where we stood unloading groceries.
“Let me know if she bothers you,” the shoeless silhouette called, and my father shrugged and looked at me, and I looked at Bee. Even in the deepening evening and the shadows of the overhung street, I could see missing teeth in her little-girl grin. I shrugged back at him.
“It’s fine,” I called across the street, but got no answer—just the satisfied click as her front door sealed shut.
Bee is the first person that I’ve ever known who’s lonelier than I am.
—
“See?” she says, and grabs my hand. “She’s a mermaid. She’s beautiful. Did you ever see a mermaid?”
“I see one now,” I say, and point at the Barbie. Bee laughs and tugs on my hand again.
“You’re silly!” she giggles, and the sound echoes down the river. “She’s not a mermaid, she’s just for pretend!”
“Oh, I see,” I say. “Well in that case, no, I’ve never seen a mermaid.”
Bee bends down and grabs the doll’s tether, leaning into the water so precariously that my heart jumps into my throat. I’ve reminded her too many times that if she falls, I can’t come after her, but she says that she can swim.
“I did. I saw a mermaid,” she mumbles, reeling Barbie in.
“Oh yeah? Where’d you see that?” I imagine a south Florida seaside carnival, women with flowing hair and sequined seashell bras, sucking discreetly on air hoses while they cavort in chlorinated pools.
“Just here,” says Bee.
“Here, in Florida?”
“No, silly.” She wheels around, the Barbie in her fist, and points downriver. “Here! Just right here.”
I stand, looking out, peering into the shadows under the trees. Searching—not for mermaids, but for what Bee might have mistaken for one, the long, gray body of the manatee they’ve told us we might see. They swim upriver, they said, sometimes lost, sometimes in search of warmer water. I desperately want to see one, to glimpse as much as I can of the underwater world, while we’re here and while I’m healthy. I never thought I would be so close to the sea.
There’s nothing, though. I’m disappointed, and then disappointed in myself for being such a child. Bee comes to stand beside me.
“She’ll come back,” she says, and I shrug even though I hope she’s right.
“Where was it, exactly?” I ask. She points again, and answers.
“Just there,” is what she says.
And then: “It was right next to the dragon.”
And suddenly, I’m laughing—laughing because of course there was no mermaid, and probably no manatee, either, and certainly no dragon. But there is this little girl. And the dock, and the silky air that exits my lungs in a lightweight whirl of sound that’s so ringing and unsullied that I can’t believe it’s me who’s making it.
C H A P T E R 10
DR. SHARP WIELDS HIS PEN LIKE A WEAPON, not so much writing on the paper as punishing it. He stabs and slashes so furiously that if the needle were coming next, I’d be terrified.
Only it’s not.
Bee spotted us our first week in, padding across the quiet drive to where we stood unloading groceries.
“Let me know if she bothers you,” the shoeless silhouette called, and my father shrugged and looked at me, and I looked at Bee. Even in the deepening evening and the shadows of the overhung street, I could see missing teeth in her little-girl grin. I shrugged back at him.
“It’s fine,” I called across the street, but got no answer—just the satisfied click as her front door sealed shut.
Bee is the first person that I’ve ever known who’s lonelier than I am.
—
“See?” she says, and grabs my hand. “She’s a mermaid. She’s beautiful. Did you ever see a mermaid?”
“I see one now,” I say, and point at the Barbie. Bee laughs and tugs on my hand again.
“You’re silly!” she giggles, and the sound echoes down the river. “She’s not a mermaid, she’s just for pretend!”
“Oh, I see,” I say. “Well in that case, no, I’ve never seen a mermaid.”
Bee bends down and grabs the doll’s tether, leaning into the water so precariously that my heart jumps into my throat. I’ve reminded her too many times that if she falls, I can’t come after her, but she says that she can swim.
“I did. I saw a mermaid,” she mumbles, reeling Barbie in.
“Oh yeah? Where’d you see that?” I imagine a south Florida seaside carnival, women with flowing hair and sequined seashell bras, sucking discreetly on air hoses while they cavort in chlorinated pools.
“Just here,” says Bee.
“Here, in Florida?”
“No, silly.” She wheels around, the Barbie in her fist, and points downriver. “Here! Just right here.”
I stand, looking out, peering into the shadows under the trees. Searching—not for mermaids, but for what Bee might have mistaken for one, the long, gray body of the manatee they’ve told us we might see. They swim upriver, they said, sometimes lost, sometimes in search of warmer water. I desperately want to see one, to glimpse as much as I can of the underwater world, while we’re here and while I’m healthy. I never thought I would be so close to the sea.
There’s nothing, though. I’m disappointed, and then disappointed in myself for being such a child. Bee comes to stand beside me.
“She’ll come back,” she says, and I shrug even though I hope she’s right.
“Where was it, exactly?” I ask. She points again, and answers.
“Just there,” is what she says.
And then: “It was right next to the dragon.”
And suddenly, I’m laughing—laughing because of course there was no mermaid, and probably no manatee, either, and certainly no dragon. But there is this little girl. And the dock, and the silky air that exits my lungs in a lightweight whirl of sound that’s so ringing and unsullied that I can’t believe it’s me who’s making it.
C H A P T E R 10
DR. SHARP WIELDS HIS PEN LIKE A WEAPON, not so much writing on the paper as punishing it. He stabs and slashes so furiously that if the needle were coming next, I’d be terrified.
Only it’s not.
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