Fleeting Mermaid

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not, but remember that what you now have was once among the things only hoped for.

Epicurus


Small waves lapped outside the window, and sea breeze brushed curtain with specter fold. High above the North Sea horizon, a brilliant half-moon hung against the deep, ebon sky, jeweled pinpoints sparkling in the thousands. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Foster watched moon-gull silhouette flutter past the window, heard the ringing telephone chime from the red box on the cobbled street below, and a man’s voice, gruff-thick, Gaelic brogue. Old man MacGruder was grumpy, and, the ringing stopped just as he reached the booth, and he spewed a litany of profane dialogue, each vulgar word a little louder with every hobbled step. He couldn’t understand what the old man was saying, but Foster smiled at cadence of tongue, passion of word, and the ancient voice that reminded him of someone he used to know. He couldn’t remember who; someone from the past, someone important, and it bothered him, not being able to remember, but he let it go.

Out there, something in the water, an eddy below surface beyond the breakers, and he reached for smudged spectacles on the nightstand. The knee popped when he stood, popped again as he walked toward the window and leaned out, steadying himself with hands on the sill. The air was briney, and it could be felt on the face, tasted on the tongue. He could see well enough, and whatever it was was gone, but he watched, feeling more than imagination, or night whimsy, and it happened again, a few yards from shore; molasses swirl beneath the tide pool. A sense of foreboding swept reality, and he never broke gaze. Foster took one step back from the window and froze; the large fluted tail, dripping wet, slapped the surface and knifed back in. A moment later, it broke water again, smacked one time, and disappeared. Whatever it was, it was trapped and needed help, and Foster ran from the room, down the dark, empty stairwell and out the front door, and the air stung bitter through flimsy shirt and striped pajamas pants. Barefoot, the stones at water’s edge were smooth, slick, and he waded in, no thought to the numbing cold. In a few moments, it wouldn’t matter, and he pushed on, feet slipping on slimy rock, until, waist deep, the jaw dropped open, and the eyes deceived. The water swirled, the thrashing stopped, and in the center of the eddy, the head of a woman emerged.

She breached slowly; deep brow, slender nose, soft lips curled childish. Moonlit water beads glistened on pearl skin; red hair dangled wet in loose waves. Rivulets danced around tiny waist, shattering, dissolving naked torso reflection, and eyes fixed on his with a deep, penetrating stare.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” It was as though the sea whispered.

Foster was motionless, frozen in disbelief. He’d seen her before, this mermaid. It was the night he’d been awakened by the new kitten, playful insane, turning his scalp into a cat-claw pincushion. She was the mermaid from the dream that night, the mermaid who looked like her. It was premonition; she wasn’t real. Silly to think that; she had to be a flight of fancy, but it was reality, he was wide awake, and mermaids aren’t real.

“I have waited for you all my life, Foster.”

The voice was genuine, and with eyes locked on her, Foster reached down, cupped icy water and splashed it on his face. Whoever, whatever she was, he’d come because of the sense of urgency. She couldn’t possibly know him, perhaps didn’t even know who she herself was, but she was right in front of him where he could reach out and touch her and feel how real she was, and he began to think, in a strange, detached way, that he belonged to her. Wringing from the surf, he removed the flimsy shirt, held it above the water, waded close enough to drape it around her. She was beautiful, just like she was, and she smiled, and the fluted tail broke the surface. He wanted to flee, to get the hell away, but the voice floated like Siren song.

“So long I have waited for you, Foster Pennan.”

Disbelief was overwhelming, and he fought hard to shake it from his head. How she knew his name was something he could never imagine, but there was no denying that she did.

“It’s all right. It’s all right, Foster. Don’t be afraid. Tell me. Do you dream of me?”

She moved within inches, and slender fingers stroked his brow, and she cupped a warm palm to his cheek.

“Touch me, Foster. It’s all right. I am more real than a dream can be.”

She pulled him close, and he kissed her, and she was salty sweet. His eyes were closed when she pushed away, and night breeze tickled the forehead, tousling hair, playing skin game on flesh.

“Tell me goodbye.”

He hadn’t said a word.

“Foster, tell me goodbye, please,”

And he smiled.

“Foster…”

“Foster…”

“Foster…”

He opened his eyes, and Shanda leaned over him, brushing the hair at his forehead, cupping his face in her hand.

“Wake up,” she whispered softly. “You’re dreaming.”

He smiled and touched the coal-black hair spilling across pale shoulder. Moonlight glowed through curtain, washing blaze to gauzy fabric, illuminating body silhouette, and a surf minuet of North Sea played through open window.

“Shanda.” It was the only thing he knew to say.

“Was it a good dream?”

Foster stretched under the blankets, and looked out the window; brow furrowed, and felt distant. He already knew that she knew.

“Yes, it was. It was a good dream.”

“Foster…” she whispered.

“Shanda, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in your room?”

“I thought I heard voices. I got scared thinking about what you told me on the plane. You said the place was haunted”

He pretended to not hear. Yes, he’d told her that. It happened the last time he was here, when something entered the room through locked door, approached him, and told him it was time to go. He’d thought about that event a lot over the years, but had never understood what it was supposed to mean. Nor did he ever understand why she had appeared that night in the tiny room at Invergordon. It was like the way Shanda had just now appeared in the room; perhaps the woman on that night was a foretelling of right now, this point of life, a premonition of Shanda. It didn’t matter how long she’d been sitting on the bed, or that she was there while he was dreamed of mermaids, because there were no secrets Foster would have kept from her. She could ask the world, and there was no way she could ever understand, but Foster knew it in his heart. The test was about to come.

“Foster, what were you dreaming about?”

“A mermaid.” He looked away.

“Mermaid? Here in the North Sea? I didn’t think mermaids lived in cold water.”

“Nor I.” He turned back to her, reached over and lightly stroked her arm.

“What was she like?”

“Like you, Shanda. She looked just like you. Except for the hair; it was the amber color of harvest apple. She had your face, your body, your eyes, your smile; even the mole above the lip. But the hair was as red as sunset. I’d swear the dream was about you if not for that, and I don’t understand why. There’s similarity and conflict, and I just don‘t know what they mean.”

When Shanda asked what was said, he told her, explaining that there hadn’t been much, and when he got to the part about goodbye, he frowned.

“Foster, have you ever been in love?”

“You mean before now?” He was toying.

She was serious.

“I thought I was once, a very long time ago. But she had other plans, other priorities that didn’t include me.” He paused, going back to that first time when his heart was given freely. It was a painful, hurtful, ugly lesson, and it changed him. He didn’t realize until now how deeply buried the wounds were.

“What happened, Foster? What happened to make you change from being in love to only thinking that you were in love?”

Paula was looking for the depth of meaning, and, somehow, it was comforting. She was digging for truth, for who he was, why he was, and how he could be the things he seemed to be. It was okay that she asked, because she cared, and it was all right to tell her, because he wanted her to know everything and more, wanted her to see him for what he was. He wanted her to accept him for who he most wanted to be, and if she would only ask, he would say it. He wanted to be the one in whose arms she slept at night.

“I don’t really know, Shanda. To this day, I don’t understand how it went wrong. We were a lot alike; the same pleasures and tastes, interests and hobbies, plans and dreams. Maybe that’s where it went wrong. Maybe we were too much the same.”

“Tell me about her.”

Though he could see it coming, it made him uncomfortable, and he pulled away, got out of bed, looked around in the dark wondering what to say, wondering where to begin. He reached into the drawer of the nightstand and took out a box of matches, took the crystal globe from the oil lantern, struck a match, and the room washed in gold light. Her back toward him, Shanda’s head turned, and he saw her looking out of the corner of her eye. God, she was so beautiful.

Foster walked to the window, leaned against the sill, and filled his lungs with sea air. Looking out to the bay of the dream, he wondered if she might still be there, unsure if there was anything more to say.

“Where do I begin?” He sucked in another gulp of air, and exhaled through pursed lips.

“She was a study in contrasts; headstrong but fragile, a powerful personality. She smiled a lot, but behind that was a vicious temper. She was honest, especially the way she looked at you; the most genuinely honest eyes you can imagine, eyes that set the tone, and it was unnerving at times. She could smile with them, cry with them, soothe and comfort, accuse and defy. She could plead and demand, suffer and worship, and all without uttering a word. She was younger, quite a bit, but that didn’t stop us. I was accused of robbing the cradle once, and she turned on the poor whelp with tool-steel coldness, and I will never forget. Ugh, it still makes me shudder. Damon and I were never the same friends after that, and although she and he remained polite, you’d never again see them alone in the same room. That’s how she could be. I guess it the difference in our ages was the undoing. She wanted to go all the time, nightclubs and parties and a full social calendar, and I was happy with a fireplace, Merlot and Chopin. That chafed for a while, then began to manifest more clearly, and we started going separate ways. That was the difference. She wanted to experience so much in a short time, and I don’t fault her for that. Sometimes I think I’m more high maintenance than I care to admit.”

While he was talking, she was spreading pillows and blankets on the floor, and had extinguished the oil lamp. Standing next to the window, Foster’s shadow sliced through the weak circle of moonlight around her as she kneeled on the blanket. Satisfied it was comfortable, she patted the pillows.

“Come over here with me.”

“You’re prettier than your pictures, you know,” he said as he stepped toward her. “You’re photogenic, and yet so much prettier than your pictures. I’d never have imagined that.”

He lay next to her, and she leaned over him and shook her head. “Don’t change the subject. Go on; finish what you need to say. Tell me what happened. Tell me why the two of you said goodbye.”

“But we didn‘t,” he sighed. “That was the odd thing. We just, I don’t know…we just somehow went away. I didn’t hear from her for several weeks, and the funny thing was, it didn’t even matter. Then, one evening, I went to dinner at a quiet little restaurant called Sam’s, just me and a good book. I do that more than I should, I want to be alone more than I should, and it’s much too often. I just repeated myself, didn’t I?”

She smiled.

“I raised the glass of wine, and there she was, sitting at a table across with someone else. I sucked it up, gathered courage, went over and said hello, and she smiled and introduced us, and that was that; finished without ever saying goodbye. And it was okay. That’s what was so strange. It was just okay.”

Shanda never took her eyes off his. “You loved her, but were you in love with her?”

“What an amazing way to put it. I never really looked at it that way before. I’d have done anything for her, but it never occurred to me that I would ever feel empty if she left. Yeah,” he sighed, “I guess I did love her, but, now, after you put it that way, I can’t say I was in love with her.”

“What was her name?”

“Her name was Paula.”

“Paula,” Shanda repeated. “I always thought I’d have made a pretty nice Paula.”

“You make a wonderful Shanda,” he smiled. “I can’t imagine you being anything other than what you are.”

It was her turn, and Foster sensed it immediately; reticence, the wall, and just as he’d done earlier, she looked away and stared out the window.

“What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

“We are all different than we might appear, Foster.”

Surprised by her own words, she seemed determined to return from where she was as soon as they left her lips.

“Her hair was red, wasn’t it? Amber like a harvest apple, wasn‘t that how you described it?”

“How did you know that?”

“Foster, the mermaid in your dream was Paula.”

He allowed the image to form, wondering why he would think of her a sea nymph in a dream. There was no common connection, no cognitive reason for turning her into a fish, and thinking of her that way made him chuckle. Maybe Shanda was right, but it made no sense at all. “I don’t know, Shanda. It was just a dream.”

“It might have been more.” She turned to look at him. “Maybe it was your way of finally acknowledging that she’s gone, and that you’ve finally been able to release her from the bind of your emotional self, and to swim free in this ocean of life without you. The mermaid was a metaphor.”

“But the mermaid said goodbye to me. It was her, not the other way around.”

“Was it? As I recall, you said she asked you to be the one who said goodbye. Maybe that’s what it was all about. Maybe you finally allowed yourself to rid to a part of your life that no longer exists. I think, Foster, that you have finally allowed yourself to break a bond that’s held you to the past, and to accept the courage to let life take you where it will. That‘s why you came looking for me when you did, because you learned to accept your feelings, and you found the courage to do just that.”

She was right, and he knew it. He’d always wondered about Paula, where she was, how she was, but had to confess never dwelling on the memory of her. There was no denying the mermaid’s kiss reminded him of Paula, but he felt different in a way that he never had before. It was like the moment at the airport when Shanda’s photographs had been given to him, a feeling he could never describe. But Shanda already knew; she’d seen it in the smile when he’d awoken from the dream, and the way he looked at her.

Shanda walked to the window, and Foster watched as she stretched, hands high above the head, body illuminated as though naked; the hips, the dimpled conclave in the small of back, round breasts and dark circles of nipple. Night light filtered through the gossamer veil of nightgown, and she was as beautiful as Foster had ever imagined.

“Goodbye, Paula,” she whispered out the window. “Goodbye from both of us, and thank you.”

“Shanda, it’s my turn. Have you ever been in love?”

She turned to face him and leaned back against the windowsill, arms folded.

“You mean before now?”

For Forster, there was an uncertain pause. “You’re mocking me.”

He was indignant, and the thought of payback brought a smile, and she came back across the room to lie beside him.

“No, Foster, I never have. I’ve met someone who traveled a long way just to find me; never considering what it would be like if he did. I’ve never known anyone to do that for anyone. And this person who came looking, this crusader, is special. I think of what has happened, what brought him to me, what brought the two of us here, and it takes my breath away. No, Foster, I am not mocking you. I have never loved anyone, never before this moment. Foster? Can I sleep in here?”

“Of course,” he said. “There won’t be any ghosts tonight.”

Lying close, Foster wrapped his arms around and felt a tremble when she put a hand to his cheek and nudged his face toward hers. He felt the cushion of breast press against arm, sway unfettered, and she leaned into him and pressed open mouth to his. Her lips were soft, her tongue warm and moist, and when she breathed it drew the air from his lungs. She pulled away slowly, gazed deep into his eyes, hand stroking his face, neck, chest, stomach. A slender finger traced a circle around his navel, slid beneath the waistband, and he smiled at the warmth of touch, like a flame igniting skin. Soft smile of the eye, and she guided his hand to the buttons at the front of the nightgown, unfastened the first, and sighed.

“Make love to me, Foster. Make love to me until the moon sets and the morning sun comes through the curtain.”

One by one, the buttons fell away, and when they sat upright together, she pulled the downy fabric from shoulder, and he buried his face between the soft mounds of flesh, cupping them in hand, and the love they made was complete. When they were done, skin still pressed to skin as morning sun burst through the window, she kissed him, and they made love again.

“Shanda, will you always love me?”

“Foster, I will love you as long as I can.”

Wow..I mean WOW. Beautifully written. A wonderful, moving story. A lovely dream.

yeah.. a bloofer dream
to satisfy my taste it lacks a little pain to be washed away in the end or something but you realy got a beatiful stile of writing and it's realy a bloofer dream

You seem to have a habit of dropping articles and pronouns, especially possessive pronouns (e.g. "...he smiled at the warmth of [her? the?] touch, like a flame igniting [his?] skin."; "...and never broke [his?] gaze."; "...pressed [her?] open mouth to his", etc.). Perhaps omitting them sounds more poetic to your ear (the dialogue doesn't really have this problem, which makes me think this is the case); but omitting them also renders the sentence almost nonsensical: "Small waves lapped outside the window, and sea breeze brushed curtain with specter fold." Adding the articles (a breeze brushed the curtain with a specter fold) would at least make things easier to read.

Also, avoid sentimentality and melodrama whenever possible (except, of course, when parodying them).

thank you for the critical perspectives. Granny - always; inbetween - i like the bloofer dream. and chaplin, your comments are well made and worth consideration. however, the practice was intentional, without poetic resonance in mind, an experiment in style that was personally fulfilling.

i appreciate the attention, and thank you all, again - d