Erin Hart - False Mermaid

Nora stared at the picture in her hand, carried back once more, this time to a splendid May evening, the first warm night of burgeoning spring just five years ago. The trees along the river were beginning to leaf out in earnest, branches decked in shades of pale green. She had arrived at Peter and Tríona’s house just after five, to stay with her niece while they were off to the gala opening of his latest triumph, a gleaming new modern art museum in downtown Minneapolis. Elizabeth was supposed to go along, but she’d come down with a fever. Tríona had wavered about going out at all, but the museum was an important milestone for Peter’s firm, and he’d insisted on having his muse beside him. No excuses. A car would be arriving for them at six.

Tríona answered the door a little out of breath. “Oh good, you’re early. Sorry the house is such a disaster. I’m late for my half-hour call, as usual.” Tríona waved a hand as she bolted down the hall. “Why don’t you go in and talk to Lizzabet while I finish getting ready?” She seemed a little more distracted than usual, clasping a silky robe around her, trying to tidy up toys and clothes that were strewn about. The place wasn’t usually such a mess. Nora thought she detected an extra glassiness in Tríona’s eyes, almost as if she’d been drinking.

Despite her fever, Elizabeth had Nora deep into negotiations about snacks and bedtime stories when Tríona came in to say good-bye. Though less than forty minutes had passed, her transformation from harried young mother to goddess was complete. Tríona had never looked more radiant. Her long red hair hung loose as she whirled before them in clingy, beaded silk that shifted from pale sea green at the shoulders to deepest indigo about her feet. At her throat hung a stunning mother-of-pearl pendant, set off by a wrap of some translucent fiber that seemed to have been spun from water and air. Her eyes glittered more intensely than before, and her limbs seemed to float. Elizabeth sat up in bed, wide-eyed and bright with excitement on top of fever. “Oh, Mama—you’re like the queen of the sea!”

They’d all laughed as Tríona spun around once more, careful not to lose her balance.

Peter’s voice carried from downstairs: “It’s time to go.”

“You can have a little ginger ale, and if you’re very good, maybe Nora will make some popcorn. I’m sorry to leave you—” She leaned down to kiss the top of Elizabeth’s head. “Wish me luck.”

They listened to the wonderful silk dress rustling all the way down the hall.

Nora had thought nothing at all of Tríona’s last remark. But a few minutes later, after venturing down to the kitchen to microwave some popcorn, she heard strange sounds coming through the intercom beside the front door. Ragged breathing, almost like a violent struggle—what was happening? Pressing an eye to the peephole, she saw Tríona pressed against the wall outside, back arched and eyes closed, fingers twined through Peter’s dark hair. Her bare legs cinched his waist as he thrust himself again and again into the billow of beaded silk that rode around her hips. Was he hurting her? When a car pulled into the driveway, it was Tríona who held tight, panting, “No—don’t stop! Don’t you fucking dare stop now.”

Nora had clapped both hands over the peephole, rigid with shock as the ragged breathing on the other side of the door continued just a few seconds longer. Then the intercom speaker suddenly went dead, and in the same instant, the smoke alarm in the kitchen began sounding a piercing protest. The microwave was filled with smoke that burned her eyes and throat as she opened the door. She felt her way to the switch for the exhaust, and eventually managed to stop the shrieking alarm by flapping a towel beneath it. Once the noise was quelled, she emptied the scorched popcorn into a glass bowl, trying to regain her composure, when a small voice sounded from the doorway behind her.

“Nora? Where did you go?”

She spun around, startled, watching the bowl as it flew in slow motion. Clear glass and burnt popcorn seemed to explode everywhere, and in the brief, dead silence that followed, Elizabeth covered her ears and began to whimper.

“It’s all right, love, stay right where you are. It wasn’t your fault—I was just clumsy. Everything’s going to be all right.”

She never told anyone what she had witnessed that night. Not the police, and certainly not her parents. Looking back now, the paranoid part of her couldn’t be sure that Peter hadn’t staged the whole thing for her benefit. She pushed the thought away, telling herself it was a crazy idea. He couldn’t possibly have known she was there, on the other side of the door. He couldn’t have made Tríona behave that way—could he? And yet she was positive about one tiny detail—the hand she had seen pressed against the intercom definitely belonged to Peter Hallett.

The next troubling tilt of the seesaw came only a few weeks later, with Tríona’s final phone call. Nora had relived every word of their conversation, heard it in her head every day for the past five years.

“Nora—I’m sorry to wake you.”

“It’s all right, Tríona, I’m awake.” She sat up and looked over at the numbers glowing from the bedside table: 10:23 P.M.

“Is Marc there?”

“No, he’s on call—down at the hospital. What’s happening, Tríona?” Fear rose in her throat. “Is Elizabeth all right?”

“I sent her off for the weekend with Mammy and Daddy. I’m at their house now.”

“Something’s happened—what is it?” There was silence on the other end. “Tríona?”

“I’m leaving, Nora. I’ve got a bag packed. Can you meet me? Not your house, someplace else. You can’t tell anyone where I am—promise me.”

“I promise.” Still groggy from sleep, Nora seized upon the first place that came to mind. “What about l’Étoile?” The grand old hotel was a Saint Paul landmark. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“I need more time. There’s something I have to do first. There are things you don’t know, Nora. About Peter, about me—”

“Tríona, what are you talking about?”

“It seemed harmless at first, but now—I let everything go too far. It’s like he gets a strange sort of pleasure from hurting me. I couldn’t tell anyone, I was too ashamed. Because I’ve done things, too. You don’t know—unspeakable things. I’ve lied and deceived everyone. I don’t even know myself anymore—”

“If he’s hurt you, Tríona—”

“I can’t even tell what’s real anymore and what isn’t—I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, Tríona—you’re not. Listen to me—whatever it is, I will help you. We’ll get through this together, all right? Do you hear me?”

“I can’t talk anymore. I’ve got to find the truth.”

In the brief pause that followed, Nora heard her sister breathing at the other end of the connection. “Tríona, are you still there? Talk to me.”

When Tríona did speak, her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Isn’t it shocking, what you’ll do when you love someone?”

How many times in the last five years had she relived that fatal night? Pacing up and down the hotel lobby under the watchful eye of the night desk clerk. She had tried calling Tríona’s cell phone, but was diverted each time into voice mail. Two hours went by, then three, then four. At first light, Tríona had still not appeared. Unable to wait any longer, she had driven to the house along the river. Peter had looked genuinely surprised when he answered the door. It was just after eight on a Saturday morning, and he’d already been for a run, showered, and dressed. His hair was unusually wet, dripping onto the collar of his shirt—for some reason, that point had stuck. So had the fact that he stood blocking the door so she couldn’t see into the foyer.