Old Sea Right

It hadn’t been a conscious thing, the way he lost his mind. It slipped away slowly, like water draining through a crack in the hull. Somewhere along the way, he knew it was gone. Hunger consumed it. Hunger could do that, especially when you hadn’t eaten in days.

Maybe it began when he couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming or awake. Maybe it was when his thoughts stopped feeling like his own. Or maybe it was when the sun started to look like it was tilting, ready to fall from the sky and crush the ocean beneath it.

He had seen things. Leviathans. Krakens. Giant squids brushing against the boat with massive tentacles. But they always vanished when he reached for them. The boat never rocked. The water stayed still. He knew then they weren’t real.

But the mermaid was different.

She nearly knocked him and his wife out of the lifeboat the first time she appeared. Her red hair floated around her like seaweed, and her tail shimmered green and blue as she moved through the water effortlessly. She stared at his wife, who was limp in his arms, and frowned.

“Is she alright?” the mermaid asked in a high, sweet voice.

He nodded, pulling his wife's grayish body closer to his chest.

“Seasick is all. The helicopters should be coming any day now.”

The mermaid reached up and poked his wife’s cheek. He recoiled, slapping her hand away. But when he felt the soft warmth of her skin, he knew she was real. And immediately, he regretted it.

The mermaid stared at him with hurt in her eyes, then dove beneath the water without a word. He stared at the waves, endless and blank. His heart clenched. He wished she would come back.

“I’m sorry,” he called out. “I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the mermaid exploded from the sea, spraying him with cold water. He laughed, water dripping from his hair, as he held his wife tightly against him.

“I deserve that,” he said.

His wife’s back rested against his chest as he stretched across the narrow lifeboat. His hands lay gently on her stomach. He was keenly aware now of how thin he’d become, ribs pressing through skin. He looked at the mermaid again. She was well-fed, almost glowing.

She smiled and began performing tricks, gliding under the water like an otter. She spun in graceful arcs, flipped her hair, and twirled like a ballerina beneath the waves, singing a siren song. He clapped, laughing. At the end, she blew a heart-shaped bubble toward the boat. He reached for it, but it popped before he could touch it.

The mermaid frowned.

“Is she bored? She hasn’t said a word.”

He looked at his wife. Her bluish lips were still, unmoving.

“Seasick,” he repeated. “We’ll be fine when the helicopters come.”

The mermaid tilted her head.

“You said that already. How do I know she’s seasick and not... dead?”

He stroked his wife’s thinning hair and gave a soft shrug.

“I was a doctor. Studied at Johns Hopkins. Over twenty years in the field. I know the difference between death and seasickness.”

The mermaid swam a circle around the boat, her eyes narrowing as she looked up at the woman’s pale face.

“If she isn’t dead, why doesn’t she move? Or speak?”