Page 6 of Bewitched By the Siren
“No good, as usual,” she says with a chuckle. “She’s been lying to Apple about Jack to try to break them up.”
AppleJack.That’s their ship name on social media. It’s all so ridiculous, but Mom loves it. And anything that brings her joy bringsmejoy.
I sit in the chair next to her bed, my eyes on the television though my mind is elsewhere. “Elsewhere” being the aggravating man next door. I can tell he’s not going to give up easily. I saw the determined glint in his eye. He thinks hecan persuade me to chase what he assumes are my hopes and dreams.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
My time on stage atMemaw’shas nothing to do with dreams of stardom. I do it for one reason, and one reason only. And that reason is laying in the bed beside me, laughing at the over-the-top dramatics on the television screen.
I glance over at Mom. She’s always in good spirits despite the pain and discomfort I know she experiences on a near-constant basis. Muscular dystrophy has robbed her of the exuberance and boundless energy she had when I was a child. And while there’s no cure for distal myopathies, I do everything in my power to make her more comfortable. The money I earn at the club goes straight to her care––physical and occupational therapy to improve her muscle strength, prescriptions, and the in-home care nurse I have come in a few days per week to help her and for when I’ll be out of the house for more than a few hours.
My mother is the reason I do everything I do, and she’s also the reason I can’t leave Circe Key.
Not that I’d want to, anyway. This is my home. I love it here.
“Okay, Mom,” I say on a sigh as I stand up, “enjoy the rest of your show. I’m going to go take bath.”
“Okay, honey,” she says. “Good night. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say after kissing her cheek and adjusting the sheet over her.
Pulling her bedroom door closed behind me, I walk across the hall to my room. Mom insisted I take over the main bedroom when I was twelve because the en-suite has a large soaker tub. She never used it, herself, and because I need regular salt baths, it just made more sense to her for me to have this room. I tried to argue. She has always put me and my needs before her own, but giving up her bedroom? It didn’t seem right. But Mom insisted,moving the furniture and setting me up in there one day while I was at school.
And that’s just one example of her selfless devotion and love for me. She’s always put me first. And now, it’s my turn to take care of her. I love her too much to even consider leaving.
Heading into the large bathroom, I plug the tub and turn on the cold water. As it starts to fill, I open the linen closet, which is filled mostly with dozens of bags of sea salt. Grabbing the bag I opened last week, I take it over to the tub and pour in about a quarter of the bag. That should do it.
Sealing the bag back up, I put it back into the closet before grabbing a large bath sheet and tossing it to the floor beside the tub. Moving to the room’s single window, I make sure the blinds are closed tight. Then I strip out of my clothes and pin my long hair up into a loose bun on top of my head.
When the tub is three-quarters-full, I turn off the tap and step into the chilly water. I use a foot to slosh the liquid around, making sure the salt dissolves completely before sitting and stretching my legs out with a long sigh. Sharp, stinging tingles flow down my legs, and I hold my breath as my back arches of its own accord. I hold in a groan at the pain as first my thighs then my calves and feet fuse together. The feeling is familiar, the throbbing a welcome precursor to the relief I’ll soon feel.
My skin ripples as the green scales form, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding as the transformation completes, my translucent tailfins swaying in the water as I relax back against the curved side of the tub.
Fuck. Finally.I waited too long this time.
Lifting a hand to my chest, I wrap my fingers around the shell pendant resting against my skin and squeeze it tightly. This is the other reason I could never take Brendan’s offer to sign me as a client and make me rich and famous. Famous people arehounded by the media and the masses. How could I possibly keep my true nature a secret under such scrutiny?
And how could I, in good conscience, use my siren’s gift to manipulate the entire world into loving me and my music? To make them spend their hard-earned money on downloads, merchandise, and concert tickets? It’s bad enough that I do it in a small venue likeMemaw’s. It’s a necessary evil––I have to take care of Mom––but an evil, nonetheless.
And I’m saving up to hire a full-time nurse for Mom when the time comes that I can’t care for her by myself, anymore. There’s no fucking way I’m putting her into a facility. Not if I can help it.
And I can, as long as I take this necklace off and sing for a packed dive bar every weekend.
I smile as I remember the story Mom told me about the day she found me sitting on the beach, a naked toddler-sized child wearing nothing but this necklace around my neck. As she rushed toward me, a wave crashed over me, knocking me onto my back. She froze in stunned silence when my legs fused together, turning into a small green tail. But she wasn’t deterred from saving me. She didn’t run away, screaming about mermaids or sea monsters.
She simply wrapped me in a towel so no one else would see my inhuman appendage, and as soon as it dried, it turned back into legs. Mom took me home with her, but spent months watching the water with binoculars for any sign of my birth parents, who were surely looking for me. Watching the street for government officials who might’ve somehow found out about me and were swarming in to take me away from her.
Eventually, when it seemed no one was coming either by land or by sea, she relaxed. She raised me as her own daughter, and to this day, she still refuses to tell me where she got the bogus birth certificate and social security card she used to enroll me in school. I cringe at the thought of my five-foot-nothingmother creeping around the seedy side of Savannah, fearlessly approaching counterfeiters in dark alleyways to secure me a legal-looking identity.
But she’d do anything for me. Always has, and always will. And I’d do the same for her.
My smile widens as I squeeze the shell tighter, remembering how she found out the necklace’s purpose. She took it off me soon after she found me, deciding to store it in a safe place so she could give it back to me when I was old enough to take care of it. A temper tantrum soon after I learned to speak had her mechanically catering to my every irrational whim and demand for an entire day. She couldn’t say no to anything.
After I finally fell asleep, she scoured the internet about mermaid myths. After hours of searching, she found some articles with ancient writings about a talisman that would suppress the power of the siren’s song. She immediately put the necklace back on me, and the next time I demanded something, she found she could actually say no. I’ve worn it ever since, only taking it off after Mom got sick and I needed to make money, fast.
Releasing the pendant, I twist around in the tub so I can pull the plug to release the water. These baths will do in a pinch, allowing me to release my tail and temporarily ease the ache in my legs at its confinement, but a swim in the ocean works best. Using my tail to propel me through the water for an hour will tide me over for two or three weeks, while a bath only gives me a few days’ relief.
But swimming in the ocean has obvious risks. If someone sees me, sees my tail… A shudder ripples through me at the thought.
