Siren Suicides (Second Edition)

Epilogue

The body of the yacht is tilting. Waves boil, swallowing it foot by foot. There is no crew to man the pumps—not like it will help any. It's too late now.

I want to ignore this like a bad dream, as if it's not really happening. I want to pinch myself and wake up, as simple as that. It's gone too far. It's not fair. I just got my father back. He can't simply die in the middle of the ocean because I'm too weak to carry him to the shore. It would be the ultimate punishment, to watch him sink into unforgiving waves while I breathe water through my gills, floating, unable to help him.

We almost make it to the end of the deck, where it meets the cockpit. The floor careens and the nose of the boat rises up. The fog thickens; evening dims the light. It will be dark soon.

"Hold on!" Papa shouts and lets go of my hand. "Life preserver. Right there. I just need to get far enough—"

I'm a siren, remember? I want to say, but I can't. Papa got his wish, my vocal cords are too damaged to speak. Suddenly I wonder if I'm damaged enough to not be able to swim.

I clutch the metal bars in fear and listen to his laborious breathing, to the squeaking of his shoes on the wet deck. He flings his leg over the rail and reaches out to the bright orange circle affixed with ropes to its outer edge. There is a crack and the gushing of the water intensifies. With a powerful sway, the yacht dips back and starts dragging the rest of its steel body underwater. Papa slides down, hitting my chest with his back.

Too weak to hold him, I let go and we both dip overboard. He curses and thrashes vigorously to stay afloat. I bob up and down next to him, soaking in the moisture, my panic receding. I can swim, I'm all right. I will be all right. But what about Papa? I can't see him and can't hear his soul.

Everywhere I look, bubbling fountains erupt with a fizz. Wood creaks, metal parts clink and jingle. Together, it sounds like the felling of a tree—slow, deliberate, and imminent. Debris spills from the deck, towels, cushions, several plastic containers. They dance on top of the foam and then sail off into the mist.

Papa, where are you?

The yacht is not very large but it produces plenty of racket. With a final burp, it disappears into the whirlpool it created. It takes a few moments for the ocean to swallow the last of its length, its teak paneling, custom upholstered seating, and diesel engine. I dive after it.

Life preserver. I need to get you a life preserver.

In the darkness, guided by my instincts alone, I manage to squirm fast enough after it to hook my arm into the gap and yank the orange ring off the ropes. For a moment, the current drags me down, but the life preserver's buoyancy helps me break out and surface. I spit out salty water and look around, feeling strength desert me after this short adventure.

Papa resurfaces. He calls out my name feebly, waving his arm. I barely see him in the darkening murk amidst all this fog. I sigh in relief, holding on to the orange ring and kicking with both legs, moving at a pathetically slow speed. It takes me a few minutes, but at last I reach him. He grabs on to the opposite side. His hands are white, bloodless. The platinum of his Panerai watch glistens on his wrist.

"I thought I lost you." His lips quiver from the cold. I keep forgetting that whatever water temperature feels comfortable to me must feel like freezing to him. He's hyperventilating.

His perfect hair is now a layer of wet gray glued to his scalp. His black shirt and jacket are soaked, smelling of wet wool. The look on his face frightens me. I sense that he intends to leave me, like everyone else has. First Mom, then Hunter, and now him.