Surfacing: Mermaid's Return, #3

By A.L. Knorr

A mother's legacy, a daughter's destiny.

 

I am a creature of the deep, a mermaid, trapped on land because my daughter has yet to have her salt-birth and claim her siren heritage. The only mermaid to have known all five stages of grief. I am a single mother, without a job, who needs to support my human child. And ignore the ever-increasing call of the ocean's Salt.

 

Surfacing is novel length and tells the story of the final phase of Mira's return to Saltford, as she strives to navigate human society, and finds a career for which she is uniquely qualified. But, not only is she a woman in a man's world, she is a siren who creates reactions in human males just by being who—what—she is. Can she overcome prejudice, other supernaturals, and the Salt to finance her daughter's upbringing?

 

If you have read Born of Water, you know the answer; here is how it happened. If you are reading in chronological order, be sure to continue the story in Born of Water, the start of Mira's daughter, Targa's, story—and a fresh take on mermaid mythology.

 

A.L. Knorr is an award-winning Canadian fantasy writer. Abby won the Readers' Favorite Gold Medal for YA Fantasy in 2018 with Born of Water. Abby has authored more than 35 titles since then and continues to enchant readers with her stories of elemental magic, transformation, friendship, adventure, international travel, and of course, love. Though Abby's stories are clean young adult fantasy stories that are cuss-free with no on-page or explicit love scenes, readers of every age love Abby's stories. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.L. Knorr
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223179733

Book preview

Prologue

When my mother died, I ran to the ocean like a coward. Its cradle of salt puckered my memories and withered my sorrow like a grape drying in the sun. Although I had grieved briefly when I came back to begin my land-cycle, I had cheated grief and was foolish enough to think I had gotten away with it. When Nathan died, I couldn't run away. No matter how much I flinched, bending toward the Atlantic the way ivy strains for rays of light, I could not leave. Grief was back to take what belonged to it––my heart.

A few short years ago I had everything I wanted: my mate, my daughter, a home, a family. It made my head spin to think how much could change so suddenly. Later I would wonder if I was the only mermaid to ever fully walk through the five stages of grief. But I had my daughter.

Targa had yet to have her salt-birth; the color and shape of her fins was still yet to be revealed, but she would. At least, I had been so sure of it then. Siren genes are passed from mother to daughter without fail. Young legs melded into a shimmering virgin tail in response to a salty sea. But Targa didn't transform in response to ocean water—not the first time, not any time after that. Something was wrong. I shoved my fear down deep into a dark corner where Targa would not see it, and said with a smile that we'd just have to keep trying. I had turned at the age of three, but if there could be late-bloomers in the human race, why not ours too?

Her fifth birthday came and went, still she hadn't turned. As time passed, concern sent its barbs deeply into me. Nathan had felt something change in his family; a shift from pretty autumn to chilly winter. He found Targa crying in her sleep late one night.

What's wrong, baby? he crooned, rolling her into his arms and kissing her wet cheeks.

I have no t-tail, she sniffled, then hiccupped without opening her eyes.

I'll never forget his look of confusion at Targa's sleep-talk. He glanced at me over her head, his expression somewhere between amusement and dismay. My own heart had nearly stopped. It was the only time she had ever slipped up, and--for just a fraction of a second--I wanted her to really spill it. I wanted him to know. But my mother's commandments ran deep and strong, her doctrines filling my very bones. Nathan could never know. I would never weaken our love by using my voice on him, even after Targa was born. And sharing my secret with him, while it might ease my suffering, could put him in danger.

Targa and I had late night secret swims in the Atlantic whenever we could get them without arousing suspicion. But what had once been fun had become polluted with expectation and suspense. Coaching sessions (my idea), where I attempted human psychology exercises I'd found in outdated textbooks at the library: guided visualization, breathing techniques, even hypnosis. The memory of her skinny little frame shivering in a bathtub containing more salt than water (Targa's idea) is still enough to fill my eyes with tears.

I don't know exactly when she lost hope, but she hid it expertly, while patiently participating however I asked.

Creeping thoughts whispered into my mind; she didn't like water, didn't want to go for swim, couldn't hear the ocean calling her. I would shove these thoughts away violently, excusing them as nothing but my own anxiety. It was ridiculous––a daughter of a mermaid who disliked the ocean. Impossible! When I muzzled those fears, I became aware of other fears. Not my own, but hers… for me.

She could see the anxiety in my eyes. Whatever mechanism bees and dogs used to smell fear, Targa had it for despair. She could sense it on me, reeking like cheap perfume. Her eyes dipped in anguish, her obvious desire not to disappoint me sliced through me like a white-hot blade from heart to gut.

She thought she was my tormentor. The realization struck like a hammer and shattered me while giving me the strength to do what was needed: let go.

The ocean could call. I'd let the smell of it crucify me, the sound of its waves crash against me, echo through me, beg me. Targa's need and my love for her were greater than the ocean’s call. If she never transformed and I was locked in a land-cycle for the rest of my life, so be it.

So be it.

1

In many ways, the Sea Dog was where I grew up. It was home and even Targa's day-care facility at times. It was a tourist restaurant modeled after a sixteenth-century barque, floating in Saltford's harbor. It had been built by Nathan. Phil had made a business plan for the restaurant and pitched it to the town. They loved the idea and provided backing, but Nathan's labor was donated. This was all before I came out of the ocean at the age of nineteen. Though I'd missed the construction of it, I could still feel Nathan's touch in the polished brass finishings and red lacquered hull. Locals loved to eat Phil's famous fish and chips, although they waited for the off-season when there was finally a way to make it to the toilets without tripping over a purse with a tiny dog in it.

Phil took a chance on an inexperienced young woman (me), gave me a job, and taught me what forgiveness was––because I made a lot of mistakes. I was a quick study, but I was also a lot more sheltered from the ways of humanity than most young women, having spent the previous eight years at sea.

An eleven-year period passed, and I continued waitressing at Sea Dog, first supplementing Nathan’s income and now supporting myself and Targa. But nothing lasts forever, and change was in the air.

Phil was getting on in years and though he never complained, I could see the stiffness settling into his bones and the stress lines etched into his brow. He longed for his recliner and a condition I didn't yet fully understand (and probably never would) known as retirement.

"But what are you going to do?" I asked, polishing the hot silverware fresh from the industrial dishwasher and laying them in their appropriate drawers.

Phil's damp and rosy face reappeared from behind the bar where he'd been changing one of the hoses. He slid the door shut with a snap.

That's the point. I'm going to do nothing. He put his palms together in prayer and shook them. The whole reason people work so hard, scrimp and save their whole lives, pay off their mortgages by the time they’re sixty or sixty-five, if they are lucky, is so they can retire and do nothing with the rest of their days.

I frowned. Won't you get bored?

Nope.

I shook my head, mystified. 

Phil wiped down the bar, making the wood gleam. You've never thought about retirement?

I shook my head but couldn't justify myself. Mermaids didn't retire; they went to the ocean to die when they were centuries old.

You should. He shook his damp rag at me. You're, what, thirty?

Thirty-one.

No spring chicken. Sorry, but you aren't. You look like you're twenty but one day the years will catch up to you and you'll, he put his hands to his lower back and stretched, something cracked, fall apart.

I laughed. All at once? That sounds extreme.

It comes on fast. You only have one life, Mira. You work hard and raise that beauty of a little girl of yours, and maybe find a nice guy...

My smile disintegrated.

Phil sighed. It's been three years, Mir. No one would begrudge you a relationship. We just want you to be happy.

We?

Crystal, me, Nathan's folks, Targa... He paused. I'm sure you have other friends.

But I didn't, and didn't have the heart to remind Phil of the facts. Crystal had moved to Toronto four years after Nathan and I were married. She came back for Nathan's funeral and called once a year or so, but otherwise, she wasn't in my life anymore. Nathan's father was ill, so Nathan's mom had moved him to a care facility in Alberta. They loved Targa, and I had taken her to visit them a few times, but money was tight and it had been a year since we'd last seen them. Hal––my father––and I had never really bonded. He’d been around while Targa was a toddler and made some effort with her then, but he’d met a woman online the year before Nathan passed and moved to Santa Barbara to be with her. He came back for the funeral and that was the last time we’d seen him in the flesh. We received a Christmas card most years, but that was the extent of our relationship.

Sea Dog's door swung open and Kayley, another server, blew in and tossed her coat on one of the anchor-shaped iron hooks behind the door. Phil had asked her many times to put her jacket on the hooks in the kitchen instead of where the customers hung them, but Kayley had a selective memory. She snapped her gum and it went off like a gunshot. Phil winced and we shared a look.

I miss Crystal. I closed the silverware drawer with my hip, moved to the computer and booted it up.

She's not that bad, Phil whispered as Kayley clomped across the floor in a pair of knee-high lace-up motorcycle boots and snapped her gum a second time. No gum please, Kayley, he said over his shoulder.

You missed a spot, Phil, she mimicked in a nasal voice before slamming her way through the swinging door into the kitchen to get her apron.

I gave Phil a look of long-suffering and he agreed with a weary nod. He missed Crystal, too.

If I were Phil, I would have fired Kayley by now. For a while, I wondered why he was putting up with her attitude. But it was difficult to find and keep good help--it had taken several temporary hires before Phil found Kayley--and Phil was selling Sea Dog, counting down the days until he would be passing the keys over to the new owner. Why disrupt things with a firing and a hiring?

He'd told me about the sale only the week before, after the deal was already signed. The date for the handover was four weeks from now. Phil had assured me that the buyer was a lovely couple from Halifax who would give me a probationary period of three months before any final decision would be made about my role here.

Great.

Phil had no doubt that they would keep me. At eleven years, I was the longest-standing, most trustworthy employee Phil had ever had. I was given the responsibility of a manager and a slight bump in pay every year, but no official title (not that I cared). Phil ran with a small crew, five servers including himself during the high season. A manager wasn't really needed aside from himself. Phil and the buyers had arranged a meeting to discuss the paperwork for the sale and for Phil to give them a thorough tour of Sea Dog's inner and outer workings.

What time will they be here? I asked.

Only Clive is coming, his wife can't make it today. Phil looked at his watch. And he's late. I asked him to come at ten-thirty to avoid the lunch rush. It’s almost eleven!

The front door opened again and a man in a long oilskin jacket and outback hat came in. The outfit could have been imposing, but the bulge in the middle––a considerable belly––diminished the effect.

Clive. Phil wiped away the look of annoyance, greeting the man with a hearty handshake. Nice to see you could make it, after all.

Clive wheezed, Got tangled up in traffic at Hope's corner. You know how that intersection can be. Shrugging out of his oilskin, he draped it on a hook but kept the hat on.

Indeed, said Phil conspiratorially as they sat down at a table.

Hope's corner was an intersection at the end of the shopping district where Pepper St. ran into the first suburb and became Hope St. It was never blocked up with traffic and even if it had been, it would never take thirty minutes to clear up.

On the heels of Clive, five men entered. Three wore baseball jackets in the identical shade of azure. There was a logo on the arm of each jacket but it was difficult to make out hidden in the folds. A couple of the men shucked their coats, hanging them on the brass hooks.

The door to the kitchen opened and Kayley came out, snapping her gum. She glanced at Clive, her gaze raking his outfit. She made a face and I thought I heard her say, All hat and no cowboy, under her breath. Then her eyes fell on the table of five young. Ooh, men-flesh. I'll take this one.

Kayley ignored many of the rules of engagement Phil had put into place for his servers. The server with greatest seniority took the first table to sit down and it alternated after that. It was irritating that Kayley behaved in this selfish way, but I wouldn't cry about it to Phil. He didn't need the extra stress, and