After dinner, Isaac dropped me at Nan’s. I could have used the walk home, but he insisted.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Nan called from the kitchen when I walked in the door.
Bark ran to greet me, holding a stuffed elephant in his mouth. He threw it in the air, pouncing as it hit the ground. I hoped he hadn’t co-opted a toy that Marta’s granddaughter left behind.
“Is Bark supposed to have this?” I asked, walking into the kitchen. Bark followed with the elephant.
“I bought it for him,” Nan said. “So I could wash that blue thing.”
“Murray,” I said.
“Murray smells like old socks.” Nan pulled a tray of potato wedges from the oven. “I felt bad taking it away without giving him something else to play with.”
“You don’t have to buy him toys,” I said.
Bark shook his head, elephant still clutched in his teeth, like he was trying to knock it senseless.
“I wanted to,” Nan said. “Look how happy he is!”
“Thank you. That was really nice of you.”
“Hungry?”
“I ate already.”
“You know,” Nan said with a sigh, “you could tell me when you’re not going to eat dinner at home.”
“I’m sorry.” My cheeks flushed. I’d said the exact same thing to Eric in the exact same tone a zillion times over. “Isaac ordered food, and I—”
“Oh.” Nan softened. “That’s nice. He’s such a kind man.”
“He is.”
“What did he order?” she asked, sprinkling nutritional yeast seasoning over the potatoes.
“Salads,” I said. “They were good.” And then I went to my room to check Facebook before Nan could ask any more questions.
* * *
No messages from Luca or Woo Woo.
In a fit of self-destruction, I checked Nikki’s page. She was ruining my hardwood floors. I’d spent weeks liberating the living room from yellow shag and overzealous carpet tacking, sanding every inch with a small orbit sander, because I was afraid of renting a full-sized one. I stained and sealed the wood with all the windows open in forty-degree weather. And Nikki was using wall paint to apply a black chevron pattern over my pristine finish. She hadn’t even sanded down the gloss. The paint feathered under the tape like lipstick on a smoker. Her lines were crooked and they would peel and scratch in no time. But there she was, red handkerchief tied in her hair, smiling at the camera Eric must have been holding.
My new project!
And all her friends were cheering her on in the comments.
Yur so crafty! And Come do my floors when ur done!
Nikki wasn’t going to cry about imperfection or obsess over what she could have done better. She exuded a level of pride over her job done poorly that I didn’t allow myself for even my most careful work. I’d never been more jealous of a person in my entire life, and it wasn’t because she stole my husband, it was because I wished I could let go like she could.
A message alert appeared on the screen. My heart jumped with good nerves. Luca! I held my breath and clicked.
It was from Lorna Griggs.
Hi, Katie! My mother was thrilled to hear from you and your grandmother. Thank you for tracking us down. I’m passing along her message:
Dear Nannette,
How wonderful to hear from you, old friend! I saw the picture of you and your granddaughter and it made my heart swell. She looks so much like you did back when we swam together. I am happy that more of your spirit is in the world.
I’m doing quite well. I live near Lorna. She’s my oldest of three daughters. I have two grandsons, four granddaughters, and a great-granddaughter. Hank longed for a boy and then relished having girls. Each one had a special hold over him.
Hank passed away five years ago. The day after Christmas. It’s hard to get left behind, isn’t it? I feel like I’m supposed to say polite things about the weather and my new home, but you were my best friend and we never made small talk, so I want you to know that I miss you. It hurts to lose Hank and feel unmoored. I want to talk to you about the grace and pain and beauty of age. I want to know what happened to your son, and to tell you that all my sympathy is yours. When I taught my grandchildren how to swim, I told them about you and Bitsie and our adventures underwater. You are a character to them, like Alice in Wonderland, and I hope maybe now they will get to meet you. Please send Bitsie my love. I’m jealous that you live right down the street from each other. Let’s not fall out of touch again. I never stopped thinking of things I wanted to tell you.
Love,
Woo Woo
Tears stung my eyes. I wished I’d grown up imagining Woo Woo as a character in a magical tale and that Nan had felt free to keep the memory of this great friendship part of her everyday life. I knew why Nan never talked about it, why she seemed so against Bitsie’s calendar idea: we tried not to talk about water. But I didn’t want her to lose any more history because of me.
I heard Nan chatting on the phone in the kitchen, so I copied the message and texted it to her.
Then, even though he hadn’t written back, I wrote to Luca again: Hey, if you were going to take pictures in a swimming pool and needed high-res images, what kind of camera would you use?
I hit enter as a reflex and my words were sent. My heart fluttered. I should have at least asked how he was. Told him I loved his documentary, and that I missed sitting on the floor of my dorm room with him, splitting a Buffalo chicken calzone, watching Saturday Night Live, while all the cool kids were out at parties.
I quickly wrote, Hope all is well with you.
And then accidentally hit enter.
Maybe we can catch up soon.
Enter. Damn!
Katie.
I stared at the screen feeling a flush of awkwardness, hoping kind words about being happy to hear from me would appear under mine.
Nothing happened.
“Kay!” Nan rushed in, eyes filled with tears. “Did you read it?”
I nodded.
“Can we write back right now?”
After we’d sent Woo Woo an epically long reply, I opened my sketchbook to the mermaid drawings and handed it to Nan.
“Goodness, Kay,” she said, flipping the pages. “These are beautiful!” She held her hand over her mouth, eyes welling up. “This one even looks like Bitsie!”
“What if we did the calendar?” I asked, ignoring the uncomfortable clench of my heart.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Nan said, but I could see the wanting in her eyes. “It sounds like an awful lot of work, and I wouldn’t—”
“I can handle it. Costuming shows for the theatre was way more work than this.”
“It’s not just the work—”
“I could even make a costume for Woo Woo, and we could find a photographer in Atlanta to take her picture.” I took a deep breath. “What if we tried to find the other mermaids?”
Nan squeezed my arm. “Are you really sure?”
“I am,” I said, giving her my most convincing smile. “I want to.”
“Okay. Okay.” She pointed at my computer. “Audrey Mitchell.”
I typed the name into Facebook. “That might be a hard one,” I said. “Mitchell is such a common—” Audrey Mitchell McClintock popped up on the screen. She had her own profile.
“She always was quick to the uptake,” Nan said, leaning forward to get a better view. “Look at her! She’s beautiful!”
Audrey had snow white hair in a long side braid, and a purple silk scarf tied around her neck. She smiled at the camera like she knew her angles. Her eyes were kind. She lived in Chicago. Her husband was still alive. Both retired. Lots of travel pictures. Lots of children.
“They have a nice life, don’t they?” Nan said, and I wondered if she wished for more than she had; a partner to adventure with, a herd of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to fill a farm table. But there was no hint of envy in the message she dictated for Audrey, and I hoped that maybe envy was a thing to outgrow, like baby teeth and menstruation.
“Okay,” Nan said when we sent off that message. “Hannah Whitfield.”
I couldn’t find anyone named Hannah Whitfield who was even close to the right age. “The name Hannah got popular again,” I told Nan.
“Funny how these things come back in fashion—Wait!” She grabbed my arm. “Novak! She married a man named Novak. She sent me the wedding invitation, but it was in California, and Gramps didn’t want to go.”
I couldn’t find a Hannah Novak on Facebook, but when I Googled, her husband’s website came up. Patrick Novak was a senator from Baltimore.
“Oh my goodness.” Nan pointed at the screen. There was a picture of Hannah standing next to Barbara Bush. We couldn’t find recent photos, but there was a glut from twenty years ago. Hannah and her husband had met everyone from Mick Jagger to Stephen Hawking.
“I can’t find an email address for her,” I said. “But I can write to his office, and see if someone will get us in touch.”
“Oh, no,” Nan said, smiling. “I think maybe—she’d think it was silly. Let’s not bother her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely,” she said, but there was sadness in her voice. Maybe it was hard to see someone you knew go so far beyond your own experience. Maybe she worried she hadn’t meant as much to Hannah as Hannah meant to her. “I’m going to go read Woo Woo’s email again.” She kissed my head and left. Bark followed. Nan had started carrying treats in her pocket.
I emailed Hannah’s husband’s office anyway. I didn’t say anything about mermaids, just that I was the granddaughter of an old friend who would love to be in touch.
* * *
Mo never used her Facebook account. She had a blurry profile picture and a post from 2008 that said, Alright, guys, I’m here! No other posts.
I climbed into bed with my phone and sent her a text instead: You’re a wonderful friend. Thank you.
A few minutes later, she wrote back: Are you dying? :)
Of sarcasm.
You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, she wrote. I’m happy you’re home.
I sent her a heart symbol. She sent me an alien head.
Jogging tomorrow? she asked.
Yes, but not with you.
Ha! Then: Sleep tight.
I sent her a moon.
She sent me a poop.