The Siren, KATHERINE JOHN [positive books to read .txt] 📗

television blares a series of weather warnings as the anchors on the Weather Channel excitedly discuss the rapid approach of Hurricane Celia. I’m shocked we still have power—it’s already gone out at the lobby. “We need to get up to the shelter as soon as possible, or we’re gonna have to swim out of here,” I say. “Any sign of Mimi?”

She shakes her head, wiping her tears. “I’ve been waiting for you. I made lemonade. I knew you’d be thirsty.” She gestures to the table, where two highballs of pale-yellow liquid wait for us, the glasses sweating as the ice melts. Odd. But then, Stella is nothing if not odd. “Where have you been?”

“We’ve been placing sandbags up at the main building,” Jackson says.

Stella grabs the cups from the table and hands one to each of us. Off our looks, she sighs. “I feel so bad I made you stay in a hurricane. It’s the least I can do.” She seizes a rocks glass off the side table next to the couch and rattles the ice, then drains what’s left of it. “I added gin to mine.”

Of course she did. Forcing smiles, we each take a tentative sip. The cold liquid is sweet and tart on my tongue, and I drink half of it in one draw. “This is delicious,” I enthuse. “I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. Thank you.”

“I made it using the lemons from the tree by the pool,” she says proudly.

Jackson takes another long sip. “It’s great.”

The television draws our attention with a prolonged discordant tone over color block. When the picture comes back, the weatherman is serious. “Hurricane Celia has been upgraded to a category two with sustained winds of 105 miles per hour and is likely to strengthen over open water as it moves west-northwest at a speed of thirty miles per hour toward the islands of Barbados, and Grenadine, and Saint Ann, now less than a hundred miles away. Storm surge in excess of ten feet is expected in low-lying areas. Please take shelter immediately.”

“I gotta go.” Jackson drains his glass and sets it on the table. “I’ll be back for you in ten. If you’re ready first, come get me on your way.”

“See you then.” I blow him a kiss, and he disappears out the door, into the deluge. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” I say to Stella. “You probably want to change. It’s pretty nasty out there.”

In my bathroom, I shed my muddy clothes and step into the shower, where I shampoo my hair and scrub the dirt from beneath my nails, feeling my tired body begin to relax as the hot water warms me. Poor Stella. I know losing Mary Elizabeth is a terrible blow to her, especially now that I’m privy to the details of her years of suffering. Though I do find solace in knowing my mother was so loved and mourned, my heart breaks for her.

They say time heals all wounds, but I know firsthand if you repress your trauma it only festers, becoming a poison that slowly turns your insides black with rot. It was such a relief to come clean with Jackson. Maybe I should throw caution to the wind and do the same with Stella now, rather than waiting until the “time is right.” She’s trusted me with her story; if I trusted her with mine, perhaps we could work together to bring Cole down. But there’s no time now. We need to get up to the shelter, and presumably Cole will be there with us. I’ll have to wait.

A wave of exhaustion rolls over me. The water feels divine, but I’m so drained that once I’ve conditioned my hair, I turn off the shower. I can take a pillow and blanket with me to the wine cellar and sleep there. I wrap myself in a plush white towel and wipe the steam from the mirror with my hand, starting when I catch my reflection. One of my brown contacts has fallen out, revealing one bright blue iris. I’ve grown so accustomed to my dark-eyed look that my natural color is shocking, more unreal than the counterfeit version.

My contact must have come out in the shower—it had to be; Jackson or Stella would have noticed if I’d lost it before. I open the drawer where I keep extra lenses and reach into the back, realizing as I come up empty-handed that my contacts are packed in the bag I meant to take to Guyana. Shit. But the bag’s in my room. No harm done. I throw open the door to my bedroom to find Stella sitting on my bed, now dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt. I jump. Since we’ve been here, she hasn’t once come into my room.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

My hand flies to my blue eye to cover it. “I hurt my eye,” I say. “I think some sand may have gotten in it while we were doing storm prep.”

“Hmmm.” She crosses her arms, watching me intently. “Did you finish your lemonade?”

Why is she acting so strange? “Yeah, it was great. Thanks again.”

I drag my suddenly heavy limbs to my suitcase and unzip it, overwhelmed by the prospect of choosing what to wear. I just want her to leave so that I can search for my contacts.

“How are you feeling?” she asks again. “You look kinda tired.”

“Yeah.” I face away from her so that she won’t see my eye as I pull on my underwear and the first T-shirt and jeans shorts I see, then turn back to her, rubbing my eye. “I’m gonna take a blanket up to the main lodge.”

I take a step toward the bed, but suddenly the floor isn’t where it should be, and I find myself staring through the glass floor at the turbulent dark sea below. The room spins. I grab on to the bed to steady myself, noticing without judgment the strange sensation of my brain detaching itself from my body.

Somewhere