Greer
I can’t stop myself from watching as the two girls—my sisters, apparently—stand arguing on the sidewalk. Most of their words are lost to the soundproof windows and heavy velvet drapes, but I manage to catch a few. “Duty. . . .” “Sister. . . .” “Snob. . . .”
As Gretchen, the military-looking one, stomps away, I can imagine which of the words were hers. Her disgust was apparent.
Which is fine with me. I’m not a fan of her personal style, either.
She’s obviously one of those girls who look down on those who have more opportunity in their lives. That giant chip on her shoulder is only going to keep her in her disadvantaged place.
Grace looks up at the house, her face a mixture of helplessness and determination. She seems nice enough, despite her insanity, and more the type to envy someone who has advantages than to despise them for it. The type to work hard to gain opportunities of her own. Why she’s let herself get sucked into this crazy delusion is beyond me, but at least there’s hope for her.
Finally, after what feels like forever, Grace leaves too, heading around the side of the house. I resist the urge to sprint to the living room, to spy out the side window and see if she is actually leaving.
Greer Morgenthal does not spy.
Frozen to my spot, staring out the window—at the drapes, actually, since I’ve let them fall back into place—my mind plays over everything they said. I would like to reject the idea that they are my sisters. I’m not adopted, as far as I know, but it also seems unlikely that Mother and Dad would have adopted out my two sisters if we were actually triplets. Not that Mother has ever been the most maternal sort. Quite the opposite. Still, I’ve always had the feeling that Dad wanted more children. I’ve spent my life trying to be enough for both of them. To be mature and classy and successful enough for Mother. To be loving and childlike and daughterly enough for Dad. If they were around more, I might have a schizophrenic break from the opposing efforts.
In any case, the idea that they would have given away my siblings doesn’t make sense.
Assuming I believe that Grace and Gretchen are my sisters—and I would have to be delusional myself to deny that physically obvious fact—that leaves me with only one logical conclusion: I am adopted.
I am surprisingly unaffected by the realization. Maybe Mother has trained all the emotion out of me. Maybe I truly am the ice queen my social enemies and ex-boyfriends so often claim. Perhaps I should cry or scream or feel betrayed in some essential way. A normal person would. Instead, I feel . . . relieved.
A surprising emotion. At least it is an emotion. I suppose, if I had ever analyzed my relationship with my parents in the past, the possibility might have occurred to me. I have never felt the elemental connection many of my friends have with their parents. Even when my friends claim to despise their parents, I sense the underlying indelible links. I’ve always felt like more of an accessory than an expression of love. I finally understand why.
The ever-present pressure lifts off my chest, and I feel like I can truly breathe for the first time since I took third place in the fifth-grade spelling bee and Mother punished me by sending me to my room without dinner. I’d disappointed her, and I have spent every day since trying to keep that from happening again. All this time, all this pressure, and the feeling of distance. It all makes sense. And it isn’t my fault.
I don’t know why the realization that I’m adopted clarifies everything in my mind, but it does. It’s like a frosted window has been removed from my vision.
Perhaps I should feel that my world has been rocked. And perhaps I should feel a little more off-kilter, considering the second startling claim my sisters made.
“A descendant of Medusa,” I muse, then immediately chide myself for even entertaining the thought.
What an absolutely ridiculous notion. As if such creatures of myth actually exist. They are nothing but stories, fables made up to help ancient man understand the inexplicable. To keep children obedient, lest they be fed to a dragon.
“Monster hunters.” I snort. “How ludicrous.”
But that resurrected memory floats into focus.
When I was a small child, four or five years old, I slept alone in my turret bedroom, as I do now. I had been tucked in by my nanny some hours earlier and had fallen asleep easily. I remember that I dreamed of ponies and rainbows. In the middle of the night, something woke me.
I don’t remember if it was a sound or a smell or some kind of subconscious feeling. I only know that I opened my eyes, my room illuminated by the faint glow of moonlight, and screamed. My closet door stood wide open. Creeping carefully across my room, its hooves tapping quietly on the hardwood floor, was a centaur.
At the time, of course, I didn’t know the creature by name. I only knew that a horse with the torso of a man was clomping toward me. And the look in his dark eyes left me with no doubt that he was not interested in making friends.
My scream startled him. I scrambled out of my four-poster bed, getting tangled up in the frilly lace ruffled bed skirt. Certain I would be easy prey, I looked up. Only to find my room empty.
Still terrified, I ran downstairs to the second-floor master bedroom. I burst through my parents’ door, flipped on the lights, and stood sobbing in the middle of the room.
“What is it, Greer?” Dad mumbled, half asleep.
“A-a-a monster!” I wailed.
My mother sat up in bed and called me closer. I was hoping for a hug and a kiss and maybe an invitation to sleep with them for once.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she said, making no move to touch me. “Monsters do not exist.”
“B-b-but—”
“No!” Her bark startled the fear right out of me. “Monsters. Don’t. Exist.”
I knew better than to argue again.
“You did not see a monster,” she insisted, calm once more. “And you will never see one again.”
Still shaking with fear, I nodded and backed away toward the door. Mother slid her sleep mask back into place. As I turned off the light, my dad mumbled, “Good night.”
I climbed the long, eerie staircase back up to my room. Standing outside my door, I took a deep breath. I told myself my mother was right, as she always was. Monsters did not exist. I hadn’t seen one that night, and I would never see one again.
After the series of hypnotherapy sessions Mother started me on the next day, I never did.
Now, considering what my sisters said, I almost wonder if maybe the centaur was not a figment of my imagination after all.
“Ludicrous.” The news of my adoption must have shaken me more than I realized, if I’m even pondering the possibility that mythological monsters actually exist, or that I might actually be a descendant of a hideous monster myself.
My phone rings in the hall.
“Thank goodness,” I say, relieved for the distraction.
Shoving thoughts of monsters and sisters and other nonsense from my mind, I straighten my spine and go answer the call. Even Veronica would be a welcome interruption at the moment.
“Greer Morgenthal.”
“Hey babe,” Kyle’s surfer-boy voice says. “What’s up?”
I close my eyes and mentally count to eleven. I’ve asked him not to call me “babe” more times than I can recall. I’m not sure if he thinks it’s charming or if the sun has actually cooked so many of his brain cells that he can’t remember I don’t like it. Either way, I’ve decided to ignore the transgression for the most part, and make him pay in other ways. Jewelry is always welcome.
The surfer-boy thing is mostly an act. He does surf, but not very well, and he’s the son of an internationally renowned oncologist and a tire heiress. He’s as likely to attend a benefit dinner in a tuxedo as he is to hit the surf in a wetsuit. It’s all about image.
“Hello, Kyle,” I answer, turning on girlfriend mode and trying to sound warm and affectionate. “I’m waiting for Henri to arrive with the petit fours for the tea and—”
“That’s great, babe,” he says, cutting me off. I’m about to forget my ignore-now-pay-later strategy when he asks, “How’d you feel about dinner at the Wharf tonight?”
I pause. “Where?” I ask cautiously. Last time we dined at the Wharf when he was in surfer-boy mode, we ate clam chowder from paper cups while standing at the end of the pier. I appreciate a good San Francisco chowder as much as the next Bay Area native, but standing up to eat is not my idea of a dinner date.
“Ahab’s,” he says.
I can hear the smile in his voice, like he knows he’ll impress me with his choice. And, to be honest, he has. Ahab’s is an iconic institution, and their cuisine is first-rate. Five stars. Their view is even better.
“Sounds delightful,” I reply, grinning to myself.
“Great,” he says. “Meet me there at seven?”
“Meet you—”
“Yeah, I’m at the beach with the guys.” Shouts echo in the background as the guys clamor to be heard. “Gotta go, surf’s up. See ya at seven, babe.”
Before I can say good-bye, he’s gone.
I set my phone down, close my eyes again, and remind myself of why I put up with Kyle. In the year we’ve been going out, I’ve gotten a lot of practice with what my personal trainer calls aggression-reduction techniques—an elaborate name for counting to ten. Or, in Kyle’s case, eleven.
He can be very sweet sometimes. Like last Valentine’s Day, when he skipped school to bring me two dozen red roses in French class, or when we drive down the coast and park on the beach, watching the sunset from the hood of his Jeep. Those days mostly make up for the other ones.
He’s also very handsome, in a lead-actor way. His brown hair is usually too long, but after he spends all summer surfing, the tips bleach to an amber gold that matches his tanned skin, making it hard for me to complain.
And he’s the most popular and powerful student at St. Stephen, the all-boys partner school of Immaculate Heart. As I’m the most popular and powerful student at Immaculate Heart, it’s as if we’re destined to be a couple.
Still, sometimes—like when he’s been spending too much time “at the beach with the guys”—he becomes a little less than the ideal boyfriend. I’m not the kind of girl to meekly accept inattention and negligence. Kyle should know that by now.
“That’s all right,” I say. “I will give him a reason to pay attention.”
With a cool smile on my face, I head upstairs to select the perfect outfit to carry out my plan. An outfit designed to tempt and tease, with no promise of fulfillment. By the time the night is over, Kyle will be desperately begging me to forgive him for anything he’s ever done.
“I will be in my room, Natasha,” I call out as I mount the stairs. “Buzz me when Henri arrives.”
Her muffled reply comes through the kitchen door. “Yes, Miss Greer.”
Now, should I wear my new strapless shantung silk cocktail dress, in the perfect lilac shade that makes my silver eyes pop, or the silver sequined tank that is cut a touch too low, and that Kyle can never keep his eyes off? Ah, decisions, decisions.
I will make tonight a date to remember.
Kyle holds out my chair, like the gentleman I know he can be. He’s been an ideal dinner date since I crested the stairs into Ahab’s lobby a fashionable fifteen minutes late. I do believe I chose the right outfit.
I smile demurely and nod, carefully collecting myself as I sit and he slides the chair in under me. Hands still on the chair, he leans down and whispers, “You know how I love that top, Greer.”
I allow myself a brief pleased smile. Success. I knew the silver sequined tank would do the trick. It always does. Only Kyle doesn’t know there will be no discovering what I’m wearing underneath the top this time.
Not that I’ve ever let him get much farther than that—we haven’t been going out that long—but since I had to manage my own transportation tonight, he will be lucky to get a good-night kiss. It would take a complete transformation into future-president mode on his part to get any more than a quick peck.
He slouches into the opposite seat. So much for transformation. It takes all my willpower not to ask him to sit up straight. But I don’t want to sound like his mother or a nagging girlfriend, so instead I lean forward over the table as if I want to whisper something naughty. As expected, he sits up and leans in to hear.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “This is my favorite restaurant.”
His grin is all cocky arrogance. “I know.”
The waiter arrives to pour our water and Kyle slouches back against his chair. I can’t exactly lean across the table all night, whispering. Sometimes I think Kyle isn’t worth all the effort. Maybe he’s not future-president—or even future–state senator—material after all. I could be wasting my time on a boy with no greater ambition than following the surf season around the globe.
His parents are wealthy enough that he never has to work a day in his life. I suppose I have been hoping that he wants to earn his own way. I don’t want to be hasty, though. I’ve already invested a great deal of time and effort in him. Maybe I shouldn’t cut my losses yet.
Gazing out the window, I decide to give him a few more weeks to prove himself.
The view from Ahab’s is amazing. A practically un-obstructed wall of windows on the Bay. Depending on how thick the fog is at the time, you can see Alcatraz just offshore and Sausalito across the Bay. The brilliant orange Golden Gate stands out against the rich, green foliage of the parks at either end of the iconic suspension bridge. At times I’ve seen seals, sea lions, and even a dolphin or two. And there are always plenty of seagulls, usually flying beak-first into the glass.
The waiter takes our drink orders—mint iced tea for me and orange soda for Kyle—and then disappears. Our table is right up against the window, and with my back to the rest of the dining room, it feels like we’re all alone in the place.
I make an effort to forgive Kyle his slouching and ask, “How was the surf today?”
“Wicked,” he says, sitting forward. “The wind kicked up right at high tide and there were some killer waves.”
I smile, but even I know there aren’t really killer waves at Ocean Beach. Down the coast, maybe, but up here the waters are a little less . . . gnarly, as Kyle would put it.
“Must have crested at six feet or more,” he continues. “Yokie took a header and almost cracked his skull on his board.”
Yokie is actually Eric Yokelson, and he is my least favorite of Kyle’s friends. He doesn’t go to St. Stephen, doesn’t even go to private school, which alone isn’t enough to indict him. Despite what my alleged sisters might think, even I’m not snob enough to think the only people of quality are those who can afford private school. No, it’s more that he has hit on me every time we’ve met. And not a subtle Hmmm-was-that-a-pass-or-not? hit, but a full on, get-the-heck-out-of-my-face come-on. I try to avoid being around him.
I wouldn’t cry if he had cracked his skull on his surfboard.
Kyle is still going on about today’s surfing when the waiter brings our drinks and takes our appetizer orders. I thank him for the tea and let Kyle order for both of us. Taking a sip of tea, letting the cool earthy taste invade my mouth, I glance out over the Bay.
The fog is thin tonight, and even in the faint light of dusk I can make out the craggy outline of Alcatraz. At night, when the tourists are gone and the only inhabitants are gulls and a pair of National Park Service guards, the island looks positively eerie. A glowing monument to a haunted past.
“Hope you’re in the mood for calamari,” Kyle says, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head.
My lip starts to sneer, but I quickly get it back under control. Kyle knows how I feel about fried foods—or at least he should. In the year we’ve been dating, I’ve made it perfectly clear that nothing soaked in oil will ever enter my system to threaten my perfect complexion. My aesthetician would have a fit.
He must sense my displeasure, because he leans forward quickly and says, “Grilled, of course.”
“Grilled,” I repeat with a genuine smile. “Sounds perfect.”
Thank goodness he got that right. After he made me drive here, I might have to leave if he ordered something he should know I don’t eat.
Kyle looks relieved by my pleasure.
“What about you, babe?” he asks. “How was your day?”
How was my day? Where do I even begin? School was routine and I spent the afternoon finalizing details for the alumnae tea. On any other day, the details of my argument with Veronica would be the perfect dinner conversation, but all I can think about is the doorbell ringing and opening the door to find my look-alikes standing there, telling me crazy stories about monsters and Gorgons.
That’s not exactly the sort of thing you tell your boyfriend over grilled calamari. Or, at least, that’s not exactly the sort of thing I tell Kyle over grilled calamari.
I haven’t even fully processed the information yet. I’m not ready to tell anyone I’m probably adopted, let alone the other ridiculous stuff.
So, in the interest of an enjoyable dinner, I recount the phone conversation with Veronica about her ice-sculptor boyfriend.
“A dragon ice sculpture?” Kyle asks, his voice a little too full of awe for my taste. “Sounds radical.”
I clench my jaw. It’s not his use of entirely outdated slang—he’s single-handedly trying to bring back the eighties’ surfer lingo—that bothers me. He’s my boyfriend and he’s supposed to take my side. In everything.
Guess who’s not getting a good-night kiss.
“Sorry, babe,” he says, trying to sound contrite. “I know you hate the idea, but it might be way awesome.”
“Yeah,” I say, not wanting to get into another fight today. I’ve got bigger things on my mind. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Ah, thank you, my man.” Kyle changes track as the waiter arrives with our appetizer. He grins at me. “Fruits of the sea.”
I can’t help but smile back. It’s hard to stay mad at Kyle for long—his grin is infectious. And tonight I’d welcome having his carefree attitude about everything.
While he squeezes fresh lemon over the plate, I look out the window again. For the rest of the evening I promise to let go of all the things that have gone wrong today. I will sit here with my boyfriend, enjoying a five-star meal, while I look out over the—
“What the—?”
Kyle looks up, a forkful of calamari halfway to his mouth. “What, babe?”
I quickly look away from the scene below. That can’t be happening.
“What?” I ask, my voice high and startled. I swallow and try again. “Why?”
“You just said, ‘What the—?’ like you saw something crazy.” He looks down at the water below, looking for whatever startled me.
“It’s nothing,” I insist in a rush, trying to get his attention away from what I cannot possibly have actually seen. “I was thinking. About the dragon ice sculpture.” I resist the urge to glance back down out of fear that it might still be there. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”
“Right on,” Kyle says.
He digs into the calamari, and I struggle to get my breathing under control. This is a perfectly normal date with my perfectly normal boyfriend, overlooking a perfectly normal body of water. The setting sun must have reflected into my eyes because, for a second, I thought I saw—
No, it’s not possible. It’s the stress of the day, and the news of my adoption and my supposed sisters showing up on my front step. Stress hormones are playing tricks on my mind. Because I can’t possibly have seen a woman with long, stringy black hair swimming toward the pier, with a giant serpent’s tail undulating along behind her human torso.
Picking up my salad fork, I spear a ring of calamari, dip it lightly in marinara, and lift the bite to my mouth. My attention stays sharply focused on Kyle, our food, and the elegantly set table between us.
I’m not afraid to look out the window again. I’m trying to be in the moment, to enjoy my meal and my boy—
Oh, who am I kidding?
I set my fork down on the plate, close my eyes, and turn toward the window. One, two . . . . On the count of three I open my eyes.
Just in time to see the serpent lady climb out onto the deck below and slink into the crowd of tourists.
“Sugar,” I whisper.
This is not my problem, I reason. I’m Greer Morgenthal, junior class president, alumnae tea chair, and future junior leaguer. I’m wearing Stella McCartney and Jimmy Choo. I can’t take on something like, like . . . that.
But as I rationalize with myself, the creature slithers through the crowd, running her abnormally long fingers through women’s hair and up men’s spines. They react to the touch, but not to the creature herself. Can they not see her?
When the pointy end of her tail makes a big swing, knocking three people off their feet, and the crowd only looks confused, I think I have my answer.
“Kyle?” I ask absently. “What do you see down there?”
I point directly at the creature as she cuts a swathe through the crowd.
“Tourists,” Kyle answers. “Loads and loads of tourists.”
“Of course.” They, ordinary humans—I shudder as I realize what this means—can’t see her.
I want to stay. I want to ignore the snake lady and whatever she plans to do in the crowd below. But I have nothing if not a strong sense of responsibility. If I am the only person who can see what she really is, then I don’t have much of a choice, do I?
“Excuse me, would you?” I push back from the table, leaving my napkin on my chair as I get up. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure, babe.”
Not even wasting time to get annoyed at Kyle for calling me “babe”—again—I turn and hurry for the lobby. Instead of heading through the door with a mermaid sign, I slip downstairs and out the main entrance.
With every fiber of my being, I’m hoping she’ll be gone when I get down there.