fiction by aleah romer
Mulberry Literary Fresh Voices Award First Place Winner in Prose

The Selkie

I was there that morning on the boat. Thirteen years old and sullen because I’d wanted to go into town to the library. I had the newest Percy Jackson book on hold, and all my friends had already read it. Their parents didn’t make them wait for weeks on a library hold list. 

My dad pulled her up, naked and shining in the shafts of sunlight. He was working the crabbing boat, like all our family had before, and she was caught in one of the traps. The nylon tangled around her slim ankle.

Her hair was black and long, so long it hid her face at first, but then she looked up at me with those big, liquid eyes, and I felt my heart stutter in my chest. 

“Amy,” my dad said to me, in warning. But I was already on my knees in front of her. 

She was only a few years older than me, her face still round. The bridge of her nose was flat, the fleshy part round as her face. Water droplets clung crystalline to the fine baby hairs on her cheeks, and her thin-lipped mouth made a perfect “O” as she stared mutely back at me. 

“You’re safe now,” I said to her, breathing softly so that my dad couldn’t hear. The gulls screamed in warning from the shore, and she let out a shuddering breath. 

“Amy,” Dad said again, his voice more urgent, “Get away.” 

I couldn’t though. Her pupils were so large I couldn’t see the irises—couldn’t see the whites of her eyes. They sucked me in and all I could hear was the ocean roaring around us, and, below that, the thump of her heartbeat. 

Help me, those eyes said. 

I fumbled for her leg, slid my hands down her silk-smooth skin until I found her ankle, and then I untangled her. She put her hands on mine, and I saw that her pink-brown fingers were webbed. 

Thank you, those eyes said. 

My skin pulsed where her hand touched, as if every fiber was coming alive for her alone. 

I smiled at her, and opened my mouth to ask her name. 

Strong arms wrapped around me then, and my dad hoisted me up and away from the girl. I struggled, wanting to get back to her, but there was a splash and she was gone. 

I went limp in my dad’s arms, but he held me tighter. 

“You’ll be okay,” he said, his voice wavery. “It’s gone. You’ll be ok.” 

I didn’t feel okay. I felt as if I’d lost something important. My chest ached as I searched the waves for any sign of her. 

But she was gone. 

*

“Don’t tell your mother,” my dad said, lingering too long over our welcome mat. 

I didn’t want to say anything. My skin was still cold and sensitive from where her hand had touched mine. There was a faint briny smell, sharp and salty and inviting. 

We lived in a shingled house up the hill from a rocky beach on the Oregon coast. From my bedroom window I could see a sliver of gray ocean through the trees, and I sat there for hours, watching the little bursts of white sea foam and wondering if she was the cause. 

We didn’t eat crab in our house. Dad said there was enough crab in his blood that he didn’t need to add it to his stomach too. But I woke up the next day with a craving greater than anything I had ever felt. 

“Can’t we have crab legs?” I asked my mom, who looked at me like I was crazy. 

“How about some fried chicken and mashed potatoes?” She offered instead. “Mac and Cheese? A rotisserie chicken from Safeway?” 

I finally settled for clam chowder, from a shack down the road that made the creamiest soups I’d ever tasted. I slurped up every drop, and chewed the clams until I could feel the grit between my teeth. It tasted too much like cream and not fishy enough. 

“I guess she’s becoming a woman,” my mom joked to Dad as she got in the car to go buy more fish for me. “A craving’s a craving.” 

Dad looked at me funny, but didn’t say anything. 

Mom brought inferior crab from the Safeway, and I sucked every sliver of meat from the carcass, till the sweet brine ran down my chin, and then I slurped my fingers over and over to lick every trace from them. 

Mom watched in amusement, but Dad wouldn’t look at me during meals. His jaw popped and tightened when he chewed, and he always left as soon as his plate was empty. 

I didn’t care, he left more seconds for me. 

When I wasn’t harassing my mom for more shellfish I was longing for the water. 

The vacationers had returned to their cities, leaving their fancy homes empty and the beaches free, so I crossed their backyards and made my way down to the shoreline. I sat on the driftwood logs and gulped the sweet air in. The gulls came closer than they ever had before and picked at my shoes and my pockets, where I had stashed some salmon jerky. When it was sunny I slept on the big rocks, and when it rained I tipped my head back and let the freezing drops slide over my face and down my neck. 

Always, I kept my face turned towards the sea, looking for her. She consumed my thoughts. I wanted to know everything about her; her name, her favorite sound, favorite color, what she did during the day when she wasn’t swimming too close to the crab traps. I started leaving things on the shoreline as if they’d bring her to me. Salmon jerky, brightly colored rocks, pieces of iridescent shell. I’d place them down by the surf and sit a little ways back, my knees to my chest and my eyes wide and fixed on the water. 

“You’re going to catch your death out there,” my mom said one day when I’d been caught in a storm. She ushered me into the bathroom, and ran the tap in the bathtub. 

“Can we have crabs for dinner?” I asked. 

“We’re having fish and chips,” she said, “but you can use some of my bath salts if you want. To warm you up.” 

When she left I pulled out her stash of sea salts. She kept them in the cabinet under the sink, in big glass jars that were colored according to scent. Purple for lavender, pink for rose, blue for eucalyptus. I opened the blue jar and breathed in deeply, then poured the whole thing in. The salt whooshed as it slid into the water, and the smell of eucalyptus overpowered my senses. 

The water stung a bit when I slid into it, but it seemed to welcome me too. I felt my body relax and realized that I’d been tensing every muscle in my body. My body, which had been my home for thirteen years, now felt alien, as if I didn’t quite fit inside my skin anymore. It was easier in water, where I was buoyed so that I didn’t have to hold my body up alone. 

My eyelids drooped, and I slipped into sleep. In my dreams I swam through the water, twisting in sheer joy as someone bobbed just a bit ahead of me. The figure sharpened, and I saw that it was a seal. The most beautiful seal I’d ever seen. She—and I knew it was a she—seemed to smile at me as she twined her soft body around mine, the muscles beneath her skin taut and powerful. Her black, luminous eyes gazed into mine. 

Hello again. They said, Do you feel it, too?

“It” was a buzz beneath my skin, thrumming so pleasantly that I knew it was good. I tried to speak, but bubbles came out of my mouth, my voice gargled. 

The seal’s eyes laughed at me. 

Soon. She said, Soon. 

I woke up floating, my head a few inches below the surface of my bath. For a moment I luxuriated in the warmth of the water, the soft sting of the salt, and then I felt the water in my nose and ears and thrashed, panicking. 

“Augh!” I choked, surfacing and streaming water from every orifice in my head. 

“Amy?” Mom called, “You ok in there?” 

It took me a moment to realize that I was ok, and I tried to steady my voice when I said, “Fine, Mom!” 

How long had I been under? How was I still alive? My fingers, which should have been pruned and pebbled, were smooth. That alone was a shock, but then I saw my toes. 

There, in the once-empty spots between each digit, was a thin membrane of skin. 

Webbed. My feet were webbed. 

*

I spent more time at the beach than ever before. The shore was changing. Instead of gull cries I heard shanties. Work songs about fishing that might have been from my dad and uncles. The beach, which was empty of humans, seemed crowded and more social than ever. 

I felt comfortable there among the sand and the sea creatures. More comfortable than I did in my own bed. My only complaint was that she was never there. No matter how long I waited—and I waited for hours at a time—she never appeared. I could feel her under my skin, thrumming up the veins of my arms. 

Where are you? I thought, longing for her with every fiber of my existence. 

She only came in my dreams, her eyes always smiling, always saying—

Soon. 

*

Mom started to worry because I never wanted to go into town anymore. 

“How about a visit to the library?” She asked one morning as she watched me add extra lox to my bagel. “You could pick up some new books?” 

“That’s okay,” I said, distracted, “I’d rather go down to the beach.” 

Mom frowned, and watched my plate, “Don’t you think you’re spending too much time alone down there?” 

I looked up at her, surprised. How did I tell her I was never alone anymore. Not when there was a constant thrum in my chest that felt like her. My seal-girl. 

But I couldn’t tell my mom that. She’d think I was crazy. So instead I said, “I like the quiet. It gives me time to think.” 

“Think about what?” 

I thought of my seal-girl’s dark eyes, the curve of her cheek, and my own cheeks warmed. 

Something shifted in Mom’s face, and a knowing look entered her eyes. “Oh,” she said, sounding a million times lighter. “Is there a cute boy in your class?” 

I felt humiliated and relieved at the same time. Relieved that she was fine with me being alone as long as I was thinking about something she deemed acceptable. Humiliated because I wasn’t thinking about boys. Hell, I wasn’t even thinking of a human. I became hyper aware of my webbed toes hidden beneath my shoes and socks. It seemed to me that the webbing burned in that moment, as if it wanted to out me as a monster to my mother. 

Mom, bless her, was completely oblivious to my turmoil. She gave an awkward wink, and patted me on the shoulder. “Okay, honey, just don’t think too long, okay?” 

“Okay,” I muttered weakly. 

I took my bagel and lox down to the beach and chewed the salty flesh, the fine bones pricking my tongue and inner cheeks as I stared at the limpid waves. 

She didn’t come. She never came. 

*

The thirst came suddenly in the middle of the night. I woke up with my throat on fire, my eyes stinging, my hands dry and cracking at the knuckles. I padded down to the kitchen and pulled a glass down from the cabinet. 

I meant to use the glass, I really did, but the moment I saw the jug of water I lost all thought. There was only the water and my open mouth guzzling every drop from our Brita pitcher. It poured smooth and cool down my gullet and curled in my belly. 

I needed more. 

When the last of it trickled onto my raw lips I turned to the kitchen sink and crawled up onto the counter to suck as much water as I could from the faucet. I drank and drank until my belly was as tight as a drum. 

I wanted more. 

The water fell on my face and I stuck my head under the tap, letting the water soak into my hair and dribble down my pajama top. It soothed the itchiness of my skin and made me feel drowsy and soft. 

My dad found me like that a few hours later, dressed for his early morning boat trip. I pried open my swollen eyes, the water still gushing over my head and neck, the counter and floor covered. Broken glass studded the tile and crunched beneath his feet as he slowly approached. 

There were tears in my dad’s eyes. He looked at me for a long moment, and then turned and walked away. I felt dizzy and slow from the water, and I couldn’t move to help when he returned with a towel. I could only moan a feeble protest when he turned off the water and covered me in a towel. 

“Hurts,” I croaked, meaning the towel. I could feel the water seep from my skin and into the terrycloth. Leaving me. 

Dad sniffed, and put his giant hands on either side of my face. “This has to stop, Amy,” he said, “You have to stop.” 

I was too far gone to be alarmed by the tone of his voice. My father, who had never cried once in my memory, stared me down with wet, watery eyes and said, “Don’t do this.” 

“What?” I asked, “What’s happening to me?”

He couldn’t answer me. What would he have said? 

*

I don’t remember much after that. I remember Dad tucking me into bed, and then crying loudly when he left. My skin flaked and chapped, my lips crusted over, and I cried constantly for water. 

“Mama,” I cried, thrashing, “Make it stop!” 

My poor mother knew less than I did about what was happening. She tried all the usual remedies, Dayquil, ibuprofen. She rubbed calamine lotion into the red patches of my skin, and made shushing noises as I keened. 

“We have to take her to the hospital,” Mom said, near hysterical as she watched me writhe on my sweat-soaked sheets. 

My dad shook his head, blurry in my vision, “No, not yet.” 

“What are you waiting for?” my mom asked. 

He never answered her. 

I finally stopped crying when Mom ran me a bath. Her eyes were red, her body taut as she lowered me down into the warm, beautiful water. 

The water lapped at my chin and I sighed in relief. “Salt?” I asked my mom, who bit her lip and nodded. She didn’t put in as much as I would have, but the smell of rose enveloped me and made me relax further. 

I slipped in and out of consciousness. In my dreams the seal-girl swam with me, eyes dancing. 

Soon. They said, Soon. 

I liked being with her in my dreams. When I was asleep there was no pain, only the playful whoosh of water and her constant presence to soothe me and tie me to her. I clung to her, terrified of waking. 

Because when I woke it seemed there was constant pain. My skin was too tight, my bones splintering and reforming under my cramping muscles. 

I screamed “Mama! Mama make it stop!” 

Then I couldn’t scream. The only noise that came out of me was a guttural moan. It filled the house and brought my mom running. 

She stopped in the doorway, eyes wide and horrified. “Dan,” she said, calling my dad. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?” 

My dad came up behind her and looked at me. I should have seen the worry in his eyes. I should have been scared, but all I could do was thrash in the bathtub, making those horrible moaning sounds. 

I thought of my seal-girl. Of the pain-free moments when I was with her. My whole body ached to be with her, to end my torment. I needed the seal-girl like I needed the sea. 

Take me to her, I tried to say, Take me to her! 

I could still feel her beneath my skin. Calling to me. For once I knew that if I went down to the beach I would find her there, waiting for me. 

My legs were too weak to hold me. There was something wrong with the skin, it was smooth and slippery, thicker than it had been before. I scrabbled at the side of the tub to pull myself up, and let out another cry when I saw my hands. 

Webbed. They were webbed. 

 I needed to get to the shore, to my seal-girl. I didn’t belong there in that house. Every particle of my being cried for the sea. For freedom. I flopped out of the tub and struggled on the tile floor, soaking everything with tub water. 

“Stop,” my dad said, voice choking. “Stop, Amy! You’ll hurt yourself.” 

I stopped struggling and stared pitifully up at him. My voice was gone, I could only moan, so I tried to speak like she did—with my eyes. 

Help me, I thought, willing him to understand me. 

For a moment, he only looked down at me, and then he gave a slow nod. 

He leaned down and scooped me up into his arms like I was a small child again. “I’ll take you,” he whispered, “Just stop fighting.” 

I went limp in his arms, unsure of whether to trust him or not. 

Dad walked me out the door, and down the road. It was dark, but I didn’t feel the chill on my naked body. I only felt the thrum under my skin that meant her, vibrating stronger the closer we got to the beach. 

I saw her there, in her seal form out past the tide. Waiting for me. I called happily to her, tensing in his arms the closer we got. 

Water fell on my face, and I looked in confusion upwards. His face was streaked with tears, his nose runny. I felt a curious pang of sorrow in my chest, but didn’t know why. I was so close. In moments I would be with her, and I would be free. 

He placed me in the surf, and the water felt like home on my burning skin. I wiggled a bit, and felt my bones finish moving--my skin finally tightening and smoothing over. In moments my awkward wiggles became graceful, and with the next crash of water I swam straight for the seal-girl. 

I forgot the man on the shore, forgot the woman weeping in the house up the hill. All I could feel was the comfortable thrum beneath my blubber. The welcome-home look in her eyes as we twined together and she promised me the world beneath the sea. 

I’m yours, her eyes said to me, and you’re mine. 

And I was. 

I fit into her life the way I never quite fit into mine. We spent our days playing beneath the waves, or basking in the sun on the warm rocks. We explored our territory and made friends with the other seals that never quite spoke our language. In the nights we slept side by side, our smooth bodies pressed tightly together in a nest of safety and comfort. 

I couldn’t change form like she did, but I didn’t miss being human. When some distant memory tickled the back of my mind I’d swim up to the fishing boats and listen to the music from their radios. There was one boat that lingered long after the others on those days. An old man who tossed bits of crab to me and spoke in a low, soothing voice. He called to me in a language I no longer spoke, and no longer cared to learn. 

When he’d thrown the last of the crab I skimmed away, flapping my tail in thanks, and returned to my home on the sunning rocks. The seal-girl met me halfway there, and twirled around me in giddy delight. 

What took you so long? those eyes said, drawing me in like they had the first time. Every time. 

My veins thrummed below my skin, and I chased after her, all thoughts of the man gone. 

She was mine, and I was hers. 

Aleah Romer is a queer, neurodivergent writer from the beautiful Pacific Northwest. She is currently working towards her MFA in the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, WA. You can find her at aleahromer.com