Chapter 3 Wren
Three
Wren
Bethany is late. Again.
Which means instead of leading tours—where at least I can slip some actual history into the fiction on display around here—I’m
stuck behind the gift shop counter, ringing up plastic snow globes filled with iridescent glitter, seashell-shaped bags of
mermaid poop slime, and overpriced T-shirts that say I Met the Real Little Mermaid at McCleave’s Mermaid Museum.
The register, as always, is fighting me. Two out of every three attempts, it refuses to cooperate, blinking back at me like
it knows I can’t do a damn thing about it.
At least the shop is empty now, except for one girl.
She’s about my age, maybe a little younger, but I’d have noticed her even in a crowd. Not because she’s loud or trying to
draw attention—she’s not—but because she doesn’t look like the usual flip-flop-wearing, sunburned tourists who roll in off
Main Street. She’s wearing a sundress with a ribbon in her hair, like she walked straight out of a black-and-white movie.
She doesn’t even glance at the shelves, heading straight for the arched entrance to the exhibits.
Then she hesitates. Doubles back. Drifts toward the round table in the center of the shop, fingers skimming over the T-shirts
before picking one up.
“Which one of you will Goldie like enough to forgive me for ditching her today?” she murmurs to the fabric.
A minute later, a shirt lands on the counter.
“Hi,” she says, her voice light and neutral, the kind of greeting you give to strangers without thinking about it.
I nod and start ringing her up—or I try to, because naturally, the register picks now to rebel.
“I had one of those,” she says, watching as I jab at the buttons. “I worked in this vintage clothing store in Arizona, and
I swear the register had a personal vendetta against me.”
Tourist. Called it.
I don’t bother responding beyond a quiet “Hmm,” still trying to get the stupid machine to cooperate. It finally does, spitting
out a receipt like it expects a thank-you.
I bag her shirt and slide it across the counter. “Anything else?”
She smiles again, not forced, just easy. “Actually, I had a question—” She glances at my name tag. “Wren.” Then at the words
beneath it. “Oh, you’re a guide. Perfect. When does the next tour start?”
It doesn’t.
I check my phone again—nothing from Bethany—before answering. “We’re short-staffed today, so you’ll have to settle for the placards by each exhibit.” Then I shrug. “But you can make up whatever you want. It’s all fiction.”
The words land like I just popped her beach ball.
“Is there maybe a curator or collections manager I could speak with?” she asks, still hopeful.
I almost laugh. “Nope. But there is a full-sized mermaid skeleton waiting for you just through there.” I nod toward the museum’s
main hall. “Captain Lawrence McCleave ‘discovered’ Nerissa during a whaling expedition in 1893. Before that, this place was
a cabinet of curiosities—his wife’s way of sharing all the interesting finds her husband brought home, and turning a profit
at the same time.”
She turns toward the exhibit. I can’t see her face, but I can imagine the expression well enough.
Most people expect drawings. Models. Cute little Disney-esque displays for kids to laugh at.
They do not expect her.
There is nothing laughable about the six-foot skeleton standing eerily upright, its form suspended by a thin metal wire that
runs from the skull down through a narrow ribcage, past flared fin bones at the hips, and along an extended vertebral column
that tapers into a sweeping, curved tail. Delicate, spindly bones fan from the tail’s edges, resembling skeletal fingers stretching
a couple dozen inches on either side.
“They come for the fantastical, Wren, so that’s what we gotta give them,” Dad says every time he sets up a new display. “We
need them to be so wowed that they have to tell everyone they know how much they love McCleave’s.”
Personally, I find the whole thing to be rather grotesque.
Not just the skeleton’s wide eye sockets and sharp teeth, but the way we’ve accessorized her over the years.
A crudely carved whale bone knife, a shark tooth cuff, and a seashell necklace, all conveniently available for purchase in the gift shop.
Tourists eat it up.
Usually.
But this tourist girl doesn’t walk straight toward the display like most people do. Instead, she turns back to me.
“What else can you tell me about how the museum started and the kind of early exhibits it had?” Before I can do more than
blink at a question literally no one else has ever asked me, she glances past me. “Oh, is that him, Captain McCleave?”
I follow her gaze, and my stomach tightens.
She’s looking at the McCleave’s History display wall.
I keep my expression neutral, but I really don’t want to be here while she studies it.
She scans the display, skipping over the daguerreotype photo of Captain Lawrence McCleave himself on his schooner, the Greasy Luck, in favor of an early copy of the 1889 Ewer Map of Nantucket Island (now sporting a few colorful mermaid additions not included
in the reverend’s meticulously detailed original). She barely glances at the artist’s rendition of a living Nerissa—just long
enough to read the caption declaring her a member of the Hydronymphus pesci species, a supposed Asian lineage of merfolk.
And then—just as I expect—her attention turns back to the photograph of Captain McCleave.
Then to me.
Then back to him.
Her lips twitch. “Your name is Wren? As in Lawrence? Are you related to Captain McCleave?”
I brace.
Then, right on cue, a grin spreads across her face. “You are.” She gestures between me and the photo. “The dark wavy hair,
the eyes, and that jawline—” A splash of pink colors her cheeks as she realizes what she just said.
I grip the edge of the counter, fighting not to react.
Fortunately, a little girl of around six is pawing through a bin of stuffed starfish at that moment and has angled herself
just far enough around to see that I’m not sitting on a regular chair behind the counter.
“Hey, you’re in a wheelchair.”
Observant kid. And by far the observation I prefer over anyone telling me I look like the good captain there. I avoid looking
at Tourist Girl as I unlock my wheels and turn to face the kid. “I am.”
“Did you get hurt?”
Gotta love the bluntness of children. I’m used to it though. “I broke my back four years ago. Don’t try jumping off Sunset
Cliffs, okay?”
She bobs her pigtailed head, moving to study me. “You look like you can walk, but you can’t?”
“Nope, no walking for me. My chair gets me everywhere I need to go though.” I pop into a quick wheelie to demonstrate while
I cast a glance around for the mom in case this turns into full-on interrogation. She’s hunched over a stroller trying to
keep a toddler from grabbing at a row of blown-glass siren figurines.
“You should get a bright blue chair or maybe a yellow one,” the kid says, unimpressed with my solid black frame when I set the casters back down. “Or lights!” She kicks up her sneakered foot then brings it down hard on the ground to show me the way it lights up. “See how mine do?”
I can’t not smile at that. “I’ll look into it.”
“Is that why you work here? Because they don’t have any stairs?”
My smile turns tightlipped. “Uh-huh.”
The kid runs off, sneaker lights flashing when her mom calls her over, and I’m left with just Tourist Girl again. She’s moved
right up to the museum’s history wall to read the rest of it, while casting increasingly frequent glances my way.
I’ve always hated the way guests study me once they make the connection, picking apart every feature like I’m some kind of
relic of the past. I hated it even before I broke my back and gave them another reason to stare. Me and my wheelchair have
been a fact of life for a while now, and we mostly don’t fight anymore—but I have no interest in being a tourist attraction.
Not now. Not ever.
“You’re really his descendant, aren’t you? So this place has been in your family for nearly a century and a half. I bet it’s
changed a lot, more than just Nerissa out there?” Her eyes focus intently on me and she swallows before opening her mouth.
“I was curious though—”
I cut off her question since I doubt it’s the innocent-kid kind.
“I am related to him,” I say flatly. “But no, I’ve never seen a real mermaid.
I don’t believe they exist. I don’t believe in sea monsters or krakens or anything else like that.
But if you do, then by all means.” I flick a hand toward the lobby then move back behind the counter.
“The Siren’s Hall is to the left, where we pretend mermaids played a pivotal role in maritime history.
Inside, you’ll find old sea charts marked with dubious sketches of fish-women, dramatic paintings of sailors documenting their encounters, and an entire wall dedicated to mermaid sightings.
The timeline stretches from ancient Babylonian mythology all the way to 2017—when police discovered a so-called mermaid wandering Fresno, proudly displaying webbed toes on both feet. ”
I don’t check if that ruins the magic for her before I keep going. “If you’re in the mood for more, there’s the Sunken Kingdom
Exhibit to the right—McCleave’s attempt at creating an immersive merfolk city. It’s got artifacts like The Little Mermaid’s actual ‘dinglehopper’ and a water tank where guests can fish for mermaid eggs, crack them open, and if you find an elusive
golden mermaid figure inside, redeem it for anything on that shelf.” I point to the one above my head then lean my forearms
on the counter. “And even more exhibits beyond those. Either way, I think I’m done answering questions for the day.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t . . .” She trails off as the little girl returns, this time accompanied by her mom, and plops a full set
of Nerissa accessories on the counter, excitedly talking about wearing it all to the beach later.
My original customer starts to back away as I take up arms against the register once again. From the corner of my eye, I catch
her biting her lip as she glances between the entrance that leads into the exhibits and the exit as if trying to make up her
mind which way to go. I could offer her a suggestion, but a moment later she sighs and starts to head farther into the museum.
“Hey. Tourist Girl.”
She turns back to find me holding up her bag.
“Don’t forget your T-shirt.”