Threes

Things happen in threes. That’s what they say anyway. And right now, as I’m minutes from an unfortunate end, I’m beginning to believe them.

Wait, back up. I shouldn’t start here. Let’s do some background.

Three years ago I lost my wife. No, she didn’t pass, she’s not in some better place, at least not that I know of. Though who knows she might be. No, I lost her.

We were visiting a quaint little fishing village in Suffolk, England, having decided to take a second honeymoon there. It had been almost 30 years since we had been across the pond, and while we were more familiar with London, we decided to travel a bit more of the countryside. A small bed and breakfast for a few days, then on to another pretty little town. “The Ship” was the name of the place we stayed in, ah, I can’t remember the name of that strange little town. Dunshire, Innsmythe? Why can’t I remember? At any rate it was the third village we visited on our trip.

We got in late, and though the owner of the bed and breakfast was very accommodating when my wife rang the bell, things were different though when we tried to find a bite to eat on a short walk around the town. There were few people about, and those that were seemed very standoffish. I’m sure I mumbled about the welcome, but she wasn’t having any of it. Her smile could have lit the lanes and broke the chill fog that had rolled in.

After a walk that would have been lonely if not for her, wet air from the sea spray dampening my spirits, we stumbled upon a dockside pub, “The Trident” according to the weathered sign above the door. We stumbled through the door, an uneven runner making our entrance even more jarring I’m sure to the few locals present. My wife seemed happy though, and sidled right up to the bar. The barman responded to her immediately, and after making an order for fish and chips and a few pints, she moved over to a table by one of the windows. All I could do was follow, hooked by her easy nature and comfort here in this odd place.

The food was good, spicier than I was used to from this staple, and I was so absorbed in the meal that I didn’t really notice when she slipped away to use the restroom. A nod and a grunt is what she got as I shoved more fish into my stupid mouth. A nod and a grunt.

That was the last exchange we had, and I hate myself for it.

By the time I realised what was going on I had finished my meal and was on my third, or fourth, pint of dark. I started looking around, and felt suddenly uneasy. I felt like the few patrons, gruff men all, men of the sea, were looking at me. Whispering to each other. About me. It was unsettling, and I was just noticing that it had to be thirty minutes at least since she had left the table. Thirty minutes. How had I not noticed?

Well now I had, and I stood up and moved to the rear of the pub, looking for the bathrooms. I asked the barman when I didn’t find them, and I could barely make out that there weren’t any, only an outhouse out back. My pace quickened as I left through the back door, checked the dilapidated looking shack that must be what the barman meant, and found nothing. An empty shack with a trough and a wooden box with two holes rough cut into it.

Honestly the next bit of time is a bit of a blur. How long had it taken me to find the constable? How long had it taken to convince him to help me search for her? How long had I been stuck in that wet, smelly, squamous little town as people were questioned, I was questioned, dive teams searched in vain. Weeks.

Three weeks. And nothing.

I lost her. I lost my wife.

Eventually I went home to the States. In a fog, trapped in the fog that had smothered the docks of that awful little town that night. It had followed me, the bone numbing chill. The smell of fish and offal that I couldn’t get out of my nose no matter how hard I tried. The damp, dragging down my spirit no matter how wet my lips were from alcohol.

My family tried to console me, tried to help me, staying in contact with the authorities over there when I had given up, until they then gave up.

Her family kept hounding me. What have they found? Why haven’t you pushed them to keep searching? When will you accept that she’s gone? When can we hold a funeral?

Three months. And nothing.

I had to escape. I had to leave. Nothing made sense anymore. Not my life, not my job. Without her smile, without the song of her voice in my life I wanted nothing.

I had nothing.

I had to get her back. She wasn’t dead, I wouldn’t allow it. She was just missing. And I was going to find her.

So began the search, my search, alone. I liquidated all that I could, and while we were not rich, we did well enough. First I had to learn how to pilot a boat. Not just a dingy, but an ocean going vessel. That took some time, but I was determined, so much so that my instructors, people I hired for hours or days to teach me, called me Ahab. I didn’t find it funny.

Then I learned how to dive. I was never much one for water. Sure I could swim, quite well actually, but I tended to stay away from open water, always had. But thankfully diving came easy. When I started solo it was even pleasant, being down there, cold, mute, alone.

I won’t lie, a few times I came close to spitting out my regulator and just letting the water take me. But then I remember her. I remember my mission, my search. So I surface.

Skills obtained in about three quarters of a year I went back to England.

In London I used the last of my funds to purchase a seaworthy boat, diving gear, supplies for several months, and anything else I would need to live on the water, my new home. And amid that chill fog and damp spray I would find her. I set out for that evil little town.

As I moored just off the coast that first night I couldn’t deny that darkening little fishing village, while hateful, was yet beautiful and compelling, the twinkling of lights in ranked row houses marching up the hill from the waterside like some shadowy army emerging from the cradle of the sea. That first night, with those quaint thoughts, I slept on the water, and I dreamt of her.

I was lying on our bed that I had sold in our home of 30 years that I no longer owned. The sheets, while enveloping, coddling, were slick, damp, but felt comfortable, like a womb that I can’t possibly remember, or like the sea. And she was there with me. Her skin was cool, soothing to my fevered skin, and in the low light of the weak nightstand lamp her always pale skin took on a bluish tinge from our royal blue sheets. She enwrapped me, held me tight, and breathed steadily like the whisper of waves against my chest as her curled, always tangled hair seemed to float all about us. It was enough, and I slept more soundly than I had since I lost her.

I had that dream every night. As I spent my days diving and searching for hours up and down the coast, looking for anything, a shred of her clothes, her bag, one of her shoes. Hours spent in the water, fighting the currents and sifting through one lit patch of silt after another. Yet after the first couple days, while I still continued searching, I always looked forward to the dream. I had that dream every night for three weeks. And every night, as my search took me deeper into the sea and farther out, we were allowed to spend more time together.

Until something hit the boat.

I knew that I was several leagues off the coast, and while the sea had been very kind, and was still diving every day, I wasn’t reaching the bottom anymore, I wasn’t really searching for her. If I’m honest, I was mostly just letting the sea hold me, contain me, until I would see her again as night fell.

I was torn from her when I was thrown from my bunk, and into the dark. The power on the boat was out, and on my hands and knees I was up to my elbows in water. There was a tilt that was worsening by the second, and before long the lockers at the rear of the lower deck containing my diving equipment fell underwater. I took a deep breath and grabbed some of the gear, in the dark, by touch, and clambered up to the top deck as quickly as I could.

As the boat continued to slide under the water I tried to quickly strap the diving gear on, but maybe three minutes after having been drug awake into this new hell I was in the water.

The tanks were full, and so they quickly began to pull me under as I continued to get everything set up. I’d been diving for several weeks now though and so was not too worried. I got my mask on and looked around, but it was very dark, and difficult to see movement. I got the tanks strapped to my back and around my waist, and reached for the regulator.

It wasn’t there. No hose, no mouthpiece.

No air.

At first I panicked, not thinking, I tried to swim for the surface, already a minute or more into holding my breath. I didn’t know how far down I was, but the tanks were still dragging me down.

The tanks!

I struggled with the straps, low on air, and as I got the first free I felt something brush against my leg. Hopefully not a shark, need to stop thrashing.

Second strap free and the tanks continued to sink and I started to swim for the surface, but something caught on my pants and pulled me down.

It was getting hard to focus, but the strap must have caught, I reached for it and felt something cool, and slick.

Scaled.

And as I opened my mouth one last time, trying desperately to take in air but drowning, I opened my eyes, and for three seconds as water filled my lungs and my body seized I saw her.

Her skin, a bluish green with opaline highlights with a hint of scalene structure.

Her eyes, always dark, now abyssal, yet shining like the sun cutting through the fog.

Her mouth, smiling wide, lips parted slightly as it always did, though never with the needlike fangs that there now resided.

Her flowing curled hair now a tangled halo of darkness about her.

Just as my thoughts ceased, as my sight went dark, I felt her enwrap me, her lips finding mine, even as the sea enveloped us both, the three of us. Together.