"Wouldn't it make sense to open a bar like that here, near Weeki Wachee Springs? People already come here for the mermaid attraction."
Mom takes a napkin from a holder and dabs at her eyes. I can tell she's relieved that I've changed the subject from our messy relationships. As much as I hate to admit it, we're too much alike, always looking toward the future, never absorbing the lessons of the past.
Lately, though, the future has seemed equally as dismal as the present.
Until today.
"The park has a lock on all things mermaid in this area. Go somewhere different. Somewhere quirky, somewhere with money." She sips her coffee.
I swallow a growing lump in my throat. "The park's like home. I love being the most senior mermaid, and mentoring the younger swimmers."
Now I have to grab a napkin and wipe my own eyes. "Oh, I'm a mess," I mutter. The fact that I'm sadder at the thought of leaving my friends — the other women who swim in the mermaid shows at the park — than Brent, speaks volumes.
"Of course you adore the park and your co-workers. But this is an opportunity for you to start fresh. You're still so young."
"Some days, I feel eighty," I grumble. It's funny, because at the park I'm bubbly and upbeat. It's as if the real me comes out when I'm working, swimming and performing. The rest of the time, I'm quiet, dim, and watching the door.
"Oh! I almost forgot. Wanda left you a letter." Mom turns to the chair next to her, where her giant, white leather purse sits. I settle in, because it could take a while for her to dig through the black hole that is her bag.
I lean forward, eager to read the letter from the woman whom I'd always admired for being eccentric. Wanda had lived her eighty-six years on her own terms and died in her sleep. Just the way she had wanted.
Mom surfaces with an envelope. She hands it to me.
I inspect the front.Leilani Kostas, it says. The envelope is that of the local electric company, with its address crossed out in ballpoint pen. Reusing and repurposing envelopes had been another of Wanda's tactics; I recall getting similar ones as a kid on my birthday, filled with a crisp $2 bill. Those had been Wanda's most generous gifts.
Until now.
I break the seal and open the envelope.
Dear Leilani?—
If you're reading this, that means I'm gone. Don't spend too much time crying over me. I had a good life.
Somehow, this makes me grin, this no-nonsense salutation from the grave. I continue reading.
I'm leaving you a substantial inheritance. My only wish is that you use it to create joy. To create a life that you will be proud of when you're my age, a life that will bring joy to others, but more importantly, to you.
The wordyouis underlined. Twice.
I’ve been so proud hearing about your adventures as a Weeki Wachee mermaid. You have brought happiness to thousands of people over the years. Isn't it time you work on making yourself as happy as you've made others?
I love you, my dear.
Wanda
I nod through my tears. Wanda had known all about my life with Brent — our whirlwind courtship, and how I'd moved into his newly built home when we'd only known each other for a month. I'd been staying in a trailer with two other mermaids, and living with Brent in his beautiful, new house seemed like a dream come true. That was two years ago.
How wrong I had been, about everything. He'd started small — little corrections, what I wore, who I texted. By month three, he was rewriting my schedule. By month six, every joke I told was something to be polite about, not laughed at. I'd left briefly, after one particularly humiliating dinner where he'd told his banker friends that mermaids weren't a real career, and they'd all smirked. He begged for forgiveness. Stupidly, I took him back, egged on by my friends. He didn't mean it, they said. Everyone makes mistakes, they said.
But with every harsh word and nasty comment in the months that followed, I began to slowly lose myself. I withdrew from everything I loved. Except swimming.
Isn't it time you work on making yourself as happy as you've made others?
"I want to stay in state. I'm a Florida girl," I say, almost defensively, as if Aunt Wanda's sitting at the table with us. “I shouldn’t have to leave the place I love.”
"That's fine. You can do that. Just get out of here. What about Miami?"
I wiggle my nose. "It would be great, but it's pretty expensive. And there's so much to do already, I don't know if people would want to visit a mermaid-themed bar. Plus all that traffic."