Entangled by Midsummer

One

It must have been years, maybe even decades, since anyone else had been up in the attic of Katy’s house on the Oregon coast—which made it the perfect place for Mark to hide the thing that mattered more to him than anything else in the world—his sealskin.

Mark pulled himself up off the last rung of the rickety ladder that led from the second story of the little Victorian. He was happy to be on the much more reliable attic floor. Dust sparkled in the beam of sunlight that shone through the tiny window in the gable. He wiped his hands on his jeans and tried not to sneeze.

The airy space was filled with a random assortment of things: dried flowers, a large collection of umbrellas, rolled-up rugs, piles of clothes and blankets, a child’s high chair, a wooden trunk. Everything was covered with a layer of dust. The dust was so thick he couldn’t clearly make out his previous footprints on the floor, even though he’d walked across it less than a month before.

Mark had had a fun few weeks with Katy since he’d met her at the end of May, but it was only a few days until Midsummer, and he was ready to move on. He wanted to get up to the aquarium in Seattle by July, and there were a lot of seaside spots to visit along the way.

Besides, sooner or later she’d get too attached, and there was no way he could possibly tell her he was a selkie.

The old pine boards creaked as he walked across the attic. His flip-flops made soft smacking sounds on the wood floor, and dust rose up from his footsteps like little puffs of smoke. A seagull cawed outside, its cry muffled by the thick walls. The faint sound of the waves on the other side of the cliff was familiar and comforting.

He itched to spend a few days in his seal form. He hadn’t worn it since the day he’d met Katy. And it had been far too long since he’d felt the sea’s embrace.

It had all started in Newport at the Oregon Coast Aquarium. He had been in the pinniped enclosure discussing the usual topics with the seals, things like whether or not the water temperature was to their liking, what kinds of fish were they being fed, where they’d hid the toy a kid had dropped in their pen the other day. Mark hated that he couldn’t free them, hated that his cousins had to stay penned up, but he knew if he did help them escape, other seals would only be captured in their stead. So he spent time every year visiting aquariums along the western coast to make sure the seals and sea lions were being treated well.

Then Katy had come up to him. She’d said she was a botanist doing research with the aquarium, and that she liked to look at the seals—but Mark knew women, and he knew why she had really stopped. She had the red curls of a temptress, wore a blue sweater that was tight in just the right places, and her smile promised fun. She’d been easy to charm—as they always were.

He’d spent that night at her house, and hid his sealskin in her attic the next day. He’d only planned to stay a few days, but had found Katy to be quite fun. If it hadn’t been for the itch of the sea, he might have stayed even longer.

Mark reached the pile of blankets and coats and sweaters he’d hidden his skin in. It was about the size of a down comforter, and weighed quite a bit more than any blanket. He smiled as he knelt down and began to rummage through them, the musty scent of old fabric tickling his nose. It was going to feel so good to be back in the water. Swimming in his human form just wasn’t the same.

He pulled the last blanket aside, the plaid wool rough against his skin.

The bare wooden floor stared back at him.

No sealskin.

He must have missed it. He pressed his lips together. He went through the pile again, pulling every piece out one by one and placing it on the floor.

But his sealskin wasn’t there.

Mark sat back on his heels, chills running down his back.

He took a deep breath, stood up, and looked around. There must be another stack of blankets. The attic was filled to the gills with crap. He must have put it somewhere else. He must have.

Except he knew he hadn’t. It was part of him. He always knew exactly where he’d hidden it. He’d put it right here, in the northwest corner of the attic, in the pile with the green argyle sweater on top.

Mark stood as still as if he were frozen, all the old tales coming back to him about female selkies having their skins stolen, and then being forced to marry human men and never return to the sea.

That couldn’t be him.

That wouldn’t be him.

He must have moved it. Or perhaps he’d put it behind a box, or under the umbrellas, and had merely forgotten.

He searched the next pile, then the next, throwing winter coats, faded dresses made of taffeta and lace, and multi-colored afghans aside. Clouds of dust filled the air and tickled the back of his throat. He ripped open box after box, threw the umbrellas across the room, shook out every blanket. He tossed the contents of the old trunk onto the floor. He scoured the room, moving faster and faster, leaving a trail of clutter in his wake. He smacked his head on the low beams, but barely noticed. He pulled down the dried flowers and herbs that hung from the rafters, unrolled the old rugs, flung aside shirts, dresses, shoes, went through every bag and box and stack and pile.

Where was it? It was his!

It was him.

And without it, he could never return to the sea.

Finally, he fell to his hands and knees on the pine floor, his face wet with tears. His breath came in huge gasps, and his T-shirt clung to his sweat-drenched body.

He knelt there, his head hanging down, until his breathing slowed. Empty cardboard boxes, rumpled newspapers, and old clothing littered the room. He pushed himself to his feet, wiped his face on his shirt, and walked back across the room to the attic hatch. Dried leaves crunched under his flip-flops. He climbed down the ladder, lifted the folding steps back up toward the ceiling, and pressed the door shut. A few stray pieces of paper had fallen through the hole, so he picked them up and put them in the recycling bin in the kitchen. He grabbed his packed duffle bag up from next to the front door, put his things back in the bedroom closet, and waited for Katy to come home.

That evening over dinner, he said, I’ve lost something in the house. A kind of coat.

Katy smiled, and said, I know.

That night he slept on the sofa, or at least tried to. His dreams were filled with endless chases in which he ran after something important he’d lost. Each time he’d think he was getting close it would disappear, and he’d wake up in a cold sweat to find himself shivering, curled up in a tiny ball.

Nothing he’d said could change Katy’s mind. It was like trying to convince the tide to cease. No matter how he yelled and begged and pleaded with her to return his sealskin, she’d just smiled and said horrible, cruel things like, You’ll get used to it.

Around three in the morning he gave up attempting to sleep. He stormed out of the house, got into the beat-up old pickup he’d bought a few weeks before, and headed north. He had nowhere to go, no friends—not around here, at least—to ask for help. Every year when he visited the coast he spent most of his time charming woman after woman, staying with each of them for a week or two or three before moving on. He’d have to think hard to remember any of their names. But even if he found one of them again, there was nothing any of them could possibly do to help. And how could he prove he was a selkie without his sealskin?

He drove up the winding highway, no goal other than to be away from Katy for a while before trying to plead with her again.

It began to rain. His windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the slow, steady flow. He passed the outskirts of the little town, then followed the highway as it wound through tall fir and spruce trees. His headlights glistened on the dark ribbon of road.

Every time the trees cleared and he could see the ocean, he felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. He wanted to park the car, scramble down a cliff, and run across the sand to jump in the waves. He wanted to dive in, feel the cold water close in over his head, glide down to the ocean floor and hear the sound of the sea in his ears.

Would he ever be able to do that again?

What if he never got his sealskin back at all?

Mark gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers hurt, and drove on.

After a while he started to feel a pressure at the base of his skull, as if someone’s fingers were pressing into his skin. He rubbed his hand over the back of his head and neck, but the sensation remained. The longer he drove, the sharper it became. The pain began to radiate out to his temples, and intensified until his head felt as though it were caught in a vise.

He passed a gas station, a bright outpost of florescence in the night. The next time he saw a wide area on the side of the road, he pulled off and waited while a handful of cars behind him passed by. The gas station would have ibuprofen or something that would help the pounding in his head.

Once the road was clear, he did a U-turn. The pain lessened dramatically as soon as he turned his truck around.

Mark pulled into the parking lot of the gas station, the engine idling, and rubbed his forehead. It was just a coincidence that the pain had decreased. It had nothing to do with Katy or his sealskin. It was ridiculous to even think such a thing.

He sat there for a moment. The soft patter of raindrops on the roof of the truck sounded normal, soothing.

This is crazy. He grabbed the wheel and headed north, pressing so hard on the gas pedal his wheels spun on the slick pavement.

The throbbing in his temples intensified.

A chill ran down his spine. Was this why the selkies in the legends hadn’t left their captors? Katy already had his sealskin, which was horrible enough. Did her possession of it give her some sort of power over him as well?

The importance of keeping his sealskin well-hidden on land had been drilled into him when he was young. In the old tales, the selkie women couldn’t return to the ocean because they couldn’t change from their human forms. But what if there was more to it than that?

He stopped, did another U-turn, and parked on the shoulder. Sure enough, the pounding in his head decreased when his car was facing south, toward town. He tried this a few more times; each time the result was the same.

Finally he gritted his teeth and headed back to Katy’s, his heart beating so loudly he could barely hear the rain on his windshield.

By the time he pulled into her driveway, his head and neck felt normal again. He got out of his truck and stood in the drizzle, staring at the old, wooden house. Katy had turned the porch light on for him. It shone through the darkness of the night like a lighthouse beacon, warning of rocks ahead.

The thought of going inside made his stomach feel as though it had been tied in knots. He couldn’t go in and face her. Not now.

Mark slammed the door of the rusty pickup and headed down the sidewalk, away from Katy’s house. The night air was cool and humid. His flip-flops made little splashing sounds on the wet pavement. He’d only walked a few feet when a lance of pain jabbed behind his right eye. It felt like being stabbed with a fishhook.

He stopped and swallowed. His damp T-shirt clung to his skin. The cool, humid air smelled of wet grass, damp earth, and the salty tang of the sea on the western side of the cliff from where Katy’s house sat. The soft rumbling of the waves carried over the sound of rain pattering on the concrete. He stood there for a moment, and then turned around.

The pain vanished like footprints in the sand that had been washed away by the waves.

He set his shoulders and began walking back to Katy’s.

The next morning Mark woke up early and searched Katy’s car, then grabbed her purse off the rocking chair in the living room, and went through it while she was in the shower to see if there were any clues that might tell him where she might have taken his sealskin. He found nothing. Finally he sat on the stone bench in the middle of the overgrown herb garden, his head in his hands. The screen door squeaked as Katy came outside. He ignored her, his eyes fixed on the ground, and listened to the heels of her sandals clack on the flagstones as she walked across to the gravel driveway.

See you tonight! she said, her voice bright and cheery.

Mark clenched his jaw and focused on a dark gray pebble that lay next to his big toe. After a moment he heard the engine of her small sedan start. He didn’t look up until she’d driven away and he could no longer hear her car.

He spent the day searching every cranny of the house, scouring each room and cupboard and closet over and over and over. He looked under every bush, climbed the trees in her yard to check their branches, and rummaged through the plants in the garden. He scoured the attic again and again, and took a flashlight down to look in the dank, and unfortunately empty, crawl space. He went through every shelf and bin and bucket in the little garage Katy called her workshop, pushing aside bunches of herbs and flowers she had hung up to dry. After looking everywhere he could think of, he drove down to Newport and snuck into her office at the aquarium while she was in a meeting.

Again, he found nothing, not even a stray piece of fur from his pelt.

His trip to the aquarium had been pain-free, which he wanted to believe meant he’d imagined the events of the night before. But he knew he hadn’t. He felt different inside, as if something tethered him, like a boat tied up to a dock. The lack of discomfort on his drive might only mean that Katy wasn’t compelling him to be near her at the moment.

That evening Mark paced around the little house, jumping every time he heard a car turn onto the quiet street. When Katy’s car pulled up outside, he peered out the kitchen window and watched as she trotted up the wooden steps to the porch. He leaned against the refrigerator door and waited.

She opened the creaky old screen door and stepped into the house, her heels clicking softly on the wood, her movements slow and cautious as she looked around to see where he was.

Oh hello, Mark, she said. Her thick red curls were pulled back in a loose knot. She set her purse on the dining table and gave him a smile that didn’t reach her blue eyes. He used to like her rose and jasmine perfume, but now the scent seemed cloying and thick.

Please give it back, Katy. Mark tried to keep his voice steady and calm even though his blood boiled with rage. Please. I can’t live without it.

Katy raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. You seem to be doing just fine so far.

Mark took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He had to keep it together even though inside he felt like a volcano about to erupt.

I... This isn’t right. You can’t force me to stay here.

It appears that I can, she said, her eyes locked on his. After a moment she sighed. I am sorry, Mark. Truly. But you were going to leave me.

No, I wasn’t, he lied. He pressed up against the refrigerator so hard the door handle dug into his back. I don’t know where you got that idea.

If only he’d left her sooner.

When had she taken his sealskin? Had he subconsciously delayed his departure, already falling under her control even though he hadn’t yet discovered the theft?

Katy shrugged off the light purple cardigan she wore over her sleeveless cotton blouse, hanging the sweater on the back of one of the wooden dining chairs. She gave a small shake of her head. It doesn’t matter now. And you know as well as I do that you’ll get used to this over time.

"I will never, ever get used to this," he said.

But he knew he would, just like the selkies in the legends had. He didn’t know how or why, but he could feel the truth in her words like a cut to the bone. He had to do something now, before the magic of possession changed him too much and he became someone he was not. Someone who belonged to Katy.

He marched across the kitchen tiles toward her. She opened her mouth slightly, but stood her ground. He grabbed her pale, freckled arms and