“What?” she asks, like she’s genuinely convinced she misheard me.
“This beach, being here by the water. It’s no wonder it’s hard for you to remember, when everything that Lo loves is just a few yards away. We should try to go farther into shore.”
“I can’t. I can’t walk.”
“You can with the shoes on. Sort of. And I had an idea for that.”
“I don’t look like you.”
“I had an idea for that, too,” I say, and reach into my purse. I pull out a compact of powder makeup, one I stopped wearing because it’s so heavy. I don’t think it’ll totally mask the blue of Naida’s skin, but it’ll help. Maybe at night, if no one is looking too closely, no one will notice she stands out. Besides, what would they say—“Excuse me, but your skin is blue”? No. They’ll try not to stare and hurry their children along.
I think. I hope.
But this can’t go on forever. Am I going to just keep coming here, reminding Naida of the life she once had? Caught between guilt over her actually saving Jude, hope that she’ll remember, joy when my power helps? Naida needs to remember being human. And that means being human. No ocean, no sand, no endless watery horizon. We have to at least try. It’s a weeknight; the Pavilion won’t be crowded—even my sisters opted to go to the movies instead of coming down here. It’ll be safe. It’ll help—I’ll help. It’s my power. Maybe helping Naida is the thing I’ve been waiting for, the chance to be—as Jude said—Celia instead of Anne and Jane’s sister. If that’s the case, I have to be brave, bold. I have to be more like my mother.
Naida doesn’t seem nearly as determined as me—she stares at her feet, licks her lips. I can tell she wants to go. She looks toward the Pavilion, closes her eyes. She nods.
I open the compact; Naida holds her arms out for me, and I smooth line after line of powder across them, swirling it around her elbows, then across her back, everywhere the dress doesn’t cover. Her skin is so smooth that the powder goes on easily, but it still looks strange against her skin, like it’s Halloween makeup instead of skin-toned. Her face is trickier, since the darkest blues are near her hairline. We spend almost an hour trying to cover her, with me taking a few steps back, looking at the work, then running in to patch places.
“I think that’s it,” I say finally, nodding. Naida looks down at her arms, smoothes the dress, smiles.
“Do I look normal?” she asks.
No. She doesn’t. She doesn’t look human; she looks like she’s in a disguise. But there’s so much longing in her voice that all I can do is grin and nod and hope that no one will ask questions.
She slides the shoes back onto her feet and winces as she takes a few steps out of the church’s doorway, into the sand. I rush to her side, link an arm underneath her shoulders to help her. The path will be the worst part—if we can just get to the top… I look over at the people on the edge of the pier. They’ll be able to see us from the halfway point, where the pier lights begin to illuminate the grass.
“See the light, right there?” I ask, stopping as we begin the trek upward.
“Yes,” Naida says breathlessly. The fear is gone, replaced by excitement, eagerness.
“At that point, you have to walk on your own. Until we get to the top. Then I’ll go get something for you—”
“What? Alone?” Naida asks, eyes jumping to me.
“If someone sees me helping you up, they’ll think you’re hurt. They’ll try to help, and if they get too close, they might see…” I motion toward the powder on her arms, clearly streaked and fake when I’m right next to her. “You have to make it on your own, and you have to make it look like it doesn’t hurt. Can you do it?”
Naida inhales, looks at the top of the trail. It’s only about twenty feet from where the light hits to the edge of the pier, but it’s uphill, through sea grass and sand—it’s tricky to navigate even for me.
“Yes. I want to remember. I have to,” she says firmly, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to convince me or herself.
We start up the pathway. It doesn’t take long for blood to drip over the sides of her shoes into the sand. She doesn’t wince, doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even close her eyes when I stumble and she’s forced to balance herself for a beat. When we get to the light, I look over at her and carefully, slowly, let her go. I motion for her to go first—if she falls, I want to be able to catch her. Naida presses her lips together, takes a step, another…. She leans down to use tufts of sea grass to tug herself forward, which I know must be slicing across her hands, but she doesn’t seem to notice. People are starting to glance over at the girls walking up the side of the pier. No one looks twice. Yes, this is working, this will work—
Naida stumbles forward on the last step when the sand shifts beneath her feet. She throws her arms out, an action that would probably steady her in the water but does nothing on land. She falls on her chest, scraping her face in the sand. Someone’s walking over to help her; he looks concerned—
“She’s fine,” I say—snap, even—from behind Naida. I struggle to run the last few steps, kneel to help her up.
“Are you sure?” the older man says. His hair is speckled gray, eyes doubtful.
“Yeah. She’s drunk, that’s all,” I say, giggling like it’s hilarious.
The man rolls his eyes. “Damn kids,” he mutters before walking back to the corn dog stand.
“Are you all right?” I whisper to Naida as I help her stand. The makeup on one side of her face rubbed off when she hit the sand. I whip the compact out and try to cover the blue again—though it’s actually not as noticeable here. It’s easy to pass it off as the glow from one of the neon lights or the flashing rides.
Naida doesn’t answer; she grabs hold of the edge of the pier and leans against it, digging her nails into the wood.
“Stay here,” I say. “Just a minute.” She blinks, like she’s dizzy, but nods. I dart away, not far, but enough to make me feel panicked, frenzied. The booth is just ahead—
“Hi,” I say to the woman inside the illuminated hut. She’s wearing a dirty shirt with the Pavilion’s logo, and her stomach presses against the edge of the counter. She stares at me.