Devil’s Purse
by Alyssa Cami
Josie gets an earful from Mom, then from Uncle Ben. She needs to keep a better eye on her sister, Mae, who’s only six. She shouldn’t be out on the flats alone behind Uncle Ben’s house. It doesn’t matter that the tide is out, that Mae is a strong swimmer. She needs someone to watch her, really watch her and not fall asleep on the splintery dock.
Responsibility for Mae wasn’t so much thrust upon Josie, as it was slipped into her lap and forgotten. Uncle Ben has work. Mom needs to rest. And there’s Josie, a warm body to assuage adult guilt.
It isn’t like Josie has anything better to do since they moved in with Uncle Ben on the Cape. No job at J.P. Licks. No lifeguarding at the pool. No swim team. No friends. All Josie has is an empty stretch of summer before starting sophomore year in a new school, the painful unfurling of Mom’s decline and a pest for a little sister. Only Mae would find a massive fish egg on the flats, then dump it into Uncle Ben’s aquarium while Josie dozed off.
The egg sac is black and the size of Josie’s hand, with four tendrils crooked like witch fingers at the rounded corners of a swollen pouch. It’s a king-sized version of the two-inch dried husks with slashed-open bellies that scatter the ocean-side beaches. Josie and Mae used to collect them on visits. Uncle Ben said they were skate or shark eggs. Mom called them mermaid purses.
The pouch-purse is backlit by the aquarium light, exposing the outline of the pup twitching inside. It’s folded in half, tail up by its head. On the glass, Uncle Ben’s stiff reflection explains in a calm-but-tight voice the importance of introducing new fish carefully to the aquarium so the resident fish don’t get sick.
Mae starts to cry. Mom’s too-thin arms encircle her.
Josie holds her own ribs, like it will keep in the fury clawing its way out of her. It doesn’t work. “There’s another name for these,” she says. Gramps told it to Josie before she even had a sister. Mae’s round face reflected in the glass is curious, open. Josie bares her teeth: “Devil’s purse.”
Mae howls. Mom holds Mae closer. Her eyes widen at Josie, asking her if she was serious. Josie keeps hold of her ribs and focuses on the pouch. It jerks to one side when the pup inside it writhes. Uncle Ben’s fish dart for cover in the rocks, driftwood and plants. The sharpness of the motion unsettles Josie. She reaches for the net.
Mae latches onto Josie’s arm and shrieks. “No! Don’t! Leave it!”
“It shouldn’t be in there.” Josie shakes Mae off and looks to Uncle Ben. “You just said.”
Uncle Ben turns to Mom. Her gaze cuts from the tank, to Mae, to Mom, to Josie. “The damage is already done. Let’s see what happens.”
Mae snuggles into Mom’s side. Above Mom’s loose sweatpants are the sharp angles of hipbones. The fury arches against Josie’s sternum. It could crack her ribs. The sun is still fading from the sky, but she heads upstairs without saying good night. Before she goes into her room, she hides Mae’s stuffed rabbit between extra sheets in the hall closet. It does nothing to relieve the pressure in her chest.
* * *
Mae’s shout wakes her hours later. Josie launches out of bed, scrambles down the hall. Mom isn’t in her room. The house is eerie and muted in the pre-dawn light. Josie rushes downstairs and finds Mom with Uncle Ben and Mae in front of the tank. Josie’s relief morphs into concern. Mom grips Uncle Ben’s shoulder. Is she unsteady on her feet? Does she need to sit down? No. Mae wouldn’t be bouncing like that if Mom weren’t okay.
The three of them are focused on the tank. Josie moves closer. The egg sac lies mangled on the sand. Poking out from under a driftwood tunnel is a tail fin, moving in tiny strokes like a wave. Through a hole in the side of the tunnel, there is a small, webbed hand.
* * *
For days afterwards, Mae skips around the house, chanting that she’s found a mermaid. When Josie can’t take the fury building in her chest anymore, she says, “More like a nightmare.”
The mermaid is ugly. Brown mottled scales along its back, with a pale underside. Round, bald head. Thinly-webbed and thickly-clawed fingers. A mouthful of piranha teeth. Narrow eyes that are as blank as they are dark.
“You’re just jealous,” Mae says. “You could’ve come out with me like we used to and found it, but—”
Mom runs a bony hand through Mae’s hair. Mae falls silent, closes her eyes, leans into the touch. Mom watches Josie. She says, “It’s our little miracle. Our little magic. Let’s savor it while we can.”
Josie laughs. It’s bitter, feral, more snarl than anything else. It startles Josie that such a noise can escape her. Mom sighs. The soft edges of it send Josie out of the house, out to the dock. She sits and stares at the way the light bounces off the water.
* * *
Uncle Ben buys live shrimp from the tackle shop to feed the creature. Mae tosses them in, giggling as it swallows them whole. This doesn’t stop the fish from disappearing by the end of the week. After another week, the mermaid outgrows the tank. Uncle Ben sets up a bigger one in the garage.
Mae combs the inlet for shells, rocks, pieces of driftwood to decorate the mermaid’s new home. Mom supervises from the dock, waves for Josie to join. Josie stays by the back door, can’t ignore how Mom’s vertebrae stick out under her shirt.
When the tank is decorated, the water filled and filtered, Uncle Ben moves the mermaid. He wraps it in wet towels to keep it comfortable and help it breathe during the transfer. The creature thrashes the whole way. It almost slips out of Uncle Ben’s grip twice. Mae and Mom clutch at each other both times. All Josie can focus on his how delicate Mom’s hand looks on Mae’s arm.
Once the mermaid is settled, Mom and Mae spend most of their days in the garage. Mae lays alongside the tank and whispers secrets to it. Mom rests in the recliner that Uncle Ben brought out for her. Josie can’t stand the sight of it.
Mom is snoring with a blanket over her knees as Mae presses her face against the glass. It drives Josie out of the house. The feral thing inside her claws at her ribs, her throat.
Josie stays on the dock for hours, reading, swimming, being anywhere that isn’t inside. She wants no part of it. No part of the pretending everything is fine and normal.
Three weeks bleed by. Josie wonders how long they’ll live in this holding pattern. She comes up from the dock to grab a drink from the extra fridge in the garage. It’s the same view: Mom drifting off in the chair, Mae by the tank. Mae dangles a shrimp over the water as the mermaid races from one end to the other.
Then it propels itself into the air and grabs Mae’s wrist.
* * *
The rest is a blur. Thrashing water. Mae’s flailing limbs. Mom’s scream. Josie snatching a garden fork off the work bench. A strip of brown scales. The gurgle shriek of the monster as the tines sink into its flesh. Mae’s sudden, limp weight in Josie’s arms, then gone as Uncle Ben scoops Mae up and rushes her to the car. Mae’s wet, wheezing breaths broken by wracking coughs until Uncle Ben slams the door, then peels down the street.
* * *
Josie follows the trail of water to where it ends in the driveway. She stares down the street in the direction Uncle Ben went. Her front is soaked. Mom stands next to her. It’s late summer, the evening sky a watercolor. From the garage, the monster protests its injury.
Mom takes Josie’s chin. Her fingers are chalk-dry, papery. Josie can’t bring herself to look into Mom’s face. It reminds her of the just-hatched chicks from science class last year. Naked bone on skin. Bruises for eyes.
“Keep taking care of your sister,” Mom says.
Josie tries to shake her head, but Mom’s grip is firm. This isn’t fair. There are prom dresses to pick. Curfew and outfits to argue over. Mae will need Mom for those, too. She will still need bedtime stories, goodnight kisses. She will need to hear, “because I told you so” a million more times. Uncle Ben will do his best, but it won’t be the same.
Mom pulls her close. Josie hasn’t hugged her mother in weeks, afraid Mom might break, that she might smell different, but Mom is solid. Smells of freesia and powder. Josie closes her eyes. Leans in.
* * *
It’s dark when she wakes, curled against her mother. Josie listens for the low whistle when Mom exhales and waits for the swell of Mom’s ribs against hers when she inhales. After seven breaths, Josie slips out from under her mom’s arm and pads to the hall closet. She pulls Mae’s bunny out from between the sheets and leaves it on her sister’s bed. She creeps back downstairs.
There’s no sound from the garage. Josie can’t take the stillness.
When the light flicks on, the monster tosses its tail. Water sloshes over the sides of the tank. Blue-green blood leaks from the deep gashes on its arm. Josie picks up the garden fork again. The glass makes a satisfying crunch as she smashes the tines into the tank.
The monster tumbles out with the water rushing into the driveway. High, tinny noises burble out between its jagged teeth. Josie stands over it while it struggles. She could leave it there, squirming against the asphalt. Let it suffocate. Make it pay for hurting Mae.
The monster’s thrashing begins to slow. The gills under its jaw flap uselessly.
Is this taking care of Mae? Mae loves the mermaid and will still love the mermaid despite the hurt. It is their miracle, their magic.
Josie spreads out a beach towel. Rolls the creature onto it. Once she’s dragged the thing to the end of the dock, she bends over her knees to catch her breath. The tide is high. Her nose fills with the scent of fish and salt. Water laps against the dock. The monster is limp and quiet against the towel. Its gills have slowed to a flutter. Splayed out under the moonlight, its scales are silvery teal. It’s hardly bigger than Mae.
Josie hoists the towel. The monster rolls across the planks and into the inlet with a splash. Once it’s gone under, there’s no sign of it. Only moonlight reflects off the water’s craggy surface.
Copyright © 2026 by Alyssa Cami
