On Mystic Lake
Page 26

When Rhonda was finished, someone else started talking, then another and another. They all used different words, but the stories were the same, tales of loss and pain and anger. Hard-luck stories and bad-luck stories from people who’d been through hell on earth.
Nick was one of them, he knew it by the close of the meeting, and there was a strange comfort in admitting that, in knowing he wasn’t the only one in the world trying to wrestle with a bottle of booze.
Izzy couldn’t sleep. She went to her window and stared outside. Everything was dark and scary-looking. The only light was tiny white flecks on the black lake. Annie said those were stars fallen from the sky.
She turned away from the window. All week long, ever since Annie had told her that her daddy wasn’t coming home, she’d been scared. Yesterday, she’d stood at the window for a long time, waiting. So long that Annie had come up to her.
I don’t know when he’ll be coming home, Izzy. That’s what Annie had said to her. You remember I told you that your daddy was sick? The doctors say he needs a little time—
But Izzy knew the truth about doctors. Her mommy had seen lots and lots of them, and none of them ever made her mommy feel better.
They wouldn’t help her daddy, either.
Izzy hadn’t been able to stop crying. I miss him was all she said to Annie, but there was a lot more she didn’t say. She didn’t say that she’d been missing him for a long, long time, and she didn’t say that the man with the silver hair wasn’t really her daddy—because her daddy never got sick and he laughed all the time. She didn’t say that she thought her real daddy had died when her mommy died, and that he wouldn’t ever be coming back.
Izzy crept down the stairs and sneaked outside. It was raining gently, and a mist floated on the top of the grass, so thick that she couldn’t see her feet.
“Mommy?” she whispered, hugging herself. She closed her eyes and concentrated really, really hard. When she opened her eyes, she saw her mommy, standing alongside the lake. The vision was shimmery and out of focus. Mommy stood with her shoulders rounded and her head cocked at an odd angle, as if she were listening for footsteps, or the sound of a bird’s call in the middle of the night. The rain turned all sorts of colors, red and yellow and pink and blue.
You should be sleeping, little girl.
“Daddy’s sick again.”
Her mom made a quiet sound, or maybe it was a breeze, kicking up along the water. He’ll be okay. I promise.
“I miss you, Mommy.” Izzy reached for her. There was a whisper of something not quite solid against her fingertips, a brushing of heat. She closed her hand around . . . nothing.
The touching days are gone for me, pumpkin.
“Mommy, I love you, Mommy.”
I’m sorry, Izzy-bear. God, I’m so sorry . . .
Izzy reached out, but it was too late. Her mom was gone.
An unusual wave of heat rolled across Jefferson County. Flowers unfurled and reached skyward for the precious sunlight. Baby birds squawked from nests in green-budded trees. It still rained each night, but by dawn, the world was a sparkling, gilded jewel.
Annie made sure that Izzy was busy all the time. They colored Easter eggs, baked cookies, and drew pictures for Nick—presents for the day he would return. They shopped on Main Street and bought Natalie hokey presents from the rain forest: pens with ferries in them, slug cookbooks, postcards of Lake Mystic. They doubled their reading efforts, until Annie was certain that Izzy was ready to go back to school. But when she mentioned this hope to Izzy, it scared her. I don’t wanna go back. They’ll make fun of me. Annie had let the issue rest there, knowing that it wasn’t her decision anyway. She hoped that when Nick came home, they could convince Izzy to return to school.
But for now, their routines were comforting. Izzy was talking regularly; it no longer seemed hard for her to remember the words. They were gaining strength from each other.
Annie had finally learned to sleep alone. She knew it didn’t sound like much, but to her, it was momentous. Sometimes, when she left Izzy and crawled into her empty bed, she didn’t even think about the man who used to sleep with her; sometimes she went for whole days without thinking about him. Oh, the ache was still there, and the loneliness, but day by day, she was learning that she could survive without him. She still didn’t want to, but she knew now that she could.
Every Monday, like clockwork, she called London and heard about Natalie’s week. In her daughter’s voice, she heard a burgeoning maturity that filled Annie with pride. Natalie wasn’t a child anymore, and when she learned of the divorce, she would be able to handle it.
And Annie finally understood that she could handle it, too. Last night, when Terri had called (after ten minutes of grilling Annie about who this Nick character was and why Annie was staying at his house), she had finally settled down and listened to Annie, and when the conversation was over, Terri had said quietly, Of course you can handle it, Annie. You’re the only one who thought you couldn’t.
Easter Sunday arrived wrapped in clouds and drenched in rain, but Annie refused to let the uncooperative weather ruin her plans. She dressed Izzy warmly and drove her to Hank’s, where the three of them had a huge brunch and a world-class egg hunt. Then they went to church services in town. Afterward, Annie and Izzy drove back to the house, and Annie gave her a small, wrapped gift. “Happy Easter, Izzy.”
Izzy tried to open the package with her two good fingers, and the failing effort pinched at Annie’s heart. “Here, I’ll do it, sweetheart. It’s hard when your fingers are gone.”
Annie unwrapped the shiny paper, then placed the box on the coffee table.
Biting back a grin, Izzy flipped open the box top. Inside, on a bed of white tissue paper, was a bronze medallion the size of a quarter, resting on a coil of thin silver chain. At Izzy’s frown, Annie took the compass from the box and placed it in Izzy’s hand.
“When I was a girl, I thought I was lost all the time. Then my dad gave me this compass, and he told me that if I wore it, I’d always know where I belonged.” Annie sighed softly. She hadn’t kept wearing the compass. Instead, she’d gone all the way to California and lost her sense of direction again. If only there were some internal mechanism that pointed unerringly to the true north of our selves. It was so damned easy in life to get lost. “So,” she said at last, “do you want to learn how it works?”
Izzy nodded.
“I knew you’d say that. Okay, grab your boots and rain gear, and I’ll show you.”
With a quick smile, Izzy ran to the coat closet and grabbed her still-wet coat and hat. Within moments, they were both dressed in rain gear, with rubber boots and big floppy hats. Annie quickly explained to Izzy how the compass worked, and when she was convinced that Izzy understood, she slipped the compass around the girl’s neck. “Let’s go exploring.”
Outside, the weather was horrible. Stuttering gusts of wind blew across the lake, sending silvery ripples onto the gravel shore. Diamond-drops quivered on the tips of the yellow daffodils and tulips that lined the walkway and grew in clumps in the window boxes.
They veered away from the lake, took their heading, and started down the wide, needle-carpeted trail that led into the rain forest. On either side, the immense wooded sentinels stood guard, catching most of the raindrops on their broad, leafy shoulders. A cool mist swirled along the forest floor, so thick in some places that Annie couldn’t see her tennis shoes. At every bend in the trail, Izzy stopped and checked her compass.
By midafternoon, Izzy had a sense for true north, and the quiet confidence that came with knowledge.
They walked down one trail and then another and another. Suddenly, the trees opened up, and they found themselves in an overgrown clearing deep in the oldest part of the rain forest. Tucked in one corner was an old ranger station, obviously abandoned for years. Its shingled roof was furred with moss, and gray fungus peeked out from cracks in the log siding. Scratches from a black bear’s claws marked the unhinged door.
Izzy blinked up at her. “Can we go in?”
Annie looked questioningly at the cabin. Unfortunately, there was a lot more mother in her soul than explorer. But when she saw the excitement in Izzy’s eyes, she couldn’t say no. “Okay, but go slow . . . and don’t touch anything icky.”
With a shriek, Izzy raced for the cabin. Annie hurried along behind her. Together, they eased through the broken door.
Inside, buried under a gauzy net of spiderwebs and dust, were two twin beds, complete with musty blankets; a flimsy, handmade wooden table and two chairs; and a long-forgotten black iron woodstove.
Annie felt like Daniel Boone. She wandered to the old stove and picked up a dusty coffee can, turning it over.
Izzy let out a squeal and pulled something out from under the bed. “Look!” She thrust her hand at Annie.
It was a silver coin, dated 1899.
“Oh, my,” Annie said, touching the metal. “That’s a treasure indeed. You’d best put that in a safe place.”
Izzy frowned, then very solemnly looked up at Annie. Wordlessly, she shoved the coin toward her.
“It’s yours, Izzy. Don’t give it to me.”
“Annie? You’ll always be here, won’tcha, Annie? That makes you a safe place.”
Annie knew she should force the coin gently back into Izzy’s small hand. She should give the child the gift of honesty. I’m not safe, Izzy. Not really. This isn’t my life at all. . . .
But then she looked into Izzy’s liquid brown eyes and she was lost. “Always is a lot longer than you’ll need me, Izzy, but I’ll keep the coin until you’re ready to give it to your daddy, okay?”
“ ’Kay. Don’t lose it.” Izzy grinned and nodded and started to run for the door. Halfway there, she skidded to a stop and turned around. She was staring at her right hand.
“Izzy, what is it?”
Slowly, Izzy turned. Frowning, she stuck her right hand up in the air. “I can see all my fingers on this hand again.”
“Oh, Izzy . . .” Annie went to Izzy and knelt beside her, pulling the child into her arms. But Izzy was stiff and awkward, and she couldn’t seem to take her eyes away from her hand.
Izzy started to cry. “She said I couldn’t follow her.”
Annie stroked the child’s soft, soft cheek and smiled. “Who said that?”
“Mommy. I . . .” She bit her quavering lower lip and looked away.
“Tell me, Izzy,” Annie said softly. “I can keep a secret.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Izzy stared at Annie for a long, silent moment, then said quietly, “I . . . I see her sometimes . . . in the fog. I was disappearin’ to be with her . . . but last time I saw her . . .” Huge tears welled in Izzy’s eyes and spilled over, streaking down her pink cheeks. “Last time she said I couldn’t follow her.”
Annie’s heart squeezed into a tight little fist. She took Izzy’s hand and led her outdoors. Side by side they sat on the rickety, moss-haired porch of the cabin.