On Mystic Lake

On Mystic Lake Page 27

“You can’t follow your mom, Izzy, and you know why?”

Izzy turned to her. “Why?”

“Because it would break your mommy’s heart. She’s up in heaven now, and she wants to watch you grow up. She wants you to have fun and make friends and go to school—to do all the things she did when she was a little girl. She wants to see you wear a pretty white dress on your wedding day and hold your own baby in your arms.” Annie sighed. “She wants so much for you, Izzy.”

“How do you know she’s watchin’ me?”

Annie smiled at her. “You know. In your heart. That’s why you see her in the fog. You know she’s watching over you, and when it rains . . . that’s when she’s missing you. The rain is her tears, and the sunshine is her smile.”

Izzy stared out at the trees a long, long time. “I miss her, too.”

Annie curled an arm around Izzy’s narrow shoulders and drew her close. “I know, baby.”

They sat that way for a long time. The rain softened the world into the muted blues and greens of a Monet painting. Then, finally, Annie smiled brightly and tapped on Izzy’s right hand. “Why, I do believe you’re right, Miss Izzy. I can see those fingers just as clear as a bell. I say we drink a toast.”

“I like my toast with jam.”

Annie laughed. “I don’t have toast, but I have lemonade. And if we don’t eat soon, I’m going to start chewing on your coin. I think it’s time to head home.”

Izzy laughed, and it was such a high, clear, heartbreakingly beautiful sound that Annie let herself forget the tiny strand of worry.

If nothing else, she’d given Izzy back her voice and her smile . . . and now one hand was visible again. Maybe tomorrow, that glove would come off the left.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter 15

It was raining on the day Nick came home.

He paid the cabdriver and got out of the car, watching the town’s only taxi drive away.

He flipped up the collar of his Levi’s jacket and hunched his shoulders against the driving rain. Tucked under one arm was the ragged, wrinkled bag of clothes and toiletries he’d purchased to get him through his time away from home. Rain thwopped the sack, but it couldn’t be helped. Day had just rounded the bend into a lavender evening, and there was a slight chill in the air. The gravel road that led to the house went straight for about a quarter of a mile, then turned sharply around a triangular patch of Douglas fir trees. Beyond that, it disappeared into the misty mauve shadows along the lake.

He could have had the cab drive him to the front door, but he needed the time to approach slowly.

Blinking against the rain, he began the long walk home. To his left, the lake reflected the twilight sky. Glossy green leaves, rhododendron, azalea, trillium, and salal hemmed the road on either side, creating a shadowy tunnel that led him ever closer to the house.

At last, he turned the corner. Soft, golden light poured through the windows of his home. The chimney puffed smoke into the purple sky. It was how he’d always imagined it. . . .

This house had seized his imagination from the start. He could still recall the night Annie had brought him here. Kathy had the flu, so Nick and Annie had gone to the carnival alone, and afterward, she’d brought him here, to the “haunted” house by the lake.

He’d first seen this house through her dreamer’s eyes. She’d lit a fire inside his soul that night, and this old house had become the physical embodiment of that dream. Perfect for a boy who’d lived in a car for two years and eaten breakfast from Dumpsters.

It had taken him years, but he’d finally saved enough money to buy the place. It had been summer then, August, when he’d signed the papers and written the downpayment check. Yet even on that hottest day of the year, this road had been cool and shaded, and a breeze had swept along the banks of the lake. He had gazed into the distance at Mount Olympus, which stood as an immense granite triangle thrust high, high into the robin’s-egg-blue sky, with only the barest hint of snow left to dust its jagged crown.

The memory was as sharp as broken glass. He’d raced to bring Izzy and Kathy here, but it was night by then and shadows lay thick and dark along the porch rails.

He’d grabbed Kathy’s hand and dragged her through the murky, musty interior.

Can’t you just see it, Kath? This’ll be the sunroom— where we’ll have breakfast . . . and that’s the kitchen, they don’t make stoves like that anymore . . . and check out that fireplace—I bet it’s one hundred years old. . . .

He smelled hope and home and possibilities.

She smelled must and dirt and work.

How had he failed to notice? And why hadn’t he stopped talking long enough to ask her opinion? Why had he just thought, she’s having one of her bad days, and let it go at that?

With a tired sigh, he straightened his shoulders, crossed the grass, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on the front door. The wet sack of his useless new belongings hit the floor beside his feet, forgotten.

There was a flurry of footsteps behind the door, and a muffled “just a minute,” then the door opened and Annie stood before him.

The silence between them was deafening; every sound seemed amplified, the rhythmic thunking of the rain on oversized leaves, the quiet licking of waves on gravel.

He wished he could smile, but he was afraid. He looked away, before she could see the sudden longing in his eyes.

“Nick.” It was just a whisper of sound; he imagined he could feel the moist heat of her breath on his neck. Slowly, slowly, he looked at her.

She was standing so close he could see the smattering of freckles that lay along her hairline, and a tiny white scar that bisected one eyebrow. “I’ve been going to AA twice a day,” he said quickly, without even adding a mumbled hello. “I haven’t had a drink since you dropped me off at the motel.”

“Oh, Nick, that’s wonderful. I—”

It was as if she suddenly realized how close they were standing. In the pale glow of the porch light, he saw a sweet blush color her cheeks.

She broke eye contact and cleared her throat, moving back a respectable few feet. “Izzy is in the family room. We were painting. Come on in.”

“Painting. Sounds fun. I wouldn’t want to—”

“You can do this, Nick.” She took hold of his hand—her grasp was solid and comforting—and pulled him into the house. The door banged shut behind him.

The house smelled clean, and somewhere a radio was playing, but he didn’t have time to really notice the changes she had made. She was pulling him down the hallway.

Her “family room” was what Nick used to think of as the shit room. Years ago, probably in the fifties, somebody had tried to remodel this room on a skimpy budget. Pressboard wood paneling hid the log walls underneath, and mustard-colored carpet covered the hardwood floor. The only nice thing in the room was a big old brick fireplace, in which Annie had a fire going.

The French doors that led onto the back porch were open. A cool, early evening breeze ruffled their gauzy white curtains, and the rain was a silvery veil between the house and the falling night. Multicolored jars and paint-brushes cluttered a portable card table. Spilled paint lay in bright blemishes on the newspaper that protected the carpet.

Izzy stood with her back to them, one gloved hand hung limply at her left side. There was a huge easel in front of her, with a piece of white paper pinned in place. He could see splashes of color on the paper, but her body blocked the picture.

He realized suddenly that Annie was gone. His hand felt cold and empty. Turning slightly, he saw her in the hallway. She gave him a quick thumbs-up and disappeared.

He sighed. Turning back toward the room, he took a cautious step inside. He expected Izzy to spin around and stare at him, but the carpet muffled the sound of his steps, and she kept on painting.

“Izzy.” He said her name softly, as if a quiet voice could somehow soften the surprise.

She dropped a baby-food jar full of blue paint. The colorful liquid splashed across the newspaper. Slowly, clutching her paintbrush, she turned around.

She looked like an angel. She was wearing a paint-stained pair of yellow overalls, but there were no streaks of color on her hair or face. Her jet-black hair lay in two evenly plaited braids, tied at the ends with bits of yellow ribbon.

She looked like she used to.

It was that thought, more than anything, that brought him fully into the room. His knees felt weak, and fear was a cold knot in his stomach, but he kept moving, going toward his little girl, who stood so silently beside the easel, her big brown eyes fixed on his.

Beside her, he knelt. His knees squished in the puddle of blue paint.

She looked down at him, her eyes unblinking, her pink lips drawn in a serious line.

Only a few years ago, she would have leapt into his arms and smothered him with kisses. Even when he’d had a hangover, or after a fight with Kathy, Izzy had always adored him. She’d never looked at him like she did right now—with the wary, worried expression of an animal that was ready to flee at the first hint of danger.

He realized with a sudden tightening in his chest how much he’d missed her kisses . . . the sweet smell of her hair . . . the gentle softness of her hand as she slipped it into his.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, his eyes avoiding the tiny black glove that evidenced his failure and her heartbreak.

It was his pet name for her—given on the first day she’d smiled and he’d said it was like sunshine after a rain. He hadn’t called her Sunshine in a long time. Since Kathy’s death, and probably even before that.

She remembered. A little jumping smile tugged one side of her mouth.

There were so many things he could say to her right now, promises he could make, but in the end, he knew it would only be words. Promises made by a man who’d broken too many to be trusted.

One day at a time; that was one thing AA definitely had right.

That was how he’d lost his daughter—one moment at a time—and that was the only way to get her back. He couldn’t ask for her trust; even though she’d probably give it to him freely, he had to earn it. One day at a time.

In the end, he made no promises. Instead, he said only, “What are you painting?”

She cocked her head toward the paper and stepped back. It was a colorful smearing of squiggly lines and globs of falling paint. Because he’d seen her artwork before, he could make out Izzy’s self-portrait: she was the tiny, big-headed stick figure in the corner with the floor-length cascade of black hair. Someone—probably Annie, judging by the spiked brown hair—stood beside her, wearing a broad brush stroke of a smile. Above the two stick figures was a bright yellow sun bracketed by writhing red rays.

Nick grabbed a clean paintbrush from the card table and dipped it into a jar of brown paint. Trying not to spill—although he had no idea why he bothered—he carefully maneuvered the paintbrush to the paper. “Can I add something?”

She stared up at him. Then slowly she nodded.

He drew a quick, misshapen circle alongside Annie. Another four strokes and he had a body of sorts. “This is Daddy,” he said, without looking at her. Then he added eyes, a nose, and a flat line of a mouth. “I don’t need to paint the hair—it’s almost the same color as the paper. We’ll just imagine it.” Lowering the brush, he looked at her.