On Mystic Lake

She pulled into the gravel driveway and parked next to the woodpile. The house sat primly in the clearing before her. Sunlight, as pale and watery as old chicken broth, painted the tips of the lush green grass and illuminated the daffodil-yellow paint on the clapboard siding. It still looked forlorn and forgotten, this grande dame of a Victorian house. In places the paint was peeling. Some of the shingles had fallen from the gabled roof, and the rhododendrons were crying out to be cut back.

“I’ll bet that used to be a fort,” Annie said, spying the broken boards of a treehouse through the branches of a dormant alder. “Your mom and I used to have a girls-only for—”

Izzy’s seat belt unhooked with a harsh click. The metal fastener cracked against the glass. She opened the door and ran toward the lake, skidding to a stop at a picket-fenced area beneath a huge, moss-furred old maple tree.

Annie followed Izzy across the squishy lawn and stood beside the child. Within the aged white fence lay a beautiful square of ground that wasn’t nearly as wild and overgrown as everything else on the property. “This was your mom’s garden,” she said softly.

Izzy remained motionless, her head down.

“Gardens are very special places, aren’t they? They aren’t like people . . . their roots grow strong and deep into the soil, and if you’re patient and you care and you keep working, they come back.”

Izzy turned slowly, tilted her head, and looked up at Annie.

“We can save this garden, Izzy. Would you like that?”

Very slowly, Izzy reached forward. Her thumb and forefinger closed around the dead stem of a shasta daisy. She pulled so hard it came out by the roots.

Then she handed it to Annie.

That dried-up, hollowed-out old shoot with the squiggly, hairy root was the most beautiful thing Annie had ever seen.

Chapter 9

Izzy clutched Miss Jemmie under her arm; it was the best she could do without all her fingers. She lagged behind the pretty, short-haired lady.

She was glad to be home, but it wouldn’t last long. The pretty lady would take one look at Daddy’s mess in the house and that would be that. Grown-up girls didn’t like dirty places.

“Come on, Izzy,” the lady called out from the porch.

Izzy stared up at the front door. She wished her daddy would suddenly shove through that door and race down the creaky old porch steps like he used to, that he’d sweep Izzy into his big, strong arms and spin her around until she giggled, kissing that one tickly spot on her neck.

It wouldn’t happen, though. Izzy knew that because she’d been having the same dream for months and months and it never came true.

She remembered the first time her daddy had brought them out here. That was when his hair was black as a crow’s wing and he never came home smelling like the bad place.

That first time had been magic. He had smiled and laughed and held her in his arms. Can’t you just see it, Kath? We’ll plant an orchard over there . . . and fill that porch with rocking chairs for summer nights . . . and we can have picnics on the grass. . . . He’d kissed Izzy’s cheek then. Would you like that, Sunshine? A picnic with chicken and milkshakes and Jell-O salad?

She’d said, Oh, yes, Daddy, but they’d never had a picnic, not on the lawn or anywhere else. . . .

The front door creaked open, and Izzy remembered that the lady was waiting for her. She trudged reluctantly up the porch steps. The lady—Annie; she had to remember that the lady’s name was Annie—clicked on the lamp beside the sofa. Light landed in streaks on Daddy’s mess. Bottles, pizza boxes, dirty clothes were lying everywhere.

“As Bette Davis would say, ‘What a dump.’Your father certainly doesn’t win the Felix Unger award.”

Izzy winced. That was it. Back to Lurlene’s for chipped beef on toast. . . .

But Annie didn’t turn and walk away. Instead, she picked her way through the junk and flung open the curtains in a cloud of dust. Sunlight poured through the two big picture windows. “That’s better,” she said, glancing around. “I don’t suppose you know where the brooms and dustpans are? A bulldozer? How about a blowtorch?”

Izzy’s heart started beating rapidly, and something felt funny in her chest.

Annie winked at her. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the living room and disappeared into the kitchen.

Izzy stood very still, barely breathing, listening to the rapid fluttering of her heart.

Annie came back into the living room carrying a black garbage bag, a broom, and a bucket of soapy water.

That strange feeling in Izzy’s chest seemed to grow bigger and bigger, until she almost couldn’t breathe. Slowly, she moved toward Annie, waiting for the lady to throw her hands up and say, It’s too goddamn much work, Nicky, like her mommy used to.

But Annie didn’t say that. Instead, she bent over and picked up the garbage, one piece at a time, shoving it into the black bag.

Cautiously, Izzy moved closer.

Annie didn’t look at her. “It’s just junk, Izzy. Nothing permanent. There’s nothing done here that can’t be undone. My daughter’s room used to look like this all the time—and she was a perfectly lovely teenager.” She kept talking, and with each unanswered sentence, Izzy felt herself relaxing. “Why, I remember this place when I was a little girl. Your mom and daddy and I used to peek in the windows at nighttime, and we’d make up stories about the people who used to live here. I always thought it was a beautiful, wealthy couple from back East, who walked around in tuxedos and evening gowns. Your dad, he thought it was once owned by gamblers who lost everything in a single hand of cards. And your mama—why, I can’t recall what she used to think. Probably something romantic, though.” She paused long enough to smile at Izzy. “Maybe when the weather warms up, we could have a picnic on the lawn. Would you like that?”

Izzy felt the weirdest urge to cry. She wanted to say, We could have milkshakes and Jell-O salad, but she didn’t. She couldn’t have, even if she’d really tried. Besides, it was just one of those things grown-ups promised even when they didn’t mean it.

“In fact,” Annie said, “we could have a mini-picnic today. When I get the living room cleaned up, we’ll have cookies and juice outside—iced raisin cookies and Maui punch. That sounds good, don’t you think? ‘Yes, Annie, I think that would be terrrrrific.’ That’s my Tony the Tiger impression. Natalie—that’s my daughter; she’s almost a grown-up now—she used to love Frosted Flakes. I’ll bet you do, too.”

Izzy bit back an unexpected smile. She liked the way Annie didn’t wait for her to answer. It made Izzy feel like she wasn’t so different, like not talking was as okay as talking.

Tiny step by tiny step, she inched sideways. When she reached the sofa, she sat down, ignoring the dust that poofed up around her. Bit by bit, the garbage disappeared, and after a while, it began to look like home.

Annie tapped lightly on Izzy’s bedroom door. There was no answer. Finally, she pushed open the door and went inside. The room was small and dark, tucked under an overhang in the roofline. A charming dormer reached outward, capturing the last pink light of day behind pale, worn lace curtains. The walls were done in a beautiful lavender-striped paper, and a matching floral print covered the bed. A Winnie-the-Pooh lamp sat on a white bedside table.

Nick and Kathy had probably planned this room and saved for it, wanting to create the perfect place for their child. Annie could remember the dreams that came with pregnancy, and the endless details of hope. Much of it started with the nursery.

Annie didn’t know much about manic-depression, or how it had twisted and changed Kathy, but she knew that Kathy had loved her daughter. Every item in this room had been lovingly chosen, from the Little Mermaid nightlight to the Peter Rabbit bookends.

She crossed the clothes-strewn wooden floor to the bed. Izzy’s dainty profile made a beautiful cameo against a faded yellow Big Bird pillowcase. A fuzzy purple blanket was drawn taut across her shoulders and tucked gently beneath her chin. The doll—Miss Jemmie, Lurlene had said—was sprawled on the floor, her black button eyes staring up at the ceiling. Izzy’s tiny, black-gloved hand lay like a stain on the lavender lace bedspread.

Annie hated to wake the sleeping girl, but she was a big believer in routine. Children needed to know where the limits were and what rules governed. She’d put Izzy down for a nap at two-thirty—and was surprised when she actually fell asleep. Now, at four o’clock, it was time to wake up.

She bent down and jostled the little girl’s shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Izzy made a tiny, mewling sound and snuggled deeper under the covers.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Come on, Izzy.”

One brown eye popped open. Izzy used two fingers on her right hand to push the covers back. Blinking and yawning, she sat up.

“I thought you’d like to take a bath before your daddy gets home.” Annie smiled and held up the bag of treats she’d brought with her. “I got you some new clothes and a few surprises—Lurlene told me what sizes to get. Come on.” She helped Izzy out of bed and led her to the bathroom, where she quickly ran some water into the tub.

Then she knelt in front of the child.

Izzy eyed her warily.

Annie looked down at Izzy’s gloved hand. “Don’t you just hate it when parts of you start disappearing? Now, hands up.”

Izzy dutifully raised her right arm. Her left arm hung limply at her side, the black-gloved fingers completely slack.

Annie sat back on her heels. “How, exactly, do we undress the invisible parts? I guess, if I just peel your jammies back . . .” Slowly, she pulled the sleeve along the “invisible” arm. Then she reached for the glove.

Izzy made a choking sound and wrenched away from her.

“Oh, sorry. The glove can’t come off?”

Izzy stared intently at a spot somewhere behind Annie’s left ear.

“I understand. There is no glove, is there, Izzy?”

Izzy bit down on her lower lip. She still didn’t look at Annie.

Annie stood. Carefully taking Izzy by the shoulders, she steered the child toward the bathtub and helped her into the warm water. Izzy hugged the side of the tub, where her left arm hung limply over the edge.

“That’s not too hot, is it?” Annie asked. “No, Annie, that’s just right. Just exactly the temperature I like.”

Izzy stared at her.

Annie grinned. “I can carry on a conversation all by myself. When I was a girl—I was an only child, too—I used to do it all the time.”

Annie poured bubble bath into the falling water. Izzy watched, apparently awestruck, as airy white foam bubbled up around her.

Then Annie lighted a trio of votive candles she’d found in the kitchen. The sweet aroma of vanilla rose in the air. “Sometimes a girl needs a romantic bath—just for her.

Okay.” She reached into her brown bag. “Look at my goodies. I’ve got Johnson’s baby shampoo, Pocahontas soap, a Hunchback of Notre Dame towel, and a Beauty and the Beast comb. And this darling play suit. It’s lavender with little yellow flowers—just like your mom’s garden will be—and a matching yellow hat.”