Hello from Renn Lake

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  Annalise kneeled and pulled out a soggy plastic bag that had wound its way into my shallow waters. “Garbage,” she said, and carried it to a trash can.

  When she came back, I said: Thank you.

  She patted my surface with the palm of her hand. “You’re welcome.”

  My heart glowed—she hears me! But as I watched her leave that day with her mother and sister, I worried that she would forget, or stop believing, or outgrow me, like I was an imaginary friend. Instead, she began coming to me on her found days, and other times, when she needed comfort, like the afternoon she overheard two women standing in front of Alden’s. “I remember reading in the paper years ago that a baby was abandoned here,” one said. The other replied, “Such a terrible thing. I hope that baby’s all right.”

  Annalise ran to me. Tears slid down her cheeks and dropped into my waters. I gathered them up and made them disappear. I told her she was all right, again and again, until she was.

  There’s a commotion on my shore. Several young people are pointing to the ground. I realize what they’re gawking at. I’d seen it floating earlier. A fish. Yellow and black scales, lying limply on one side, a glassy round eye staring up at nothing.

  Fish die, of course. It’s part of the cycle. But usually, when they’re done living. I remember this one being born in the spring, along with her brothers and sisters. I know her mother. I knew her grandmother, and her grandmother. And many before them.

  There’s a tiny speck of algae on the tail. I’d noticed some algae this morning, in a quiet cove near the reeds. Sticky and thick like tree sap, the color of a lime caterpillar. It felt different than regular algae. Fizzy. Dense. When I tried to nudge it, it didn’t move. Underneath it, my waters were perfectly still.

  A small girl with copper-colored hair studies the fish. “It looks sad,” she says. “Why isn’t it swimming?”

  My insides rumble and swirl, and I feel uneasy. I give fish a home, keep them safe. I always have. But I let this one down.

  Dad and I are planting geraniums in the window boxes outside the office. Jess was helping but after she dug a few holes and put in the flowers, she insisted she had to go home and “rehearse.”

  “For your Broadway debut?” Dad winked.

  “No, Hollywood!” she called as she ran off.

  I stuffed in a flower and packed the dirt around it. “She always gets out of things.”

  He gently loosened a geranium from the plastic tray. “She’s only ten. You weren’t so dedicated at that age either. And besides, sometimes it’s just easier not to argue with her.”

  I laughed. “True.”

  We hear some shouts coming from the lake and I see a bunch of kids huddled at the shore. Dad looks over. “Let’s go see what’s happening,” he says.

  We walk toward the group, and when I get close, I hear a boy say “Gross!” and another boy yell “Cool!” They’re both poking at something with sticks. The tall, skinny boy with the ponytail is on the edge of the crowd. Is he staying in one of the cabins? I don’t remember seeing him check in.

  “What’s going on?” Dad asks, motioning for the kids to step back. Then I see a dead fish lying on its side with its mouth stuck open.

  A small red-haired girl tugs the bottom edge of Dad’s shorts. “Mr. Oliver? Did the fish die?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Dad answers.

  “How come?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, honey. We can’t always know the answer to things.”

  She frowns. Her lower lip trembles. “But it needs to swim in the water. That’s what fish do. Can’t you give it some medicine?”

  He shakes his head. Then an older woman calls to the girl. “C’mon, Sophie.” Her grandma, I think. They checked in to cabin 4 today.

  “I’ll be right back,” Dad tells me, and hurries toward the office. I scan the water. I don’t see any other dead fish. I wish I could say something to Renn, but I can’t right now. Not with all the people around.

  Dad returns with a pail and quickly scoops up the fish. “Okay,” he says to the kids. “All taken care of.” They slowly scatter, the two boys dragging their sticks through the sand. The tall boy with the ponytail brushes past me. “Could be a sign,” he mutters. A sign of what?

  I don’t want to look at the fish, so I walk on the other side of Dad, away from the pail. When we reach the office, he heads around back to the dumpster and I go inside.

  “What happened?” Mom asks.

  “Dead fish. Washed up on the shore.”

  She comes out from behind the front desk, and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Why don’t you go home? You’ve been working hard all day. Dad and I will be there soon for our special dinner.” She kisses my cheek.

  “Okay.” I start to go out, then glimpse Alden’s across the street. I rush back in. My eyes dart around the room and my hands are shaking.

  “Forget something?” Mom asks.

  “No…” I don’t know what to do. I have to pass the store on my way home, there’s no other route. What if I see that shadow again?

  Mom tilts her head. “Annalise?”

  I spot the rack of Renn Lake Rentals caps by the desk. Mom had a whole bunch made last year, thinking they’d be good advertising, but not many people bought them. When I was five, right after they’d explained how Mrs. Alden found me, I insisted on wearing a winter hat with a pom-pom and long tassels every single day, even in warm weather. I’d come across it at Castaway when I was there with Mom. It’d been misplaced, hidden and alone under a rack of dresses, and I was positive it was meant for me. I pretended it was an armor helmet that protected me against bad things.

  I point. “Can I have a cap?”

  “Sure, of course.” She takes a purple one and gives it to me.

  I squash it down over my curls, then go out again and hurry toward Main. I zoom by the building, cap pulled low, head down. I let out a long breath when I’m past. Nothing. But I keep the cap on the whole way just in case.

  When I get to my block, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Maya. We’ve been best friends since third grade when she moved into the house in back of mine.

  “Going crazy here! I’m the only kid. They’ve done three things so far. Sit, talk, and eat.”

  “Ugh! You’ll be home soon.”

  “Don’t do anything fun without me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “OMG. Now my mom wants me to play the piano for my aunt. The piece from my recital that I can’t even remember! HELP.”

  I send some laughing emojis but she doesn’t respond.

  I reach our house, with its peeling blue paint, loose shutters, and crooked mailbox, and feel grateful that I’m here.

  Jess is in the porch swing, hands clasped in her lap. She’s wiped off the eyeliner and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. I drop into the armchair next to her.

  She touches a foot to the floor and rocks the swing, her baby-chick hair lifting and falling with the motion. “I’ve made a huge decision.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “I’m for sure changing the spelling of my name. J-E-S-S-I, capital K-A. I just finished redoing all my social media accounts.”

  “What’s wrong with Jess?”

  “Regular names don’t cut it in the acting world. This will make me stand out. I mean, who’s going to remember Jess Oliver? And no last name either, like all the famous one-name celebrities. JessiKa.” She says it in a whispery, breathy voice.

  I can’t help it, I laugh.

  She bolts up, plunks her hands on her hips. “It’s not funny, Annalise! You have no idea. You have to start young. You have to know what you’re doing if you’re truly serious. And I am.”

  “Jess—”

  “iKa!”

  “Right. Sorry. Um…are you sure about this? I mean, you’ve nev
er taken a class or been in a school play—”

  “School plays aren’t for serious actors. They do, like”—she snorts—“The Wizard of Oz.”

  “What’s wrong with The Wizard of Oz? Everyone loves it.”

  She brushes a hand at me. “It’s so boring. So done. And of course I’m sure!”

  She said that about playing guitar in a band and hosting her own cooking show. There was something else too, but I can’t remember.

  Jess(iKa) climbs onto the swing, stands on the seat, then grabs the chains as the swing wobbles. “And you know what else? When Mom and Dad get old, I’m not taking over the cabins. They’re all yours.” She points to the cap. “I see how much you love them.”

  I get goosebumps.

  “I’ll probably be in LA, anyway,” Jess says. “Palm trees and swimming pools. And the ocean, of course. No lakes.”

  “I think there are lakes in California.”

  Jess shrugs, jumps down from the swing, then leans over the porch railing and peers out, like she wishes she could be carried off by the wind to LA right now.

  “How come you want to leave so badly?” I ask softly.

  “How come you don’t?” She sweeps her arm in a half circle. “I want to go everywhere!”

  I trace the necklace with the tip of one finger. Houses like ours are across the street. Rows of trees and squares of lawn and parallel gray sidewalks. Jess taped pictures of Rome and Tokyo and Paris all over her room, but in my room there’s a big frame with photos of the lake, the cabins, me and Maya, and one from last year’s Fourth of July Fest. And my jar of found coins on my dresser, more than half-filled now.

  Mom and Dad pull into the driveway and Jess races down the steps. “I’m going with JessiKa for sure, okay? With a capital K. So can you call me that from now on?”

  Mom ruffles her hair. “We’ll talk about that, honey. Right now, it’s Annalise’s found day dinner.”

  Jess stomps her foot. Dad grins. “Do we put an emphasis on the K when we say it, so people know? Jess-i-KUH?” He stomps his foot too.

  “Yeah, that’ll work,” she says, and he laughs.

  We go into the kitchen. Mom pulls a pan of mac ’n’ cheese from the fridge and puts it in the oven. Dad starts slicing tomatoes for a salad. Jess opens a drawer and takes out a stack of index cards and a pen. She plops down on a chair and starts scribbling Love, JessiKa on each one, surrounding the letters with stars and flowers.

  “What are those for?” I ask.

  “I’m practicing my autograph.” She offers me a card. “Hold on to this, it’ll be valuable one day.”

  I take the card and slide it into my shorts pocket, along with the quarter and pennies. The arrowhead is still in the other pocket.

  Thirty minutes later, we’re all at the table with bubbling mac ’n’ cheese, cornbread, and salad. The cupcakes are waiting on the counter.

  We start to eat, and Jess’s phone buzzes. “I know, no phones at dinner, but this might be important.” She scrolls, then gasps and nearly chokes. “This is IT!”

  “This is what?” Mom says.

  I lean over to glance at her screen, but she covers it with her hand. “So, okay, I have this app that sends alerts for auditions, and there’s one in Madison! For a movie! They need local extras.” She claps a hand over her heart. “Can I go? Please say I can go.”

  Dad takes a big spoonful of mac ’n’ cheese, piles it onto his plate. “In Madison? When is it?”

  “Hold on,” Mom says. “Just a second. Jess—”

  “iKa.”

  “Jess-iKa. It’s great that you’re interested in acting. But you know we’re at the beginning of our busy season. One of us might possibly be able to take you to the audition, but don’t hundreds of kids go to these things? If you even got a part, and I’m guessing that’s a long shot, how would we get you there? We can’t take time off right now.”

  Jess waves her fork. “Easy-peasy. One, don’t worry, I could take a bus to the audition. Two, if I got a part, we could work everything out. They probably have a trailer for the extras to stay in.”

  Mom rubs her forehead. “You can’t take a bus. Or stay in a trailer. You’re ten years old.”

  She holds up her phone. “That’s exactly the age they need.”

  “Maybe you could start a little smaller and closer to home,” Dad suggests. “Try out for the school play in the fall. Then we’ll see about movies.”

  I elbow her. “I heard they’re doing The Wizard of Oz next year.”

  Jess pushes her plate aside. “I don’t want to be in a school play. I want to go big. This could be my way to break in.”

  Mom says in a firm voice, “We took you to that kids’ cooking show tryout, and you quit after you didn’t make it. And the guitar—”

  My sister crosses her arms. “This isn’t like those other things! You guys just don’t get me. Sometimes I wonder why I’m in this family.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow and gives her a long look. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “It’s true we can’t choose our family,” Dad says, glancing at me. “Except in special circumstances.”

  Something flickers across Jess’s face and she huffs.

  “Anyway, Jess, enough of this right now,” Mom says. “It’s Annalise’s day.”

  She slides down in her chair so she’s eye level with the table. “iKa,” she mutters.

  Mom picks up her glass. “Let’s all wish Annalise a happy found day.” They do, again, and Jess mumbles something that sounds like “happy fun day.”

  Last year on my found day, Jess insisted that she’d sprained her arm in gym. (She hadn’t.) The year before that, she wanted a certain kind of strawberry lip gloss and wouldn’t stop begging Mom and Dad to get her one. I figure they see it, but like Dad said, sometimes it’s just easier not to argue with her. She’s like a mini tornado sometimes.

  The rest of the dinner is awkward, with Jess sulking and Mom smiling too much. “We can have the cupcakes on the porch,” Mom says, handing me the box after we’ve finished. “You two go out; we’ll be there in a minute.” She starts clearing the dishes.

  I put the box on the table and sit in the swing. Jess drops onto the chair. There’s a blurry circle of moon, and the air is hot and still.

  Jess touches the edge of the table with her toes. “If it was you wanting to go to the audition, they’d have said yes in a second.” Her voice is soft, croaky.

  I run my hand over the fabric outline of the arrowhead. “I’m not so sure,” I say, even though she’s probably right.

  “I mean, I get it.”

  Do you, though? I wonder.

  “They’re so different with you,” Jess says. “It’s everything…even our names. You have the beloved grandmothers, Anna and Elise, and I’m named after the crazy aunt who talked to the furniture.” Her words hang between us. She looks at me, her eyes watery. “My stomach hurts. I don’t think I want a cupcake.”

  She gets up and goes to the door, then stops. “What were you doing this morning, when you were staring at the store? It was like you were in a trance. Were you thinking about…you know?”

  I shake my head and stare at the wood planks on the floor. I don’t want to tell her, or anyone, what I saw, what I imagined.

  She stands there for a few seconds, then goes inside. I take the arrowhead, the coins, and the card with Jess’s autograph out of my pockets and put them on top of the cupcake box.

  The best thing about found day? When it’s over.

  The night I was discovered, they thought it was a mistake. Because who would actually leave a baby in a store? A person can leave a newborn at a fire station or a hospital if they aren’t wanted or can’t be cared for. But a gift shop?

  The police searched for fingerprints and conducted an investigation. There was a 1-80
0 tip line, news stories, and flyers taped in windows and on bulletin boards. I was a little famous.

  I once read a short story for school about this boy who’d been abandoned as an infant. He was searching for his birth mother, and when he finally found her, there was a big, emotional scene at the end. I couldn’t understand it. Why go looking for someone who threw you away? Dropped you off like they were returning you, like you didn’t fit or they changed their mind. Like you were a discard. Like you meant nothing.

  I’m not going to search. Not now. Not ever.

  The night I first saw baby Annalise was peaceful and quiet. The people had gone home.

  The woman walked from the store, her arms empty, her shoulders sagging. I noticed the bassinet near the back door, open to the small garden, scented with lilies and roses. The woman continued toward me, stepping softly onto my shore. Then she turned and moved toward the lindens.

  The canoe wasn’t on a rack with the others, but was concealed in a ribbon of long grass under one of the trees. That afternoon had been exceptionally busy at the canoe tent. Groups of twos and threes had paddled out one after the other. I hardly had a moment’s calm.

  She approached the hidden canoe and stood by its side for a long moment. Had she tucked it away there? I couldn’t remember seeing her before.

  Pushing it across the grass to my shore, she waded in, her long skirt billowing around her like a sail. I couldn’t see the woman’s face; there was no moon that night. She steadied the canoe, climbed in, reached for the paddle inside, and began to stroke.

  The cattails on my eastern side bent in concern. The lindens nervously rattled their leaves and crackled their roots. I sent a gentle wave toward the woman. Then several more. Go back, I hoped they said. Go back to shore. It’s much too dark and much too late to be out here with me.

  A mounting panic rose from my depths, from way down in my mucky bottom, as she continued to carve the oar. In. Out. Back. Forth. Again, again, again. I could sense that her arms were beginning to tire but she kept going. Farther and farther away. In the direction of Tru.

  I sent the surge toward the store, then attempted to bring the woman back to my shore without toppling the canoe. I tried.