The Light in the Lake

by Sarah R. Baughman

  “I just wanted to make things as good as they could be,” she says. “As much like before as I could. But nothing’s the same anymore.”

  “I know. But Liza… it also can’t be.” What else can I say? It’s true.

  “Why, Addie?” Liza asks. “Why did you want to go back to Maple Lake, so soon… so soon after Amos died? I don’t understand how you could miss that place.”

  “It’s who I am,” I say. “And honestly? I liked being around a few people who didn’t know me as just… someone who was a part of Amos.”

  Liza nods, her eyes shining.

  “But I also think Amos is still here in a way,” I say. “Even when he’s not. I feel it all the time, Liza. Not just at Maple Lake. But here too.”

  “Here?” she asks.

  “Right here, between you and me.” The warm feeling comes back again.

  “He’d be proud of you,” she says softly. “For going back on the lake. He was brave like that.”

  “He’d be proud of you too,” I say. “With your art. He would have been there for the Shoreland Art Show.”

  “Well,” Liza says. “Now you can be too. If you want to. I have my portfolio right here.” She reaches under her bed and pulls out a bound book of sketches, the blue ribbon still attached.

  I flip through the pages, catching my breath.

  Liza is such a good artist. Once when Amos and I were little, we watched the original Mary Poppins because Mama loves everything ancient. At one point, Mary Poppins’s friend is drawing beautiful pictures with chalk on the street, and he and Mary Poppins jump right into the pictures. Once they jump in, they’re really there—in a totally different world, made by the pictures. That’s what Liza’s sketches feel like.

  She stuck with the moon phases, but she added something new: landscapes. They feel dark, but beautiful—heavy gray and black lines giving way to gray shadows. There’s Bevel Mountain and Mount Mann, thick with trees. There’s Route 3, curving along the water. There’s Maple Lake, shimmering. I don’t know how she makes it shimmer, since she sketches in pencil. But it just does. And there’s a moon in every picture, so put all together, the sketches show all the phases we learned about in class. They also show places—all of our beautiful places.

  “Wow,” I say.

  Liza covers her face with her hands. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “No, these are really good, Liza.”

  “Urgh,” she says. “I don’t know. I just wanted to try something different. Like you, I guess.”

  “Well, keep trying it,” I say. “It obviously worked. No people, though?”

  Liza shrugs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really thinking about people when I drew them.”

  I reach over and squeeze her hand. She doesn’t let go.

  I take a deep breath. “So, there’s something I need to explain to you… And then to your parents.”

  Liza’s eyebrows knit together. “Yeah?” she says, a half question.

  “The thing is…” I twist my hands together, rubbing my knuckles. “I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Just spit it out.” Liza laughs. “How bad can it be? After everything we talked about?”

  Then the words just tumble; I don’t hold them back anymore. “Maple Lake is polluted,” I say. “Like, you can’t tell, unless you see the harmful algal blooms, but it really is. There’s a lot of phosphorus in it. Tai and I drove all over the lake and measured it, so I know it’s true. Too much phosphorus hurts wildlife, and… and phosphorus can come from a lot of different places, like chemical treatments on lawns, or construction, or—”

  “Whoa, slow down,” Liza says. “Phosphorus. Okay.”

  I take a deep breath. “But a lot of the phosphorus is flowing into Maple Lake from farms.”

  “Farms like ours?” Liza asks.

  I have to work really hard not to look away when I answer. “Farms like yours.”

  “It’s not really that big of a farm,” Liza says. “What about the Pierres’ place?”

  “Bigger farms have had to do things differently for a while, to prevent pollution,” I say. “But small farms haven’t, so some of them can actually cause issues too. We have to try to figure out what people could be doing differently.”

  Liza nods slowly. “So… that’s what you want to talk to Mom and Dad about?”

  “What Mr. Dale and Dr. Li found out means that farmers here will probably have to make some pretty big changes in the way they do things,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  I explain what Tai and I have learned. Liza’s eyes narrow and she starts chewing her lip. When I stop talking, there’s just silence. We both sit there in it, waiting.

  “I mean…” Liza begins. “Mom and Dad know what they’re doing, though, you know?” She doesn’t sound mad, just worried. “They’ve been doing it forever.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s part of what I want to explain. Maple Lake is really deep, and that keeps it more protected from pollution, and it didn’t seem to me like small farms would be a problem. But the phosphorus buildup has happened over time anyway—it just took a while.”

  Liza nods uncertainly. The longer I wait to talk to Uncle Mark and Aunt Mary, the worse I feel. I’m putting off something I have to do. “Look, I just really need to talk to them.”

  “They’re probably in the barn,” she says, her eyes worried. “I told them you were coming over, and they told me not to worry about babysitting or helping with chores. I think they figured we’d need to talk.” Liza tucks her sketchbook between the bed and the wall.

  Guilt must pass like a cloud over my face because Liza links her arm in mine and sighs. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she says.

  Out by the barn, we find DeeDee and Sammie taking turns pushing each other on the tire swing hanging from one of the old maples. When Amos and Liza and I were little, we did the same thing.

  “I’m going to stay out here with DeeDee and Sammie,” Liza says. She probably realizes that I need to handle this conversation.

  The barn is dark and cool, quiet except for the milking machines, steadily hissing and pumping. I walk into the milking parlor and find Aunt Mary and Uncle Mark moving between and around the cows, wiping udders, attaching machines. Grandpa’s there too. Baby Katy’s shaking a rattle in the playpen they have set up near the door to the milk house.

  I pull a stool over to Baby Katy’s playpen and watch everyone work. They move quickly, confidently. Baby Katy reaches for me and I lift her up, bounce her on my knee. “Any suggestions?” I ask her. She purses her lips and blows a raspberry, drooling down her shirt. “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  When milking’s over, Uncle Mark starts moving the cows back outside, Grandpa sweeps the aisle with a long-handled push broom, and Aunt Mary looks in my direction. She hesitates for just a second, then walks over and wraps me in a hug.

  “You get a chance to talk with Liza?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We… we figured a lot out. Aunt Mary, I’m—”

  But she shakes her head. “Don’t be,” she says, cutting me off. “Your uncle Mark and I, we understand.” Baby Katy reaches for her and Aunt Mary picks her up and gives her a kiss. Then she pulls a different rattle out of her pocket and sets Baby Katy back down where she can play safely.

  Uncle Mark comes back in, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Hey there, Favorite Niece,” he says. He ruffles the hair on my head and winks, but it just makes me feel worse. Maybe they forgave me already for missing the 4-H show, but they’re really not going to be happy when I start talking about phosphorus.

  I tell them everything. About driving the boat all around Maple Lake, taking water samples. About reading until our eyes hurt. About Dr. Li and Jake and Tasha and Mr. Dale and the article they want us to write.

  When I’m done, Uncle Mark whistles under his breath. His eyes flash.

  Silence fills the barn, drowning out the hiss of the milking machines.

  Aunt Mary final
ly speaks. “Guess they weren’t kidding about the pollution in the lake.”

  I shake my head.

  “Honey,” Aunt Mary says, “this is… a lot.”

  “A lot!” Uncle Mark breaks in. “You can say that again.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, looks at the ground. Not at me.

  Then it’s quiet again, except for Baby Katy’s rattle. Nobody seems to know what to say.

  “Addie,” Uncle Mark finally begins. “Are they going to talk to us? To farmers?”

  I squirm under his stare. I know Dr. Li and Mr. Dale have talked about needing to communicate with farmers, but I don’t know when they’re going to.

  Grandpa’s voice is calm. “Nobody wants to pollute Maple Lake,” he says. “Addie, honey, we love the lake.”

  “I know,” I say, biting my lip.

  “It’s not the farms anyhow.” Uncle Mark is talking faster now, his voice hard. “They know about everything else that goes into that lake? All the construction runoff from that Walmart everyone thought would be so great?”

  I can feel my cheeks flush hot. “Well, those could be problems too—”

  “The changes you’re talking about,” Uncle Mark interrupts, “they’re big ones. Expensive ones.” He looks over at Aunt Mary. “Who’s paying?”

  At this exact moment I really wish I could just melt into the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, miserable.

  Uncle Mark won’t look away. “When you weren’t there for the show with Rascal,” he says, “I thought—It’s okay. She’s going through a lot. But I never thought it would be this.”

  I hang my head.

  “You know,” Uncle Mark says, “your brother used to follow me everywhere.” I’ve never heard Uncle Mark’s voice sound quite this way. Husky. Cloudy like a sky about to rain. “All over these fields. This barn. Knew every corner. And now you want to change it?”

  I followed you too, I want to say, but don’t. I only want to change it to save it.

  Grandpa puts his hand on Uncle Mark’s shoulder, but he moves away.

  “Do you remember what year your grandpa’s grandpa came here from Quebec, honey?” Aunt Mary asks.

  I shake my head. I’ve never been great with dates.

  “In 1840,” Aunt Mary says gently. “We’ve been here a long time. Now, honey, I know you’ve worked hard—”

  “This state needs farmers,” Uncle Mark cuts in. “Look how many farms like ours have disappeared. And here we are, still trying as hard as we can to make it work.”

  “She knows,” Grandpa says. He looks down at me with eyes so kind they make me want to take everything back.

  I can feel myself shaking. I knew Uncle Mark and Aunt Mary wouldn’t be happy about this. I just didn’t know that when it finally came down to it, I’d have the strength to keep telling them what I believed. Turns out I do. “But this state needs clean water too,” I say in a voice that’s not mean, just honest.

  Uncle Mark opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but then he looks down, turns on his heel, and pushes through the door leading to the milk house. He lets it swing shut behind him.

  “Addie Paddie,” Grandpa says. “I know you’re doing what you need to do. We can figure this out.” He wraps his arms around me.

  My tears melt into his scratchy shirt.

  Chapter 24

  I ask Aunt Mary to drop me off at the beach. We load my bike into the van’s crowded trunk, pushing a row of seats down to make it fit.

  She’s quiet at first, but then she reaches over and ruffles my hair. “Don’t let Uncle Mark get to you too much, honey,” she says. “He’s just worried.”

  I blink back tears and turn to the window so Aunt Mary can’t see.

  “Okay, actually we’re both worried,” she continues. “But like Grandpa said, we really don’t want to pollute Maple Lake either.”

  “I know,” I say. “But Dr. Li and Mr. Dale are being careful, Aunt Mary. They don’t want to hurt farmers.”

  “Are you sure?” Aunt Mary asks. “Do they understand how farmers would be affected by some of the changes they want?”

  “I told them they needed to think about cost,” I said. “They are. They said the state would help.”

  Aunt Mary’s face is still knit all over with worry. “But are they sure we’re even causing most of the problems in the first place?”

  “They’re still doing more research,” I say. “But science is about doing the best you can with the information you have.” Which sounds weird coming out of my mouth, because a few months ago I thought it was always easy to know what was true and not true.

  Aunt Mary nods. “So what information do they have, honey?” she asks.

  “It’s called non–point source pollution,” I say. “That means it can be hard to trace.”

  Aunt Mary looks so sad, but she’s listening. “How does that tell you for sure that farms are an issue?” she asks.

  “Well, they’re not the only issue,” I say. “People living in neighborhoods can do things differently to help the lake too. But we tested samples and found out there was phosphorus feeding into Maple Lake from the Pine River.” My voice trembles. I don’t want to say the next part. But Aunt Mary deserves to know. “And we know that the creeks up by your farm and the neighbors’ farms feed into that river. I tested the water myself, and I read the maps. At least some of the pollution has to be coming from farms.”

  “Okay,” Aunt Mary says. “I mean, this is hard, but I can see it makes sense.”

  This isn’t the end of the story, I think. Just because this happened to Maple Lake, doesn’t mean it needs to keep happening. “If there was a chance you could help Maple Lake,” I ask, “would you?” My voice sounds stronger now than I thought it would.

  Aunt Mary looks toward the lake and takes a deep breath. Then she smiles, and she takes hold of both my shoulders.

  “I would,” she says. “Absolutely. But just remember, nobody can do it without help.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s fair.”

  “You’ve always been so smart, Ad,” she says. “I’m proud of you, you know. Uncle Mark is too. But he isn’t going to want to change, at least not fast. And not if he’s treated like an enemy.”

  I think if I spoke, I’d start crying again. So I just wrap my arms around Aunt Mary and bury my face in her neck.

  “You sure you’re not headed home?” she asks, rubbing my back. “It’s almost supper. You could’ve stayed, you know.”

  I shake my head and pull away. “I’m just going to sit here for a little bit.”

  “And your mom and dad won’t mind?” Aunt Mary looks uncertain.

  “Tai’s meeting me soon,” I say. “My parents told me we could bike back together.” The lie slides out, smooth as water. I’ll just text them later.

  Aunt Mary squeezes my hand, her eyes gentle. “Be safe,” she says. She watches in the rearview as I unload my bike, then pulls the van away and heads back up Route 3. Now it’s just me and Maple Lake.

  The water’s quiet, no wind. I listen to the soft lapping of it, pushing against the sand, then breaking away.

  People always talk about the smell of the ocean, but I’d choose this instead.

  I breathe in. It’s fish and sand and froth and stones rubbed soft, but underneath, there’s a hint of ancient ice. The scent of clean. Water so clear, at least away from the harmful algal blooms, that you can open your eyes underneath and barely have to rub them when you get out. A brightness.

  A seagull caws overhead, a lonely, cold sound.

  Memories of Amos fill my mind. They run together, they gather in pools.

  I remember one day he dragged me out of school right at the bell and made us get on the bus first. And he just couldn’t sit still. He kept jiggling his leg so hard I could feel the seat vibrating. I could tell he was excited.

  He was always excited about something. I remember the way his knee would pound up and down like a jackhammer on the bus when he couldn’
t wait to get home and hatch some plan.

  We were going to fish with Dad that night and he couldn’t wait, because it was finally close enough to summer to head out with the boat, and we hadn’t had much of an ice fishing season that winter. He wanted to get back out on the water, frozen or not.

  Tears well in my eyes.

  And then he said, “I just want to fish that lake forever.”

  Forever, I think. Long after I’m gone too. Long enough so my great-grandkids and their great-grandkids can fish in the Maple Derby.

  I think if the creature’s in Maple Lake, it’s supposed to stay there forever too. Amos thought it was the last one, and it wasn’t supposed to die. I know technically every living thing does, but Amos’s creature would have to be different. It might be part white whale, but it’s part magic too. And it needs the lake to stay alive.

  I hear a car pull up in the small parking lot behind me and turn to see Barbara Ann’s Subaru. She rolls down the window.

  “Hey there,” she calls. “I was just headed to Teddy’s and saw you. You don’t need a ride or anything, do you?”

  “Hey, Barbara Ann,” I call, wiping my eyes. “Thanks, but I have my bike. I just wanted to be at the lake for a little bit.”

  She snaps her watermelon gum and looks out toward the water. “I understand,” she says. “We all need the lake now and then. You know what’s kind of funny?”

  “What?” I ask, walking up to her car.

  “This is exactly where I found that tooth,” she says. “I was taking one of my beach walks, and there it was. Just right where it was supposed to be.”

  The lonely seagull caws again. We both follow the sound with our eyes and watch him ride the air.

  “I’ve kept it safe,” I say. “I always will.”

  Barbara Ann smiles, her eyes still on the seagull. “I know, honey,” she says. “That’s why I gave it to you.” Then she starts the car back up and pats my hand. “Take care now,” she says, and pulls away.

  Another gull joins the first one, diving in wide swoops over the lake. Caw. Caw. Water crashes softly to shore, muting their screams.