by Helen Frost
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Dedicated to these lakes I have loved
Lake Kabekona
Spec Pond
Lake Ossipee
Loch Mannoch
xx
and to Chad
xx
You Make Me Happy
Heartstone Lake remembers
The baby, Claire, in a sunsuit and
yellow hat, sat on her father’s shoulders, the
great wide world spread out before them. Two
egrets flew home to their nest as thunder
rumbled, far off in the distance.
The mother, Cari, lifted Abigail—
You are my sunshine, they sang together,
gently rocking. Cari waded in up to her ankles.
Everyone was smiling then, held close by the
rhythm of the song: You make me happy.
Blue sky, one cloud, an open beach
umbrella shading their red blanket. Did the
raindrops fall from the sun itself? I remember
no cold wind, no whitecaps, just a few small
indentations on my glassy surface,
not enough to make them pack up and
go home. Cari smiled at her husband, Andrew, and at
Baby Claire, who whimpered. I did not know why. Did she
realize, before the others did, what was coming, what it meant?
It seemed to happen all at once: Claire cried out, the sky
grew dark, lightning sent its dazzle through me. Cari
held Abigail tight in her arms for a split second,
then fell, her face in mine.
TEN YEARS LATER
Wishing
Claire
Dad glances in the rearview mirror. Get ready, he says,
to make your wish. We’re about to cross the railroad track.
We’ve turned off the highway onto the gravel road
that circles Heartstone Lake. Abigail smiles back
at Dad, lifts her feet. We always do this, she explains
to Pam, who says, That’s a nice family tradition.
Dad doesn’t even have to think about his wish.
He says what he says every year: Good fishing!
He winks. Abigail and I exchange a look. We love
Dad, but when we’re at the lake, fishing is all
he ever thinks about. Pam has something else
on her mind: I wish we could decide what to call
the baby. She looks at Dad, then out the window.
If she’s thinking up a nature name like Buck,
she doesn’t tell him—or us. Abigail’s distracted,
trying to get a signal on her phone. No luck.
Tell me again how long we’ll be here, Dad? she says.
About a month, he says. We always have the landline.
She tries again, gives up, turns to me. What’s your
wish? she asks. I shrug and peer into the trees, trying
to see the lake. Every year when I was little, I’d lift
my feet and wish for the same thing: To see Mom again.
Last year, I closed my eyes and thought: I wish Dad would
not get married. I knew it was impossible. And mean.
I hated Pam already. Her makeup and nail polish,
all those different-colored shoes and fancy jewelry.
I wished we could keep our cabin for the three of us,
like it had always been—just Dad and Abigail and me.
It halfway worked. Pam didn’t come to the lake
with us last year. So that wish came true. Sort
of—in September, they got married as they’d planned.
And this morning we all got in the car, heading north.
This year, I’ve decided to change my wishing strategy
to something more realistic: I know Pam is here to stay,
but I wish she’d quit trying so hard to be our mom.
The cabin’s small. It won’t be easy to stay out of her way.
I look across the backseat at Abigail. Sun shines
through her brown curls. Whatever she’s wishing
sends color to her cheeks, and her half smile says
she has a secret. I bet her wish is about kissing.
Memories
Abigail
Claire was just a baby. She can’t remember
the day Mom died. And I can’t forget—even
if I wanted to. I have a lightning-shaped scar
on my arm, reminding me of that rain and thunder
and lightning. All of us crying except Mom, who
did not cry. Or talk. Or move. We had to leave
her on our blanket on the beach. Dad
carried Claire, and I walked in front of them
up the path to the cabin. We got in the car,
and Dad drove down the road to the Johnsons’.
TJ was three years old, like I was. He gave me
Benjamin Bunny, his stuffed rabbit, so I wouldn’t cry.
Dad promised him we’d give it back, but I
refused to let that bunny go. Each year, I’d think,
This summer, I’ll give him back to TJ. And then
I somehow wouldn’t. By now, it would seem
so childish to give him back. Especially after
what happened the night before we left last summer.
Puzzle Pieces
Claire
We’re almost there. I love the pine-tree
smell as we get close. It makes me feel like
I belong here. Just one of many things I love:
Sunsets reflected on the water. Riding my bike
over gravel roads. A light breeze blowing
through my hair when I’m out in the kayak.
Loons and swans and water lilies. Dad met Mom
when they worked at a camp across the lake, back
when they were teenagers. They fell in love,
got married, and came here for a month each year.
They planned their lives around it—Dad became
an English teacher so they could be here
every summer. He tells us how much Mom loved this
cabin, and we’ve kept things like they were. Our book-
shelves are full of her poetry and art books—some
with corners still turned back so we can look
for the pages she was reading. Her easel stands
by the window, holding her watercolor of a birch
tree with a bluebird in it. That tree was half as tall
back then, compared to now. Bluebirds still perch
on the branches—do great-grandchildren
of the one Mom painted fly past our trees?
When we’re at the cabin, I like to think:
Mom picked up this exact same puzzle piece
and fit it in its place. Or: She got out of jail free
with t
his Monopoly card—and now so can I.
Her parents built the cabin the year she turned
eleven—the age I’ll be by the time we leave. I try
to picture her and Dad building the new addition
the year I was a baby—the year Mom died.
I’ve heard about that all my life: how Dad
set me down and ran into the water. He tried
to save Mom, but he couldn’t. He could only save Abigail
and me. All three of us must have been so scared.
Now we’re almost to the cabin. I won’t say this out loud,
but being here with Pam is going to be a little weird.
Almost the Same, Except
Claire
The minute Dad unlocks the door, and we
go in, I’m like— Whoa! What happened here?
Everything is almost the same, except—
I don’t know—I shake my head to clear
my thoughts. When Dad and Pam drove up last
weekend, Abigail and I would have come, too,
but our cousin invited us to a roller-skating
party, and we stayed home so we could go.
When they got back, Dad said, We changed
some things around, and we were like, Sure. That
sounds good. (I didn’t mind missing out on sweeping
up the mouse poop.) But this is way more than what
he prepared us for: Everything straightened up. Puzzles
and games moved to a top shelf, leaving the game shelf
empty—except for a flower vase. My throat tightens.
That vase—I bet it’s Pam’s. I make myself
stay quiet. Dad says, Girls, let’s get the car unpacked.
Pam shouldn’t carry anything too heavy. Claire,
can you get the fishing poles and tackle box?
Abigail, you can set the cooler over there.
He points toward an empty space
under the window—where Mom’s easel
used to be. Where did they put it?
And where’s her chair? Deep and cozy,
my favorite place to sit and read the books I love
(where are the books?) or watch a storm roll across
the water—I felt like that chair could hug me.
Abigail looks like she did when she lost
her sketchbook one day last summer
after we’d spent all day at the beach,
and then she found it a week later,
off a trail where she had to reach
into poison ivy to retrieve it. Dad,
I manage, where’s Mom’s … chair?
I catch a look between him and Pam.
Dad says, Remember? The back of it had a tear
in the cloth. And, he adds, we’ll need that space
pretty soon now, for the baby. That word—we—
slides by so easily, erasing my word—Mom.
I wonder—does it erase Abigail and me?
All Mom’s Art
Claire
I get it. I do. All the stuff from our old life together
would make Pam feel like she does not belong.
This rearrangement says: Pam is here to stay. And
make room for the baby. Don’t get me wrong,
I know it’s not the baby’s fault. He’s not even born yet.
But—over there? I nudge Abigail and nod to where all
our framed pictures—even that cheesy one of the four
of us in bright green shirts—aren’t hanging on the wall.
Plus … Look, I whisper. Abigail sucks air through her nose.
All Mom’s art—and ours—has disappeared. Dad’s gone
back to the car. Pam stares out the window, blocking the light,
resting her hands on her stomach as she stands there, alone.
Cough, Sputter, Blink
Claire
Dad has this little thing he does—
half cough, half sputter, a little blink,
before he answers one of our tough
questions. But really? I wouldn’t think
something like this would throw him off.
This morning, Abigail, standing with her back
to me as she got dressed, said in a quiet voice,
Claire, I think I need a bra. News flash—
she’s thirteen. I said, Tell Dad, and she said, I will.
Now the two of them are doing the supper dishes,
and she tells him. I expect him to go, Blah, blah, blah,
my little girl is growing up. But Dad actually blushes
and looks down at the dishwater. I’m not sure I’m
the one to help with that, he says, with a glance across
the room at Pam, who jumps right in like she
knows Abigail better than Dad does, and of course
she is now our family expert on girls’ clothes.
I’d be happy to take you shopping. Let’s go soon,
before the baby is born, she says. Abigail glances
at me. Pam says, How about tomorrow afternoon?
I’m sure Abigail will hate this, but the look
she gives me seems to mean, How can I say no?
Before I know it, Pam has the whole thing
planned, and Abigail has agreed to go.
Just the two of them. I’m not jealous. I don’t
like the mall. But seriously, Dad? Please.
Finding new underwear for Abigail is harder
than patching up a couple hundred skinned knees?
Splinting my broken ankle, halfway up that mountain?
Harder than selling Girl Scout cookies in a blizzard?
Taking your daughter shopping is suddenly harder
than burying Stokie, our three-year-old pet lizard?
Harder
than burying
Mom?
I don’t want to start crying.
I’m going out in the kayak, I say.
Dad knows I won’t be gone too long.
But Pam butts in and tries to tell me
what time I should come home.
Sunset
Claire, in the kayak
Out in the kayak at sunset,
water bugs walk across
orange light on the water.
What if Pam offers me
a trip to town? Shopping time
has always meant Dad-time to
me. Pam doesn’t have to be
our mom! I like being alone
with Dad—and with myself.
Welcome Back
The lake
She stood on the shore looking
out. Now, in the kayak, she moves across
my surface through the water lilies, observing
every water bug, each jumping fish, following the
birds through air and water. Two loons call to each
other—or do they call to Claire? She watches them
dive, tries to guess where they’ll come up. Every
year when the family arrives, she greets me
like a good friend, wearing a pair of
old jeans, a faded sweatshirt under her life
vest. Sometimes a baseball cap, tilted sideways.
Everything well worn, comfortable. She always
seems to need a haircut—her shaggy bangs
(uncut for how long?) hang over her eyes
so she has to keep pushing them back
all the time. She started out taking
long, hard strokes. Now she
leans back to rest.
Come On In
Claire
Let’s go swimming, Abigail suggests.
It’s our second morning here; the lake is clear
and cool. A school of minnows skims across
the rocky bottom. Come on, Claire, over here!
she says as she dives off the dock. Out on the lake,
two ducks glide in for a landing. Abigail turns
to me, laughing
. It’s not so cold, she calls out,
once you get used to it. My stomach churns
as I go in slowly, step-by-tiny-step,
dipping my toes, my knees, into the shallow
part, until I’m in up to my waist. Abigail,
already past the drop-off, dares me to follow.
She swims straight out to where the current
carries her toward Anna’s Island. Water flows
from one end of the lake to the other, and near
the island the current helps a swimmer who knows
how to catch it. That’s fun—you can swim faster
than you thought you could. Of course,
if you try to swim against that current, instead of
being a better swimmer than usual, you’re worse.
Once at the end of last summer, Abigail and I swam
out to the island, and Dad rowed his boat beside me
to give me a ride back. This year, will I be able
to swim all the way out and back? We’ll see.
Splashing It with Color
Abigail
I’ve been told I was a happy baby,
a cheerful little girl. I’d wake up,
jump out of bed, and Mom would say,
Good morning, sweet Abigail. According to Dad,
she and I lit up the room together. Every morning,
like the crack of dawn, he says, she was the lake—
dark, still, and quiet. You were the sun
splashing it with color. How does that
make Claire feel? I don’t know. Was she
fast asleep those early mornings
when all that Mom-and-me joy
opened the day? We’ve shared
a room since Claire was born, so I know she must
have been there. Has she always liked to let the sun
begin its climb into the sky before she opens up her eyes?
Would You Be Okay?
Claire
I’m taking the boat to the marina this morning, Dad says.
Who wants to come? I love being on the lake with Dad. I do!
I say. And when we get back, I want to go over to the Johnsons’.
Abigail, if you’re back from the mall by then, you should come, too.
TJ and the little kids will want to see you. Before Abigail
says yes or no, Pam says, We might not be back from town