At Yellow Lake

by Jane Mcloughlin

  The colours were coming back, pink and silvery when he closed his eyes. He heard his mother’s voice, softly singing. He felt her hand on his forehead, her fingers through his hair.

  ‘My mother,’ he croaked. ‘You need to call my mom.’

  Then he drifted off again, to a happier sleep.

  ETTA

  The grown-ups were back in charge. Dozens of them swarmed on the front lawn – FBI agents, paramedics, people wearing space suits used for decontaminating chemical spills. Lights – cherry red, neon blue, electric white – danced on the roofs of cars and trucks and ambulances. I watched all the action from the bedroom window while I waited for some people in suits – social workers, I figured – to get done talking to Peter so they could interview me.

  Outside on the lawn, an ambulance crew was taking care of the men who’d been hauled into the woods. They were kids, really, same as the guys in Kyle’s gang. One of them couldn’t stop shaking. A lady was talking to him, trying to calm him down, while a man reached into his bag and took out a needle. When the kid saw it he panicked, yelled out something in Spanish, squirmed like a cat in a plastic bag about to get drowned. The jab in his arm put an end to all that squawking, of course. Bringing somebody down didn’t take very much effort – a needle, a gunshot, a bash to the skull.

  I hadn’t killed anybody, though. Even with the blood and skin torn off, all I’d done to Kyle was give him bad concussion. By the time the cops cuffed him, threw him in the back of a car and drove him away with the rest of his gang, he was wide awake, complaining about police brutality, threatening to sue.

  But killing was easy. I’d never known that before. A little more muscle, a better aim, one or two more whacks – that’s all it would’ve taken.

  ‘Etta? Can we talk to you?’

  One of the social workers came into the room with two chunked-up state troopers. She was wearing a beige suit and flat shoes. Her hair was short and brown with bits of grey in it, so it looked the same colour as her clothes.

  ‘You’re not in any trouble, Etta.’ The woman’s voice was all sing-song and sweet. I imagined Mom, rolling her eyes, making that two-fingers-down-your-throat gagging sign. ‘Like we said to your friend Peter, we just need to check a few things out.’

  The woman sat down on the bed that I’d slept in and motioned for me to sit down on the other.

  ‘Whatever.’

  I pushed the other bed as far back as I could. The two cops stood in front of the door, like they were guarding it.

  ‘Right, Etta.’ The lady looked up from the clipboard she was holding. ‘We have those men in custody, so nobody can hurt you.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. I felt my nose tingle, the tears welling up. I didn’t want to cry – not in front of her – so I looked at the floor. There was a little rug between the beds, a braided one, like the one in the living room, the one I had looked at when Kyle was trying to—

  ‘Were you assaulted by Kyle Boyer, Etta?’

  Assaulted. That didn’t sound so bad.

  ‘Were you sexually assaulted?’

  I took in a deep breath. I tried to, anyway, but my throat closed up like somebody had sucked the air from my lungs and filled them up with hunks of snot.

  ‘Etta?’

  I coughed and choked, nodded towards the uniformed guys.

  ‘Can you get them out of here?’

  The woman looked at the men and they lumbered back into the living room.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Now can you tell me what happened, Etta?’

  ‘What you said. That’s what he wanted to do, that’s what he tried. . .’

  All the time I was talking, the woman wrote things down.

  ‘Go on.’

  I didn’t want to give any of the details – not to her.

  ‘That’s why I bashed him on the head, OK? To stop him.’

  ‘Etta, I already told you. You’re not in any trouble.’

  She straightened her back, put her pen down.

  ‘Do you know why Kyle was so interested in this cabin?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Were you aware he was involved with drugs?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘You need to answer the question, Etta.’

  ‘The night he took me, I saw some stuff, some powder.’

  ‘Where did you see it?’

  My heart pounded. I couldn’t lie – that would be a crime, right? But if I told the truth, what would happen to Mom?

  ‘Did you see it here, in the cabin?’

  I shook my head again, looked back down at the floor.

  ‘Look, Etta, I’ll get straight to the point. Did your mother know that Kyle was setting up a methamphetamine lab?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kyle Boyer moved from the Milwaukee area at the same time you and your mother got here from Minnesota. We’re trying to work out if that’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I said.

  ‘Are you positive on that?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  The drugs on the counter. Methamphetamine. Jeez, Mom.

  The tears welled up again. The woman reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and took out an unopened packet of tissues. She must have known I’d cry. She must have bought them special, just for me.

  I wiped my snotty nose with the bottom of my top.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  There were more questions about what happened that night in the car – who was driving, which guy was sitting where. There were questions about Mom – how long had she known Kyle? Where did they go when they went out on dates?

  I just kept shrugging. I didn’t know the answer to any of her questions. By the time she was finished, I wasn’t even listening, I couldn’t even hear.

  Finally, she put away her pen and made the papers in her clipboard nice and neat.

  ‘Right,’ she said, with that sickening smile on her face again. ‘One last question.’

  I stood up, crossed my arms – this was taking way too much time.

  ‘Do you want to go back home with your mother, Etta?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘If you don’t want to, we can arrange—’

  ‘Course I do.’ I said it as fast as I could, so she wouldn’t be able to finish her sentence.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure.’

  The lady stood up. ‘OK,’ she said, standing in the doorway. ‘I got my answer. I had to ask.’

  After she was gone I went to the other side of the room and looked out at the lake. It was quiet this side, peaceful. The lake was a deep slate-blue colour, but tiny traces of sunset still glimmered on the surface of the water. I heard footsteps behind me, a knock on the wall where the bedroom door had been.

  Now what did she want?

  ‘Etta?’

  I turned around. Peter. He’d wet his hair down and washed off some of Jonah’s blood. His shirt was still stained, though, and his arms and legs were dirty from hiding in the woods.

  He came into the room, shaking his head at the sight of the overturned furniture and broken windows, like it was all coming back to him, like the whole scene was playing over in his head.

  ‘They told me I could have a wash, get cleaned up a little, before. . .’

  ‘Before what?’ I asked.

  Peter shrugged, but I’d known as soon as I opened my mouth what the answer was – before they sent Peter home. Before they finished patching Jonah up and driving him away. Before Mom came to take me back, or else I got sent to foster care.

  He went right up to the window and looked down at the lake, almost pressing his face against the glass. He was only a few feet away, but he held his body awkwardly, like he didn’t want to get too close to me. Was something the matter? My heart pounded again – I felt that horrible taste in the back of my throat.

  Maybe he’d seen me in the living room with Kyle. Maybe he’d been watching before he came in, so he knew what Kyle had tri
ed to do. Maybe he was disgusted – it must have been pretty gross, Kyle tugging at my clothes like that, putting his hands all over me.

  Or maybe he saw what I’d done. Maybe he’d counted along – one, two, three, four – while I bashed the butt of the gun down, again and again, on the top of Kyle’s head.

  Maybe he thought I was really messed up.

  No, I thought. This is Peter – your friend.

  He yawned, stretched out his arms, brushed the side of my shoulder with the tips of his fingers, touched them for a second, before letting them drop down again.

  See?

  I’d have to tell him what happened. I wanted to tell him – the whole story, even the nasty parts, so he’d know the truth.

  When I turned to look at him, he was staring out the darkening window, his eyes wet, his mouth turned down, like his heart was breaking in two. He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  ‘Etta,’ he said.

  I’d tell him about Kyle later. Now wasn’t the time.

  He was quiet for a few seconds, and that silence scared me. What was it he couldn’t say?

  In the end, it didn’t matter. We stood side by side – not talking, not touching.

  Between the high curtain of oak trees, I could just make out a scattering of silver stars. Below them, Yellow Lake glowed like a tarnished antique mirror.

  Finally, Peter moved a little closer to me.

  ‘It’s still beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘No matter what?’

  I let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘No matter what.’

  JONAH

  The heartbeat monitor was beeping crazily again. The paramedic hopped into the ambulance.

  ‘Come on, Jonah, you know what to do.’

  Jonah had no choice but to obey. He could barely speak, so he couldn’t argue. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing right down. He imagined the lake, a sunrise, a birch bark canoe. He saw another crazy vision. The two of them – him and Etta – paddling together, gliding silently into the light.

  ‘There now. That’s better.’

  If only Etta could see it too.

  Their time was almost up. The other ambulances had gone. All they were waiting for now was the chopper – his chopper, the one that would take him away.

  Too soon, he thought, too soon. He panicked again, heard those staccato beeps.

  Close your eyes. Think of Yellow Lake. Calm. Clear. Blue. Shiny smooth.

  ‘Hi, Jonah.’

  Etta stood outside the ambulance, looking in, waving an injured hand. The last low rays of the setting sun streamed in behind her, lighting her hair, reminding him of the first time she’d crawled clumsily into the wigwam. He closed his eyes, remembering.

  ‘Is it OK to go in?’

  The paramedic jumped back to the ground so that Etta could clamber up and sit on the floor beside his bed. She held out her hand to him – it was tiny inside his, soft, a little damp. He ran his fingers over her hers, explored with his thumb the ragged edges of her chewed nails, smoothed the broken, stitched-together skin.

  Jonah felt tears coming on, a light trickle he couldn’t quite blink back. He could blame the drugs later, if he wanted, he could blame the disorientation of being strapped to a gurney and tied up with tubing.

  No. He had to stop this. He had to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The wigwam. Leaving you.’

  Etta shook her head. ‘None of that matters any more, does it?’

  The tears came again. Why didn’t she get it? It did matter. He needed to start all over – build another wigwam, set new traps and snares, find that arrowhead he’d tossed away in anger and do some real fishing as he was meant to, with spears. He wanted to do it all again, the right way.

  With her.

  She squeezed his hand tightly. ‘I saw what you did,’ she said. ‘You didn’t have to let them do that.’ She looked away from him, out the ambulance door, as if she could see something in the far distance.

  ‘That was the hardest part,’ she said. ‘Watching you die.’

  ‘Only I didn’t die,’ he wanted to say. ‘Only I’m not dead. And I want to stay here, only nobody will listen.’ He blinked, groaned again, shook his head with as much passion as his cotton-wrapped brain would let him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Etta said. ‘It’ll all be over in a little while.’

  Over? He twisted on the stretcher, tried to pull off his mask.

  Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

  ‘No,’ he shouted. At least, he thought he was shouting. ‘Drive away.’

  ‘What?’ Etta leaned in more closely. Could she even hear him?

  ‘Drive away. Let’s go. You. Me. Peter, if he wants to. In this thing.’

  It would be a long time before he learned whether or not he’d been making any sense. In his mind, he was telling Etta to steal the ambulance and drive them to a place where they could start a new life, together, without any adults to mess things up, just the three of them, living like brothers and sister, or boyfriend and girlfriend – she could take up with Peter, he didn’t care, just as long as they were together, as long as they stayed. But everything was so hazy. Was he actually talking, or just dreaming again?

  It was impossible to know for sure. Etta let go of his hand. Her face faded from his vision. His thoughts got lost in a shroud of incoherence and his voice was smothered by the noisy pillow that was an approaching helicopter circling overhead, looking for a safe place to land.

  PETER

  Out over the lake, a pale sliver of moon was rising.

  They stood on the beach, just the two of them.

  It was quiet. No more shouting of orders, no more sirens blaring or chopper blades whining. There was just the lapping of the lake, the whoosh of the trees.

  Peter should have been happy. This was what he wanted, to be alone with her. But what was the point if he was going to lose her so soon, if what they’d gone through together – the fear, the pain, all the feelings they had, good or bad – counted for nothing?

  The sweet-spice aroma rose from the ashes of Jonah’s wigwam pyre. Peter poked at the embers with a stick, churning up the smell, making it stronger.

  ‘What is that?’ Etta asked

  ‘What?’

  ‘The smell. Some kind of incense?’

  ‘Dunno, but it’s lovely.’

  Such an English word – lovely. He’d never thought about it before, but now every sound he uttered made him feel like a stranger again.

  ‘Lovely,’ Etta said. ‘I like that word.’

  With that, she slipped her arm around his, encircling it slowly, before taking his hand. He squeezed it tightly, wanting its soft imprint to stay embedded on his palm forever. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, trying to memorise the smell, the feel of her hand, the closeness of her body – the sweetness of these final moments with her.

  Out on the lake, a fish jumped. Up on the hill, a car door slammed.

  Somebody had arrived at the cabin, somebody who would soon be down on the beach, prising Etta away from him, taking her home.

  It could have been the fire, and that mojo stuff Jonah put in to make it mystical. It could have been that he knew that Etta would be leaving soon and this would be his only chance. It could have been because he needed to taste something good, to feel something tender.

  He took a deep breath of the cool, scented air. Something, someone perhaps, was giving him courage. He touched Etta’s hair and looked into her beautiful blue eyes. Then he kissed her on the lips, and even though the sand was soft and uneven, he didn’t trip over, or tremble, or do anything awkward. He kissed her for a long time and when he stopped so he could take a breath, Etta looked up at him, smiling, and said, ‘Lovely.’

  There should be fireworks, Peter thought, like Bonfire Night, like the Fourth of July.

  Instead, they got another jumping fish – it was a bigger fish this time, though, and it made a louder splash. And as he and Etta sta
yed together, the night got darker, the air got clearer. The stars seemed brighter against the blackness. They flamed and flashed – just for the two of them, it seemed – like tiny, distant sparklers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ETTA

  Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be the same. Mom wonders, too.

  She looks at me – while I’m watching TV or doing my homework at the kitchen table – and I know she’s thinking, what really happened during those three days?

  She’ll turn her eyes away when I catch her at it, or else she’ll smile and say something like, ‘You look so pretty in that light.’ But I know what’s really on her mind.

  She had all kinds of questions at the beginning. ‘What did that bastard do to you? Did he touch you anywhere, you know, anywhere funny?’

  Like that was all that mattered. Not thinking I was about to get shot. Not watching Jonah nearly die, or thinking Peter was already dead. Not almost bashing somebody’s brains in.

  ‘He barely touched me, Mom.’

  ‘Barely?’ she shrieked. ‘What does that mean? Barely?’

  I had questions for her, too – ones I never asked. ‘How could you let that man get near me?’ ‘How come you couldn’t even protect your own kid?’

  When she came to pick me up at the cabin that night she wasn’t wearing a low-cut top or skintight jeans. She was dressed in a knee-length black skirt and a white polyester blouse that wasn’t even see-through. It was like she was on trial, standing in front of a judge, and maybe she was. She had to look like a real mom, act like a real mom, talk like a real mom, for the first time in her life.

  Then, as soon as she saw me, wrapped up in a silver blanket left behind by the paramedics, she ran across the lawn to where I was waiting.

  ‘My baby, my baby,’ she screamed, like a hysterical kid.

  I couldn’t move. I had to wait there, completely still, while she slobbered all over me with her wet kisses and tears. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t her baby, I wasn’t her anything, I was me now, I was Etta, and being related to her was just a random accident.

  That’s what I felt, at least that’s what I thought I was feeling, until she finally stopped shrieking and opened her arms. I let her hug me, and that was it.