Hello from Renn Lake

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  I wait.

  The geese are long gone, black smudges far off in the sky, when Annalise says, “Why?” Her voice cracks, like a branch splitting from a tree. “Why, Renn? Why did someone abandon me?”

  She’s asked before. On her found days. After a ragged puppy was discovered wandering alone by my shore. Sometimes, strangely, on moonless nights. I always send soft, calming ripples but I never have an answer. After all this time, there is much I don’t understand about people.

  Annalise returns the leaf to my surface and I guide it gently on its way. We spend a few minutes in silence. A cloud moves across the sun, and she and I share the shade.

  “Mrs. Alden’s gone now,” she whispers. “I can’t talk to her, if I ever wanted to. She’s the only one who might’ve seen….”

  My old heart aches. I dig through my treasures—there are many that have sunk to the bottom—keys, sunglasses, fossils, lots of canoe paddles. Things that were accidentally dropped into my wide-open arms, never to be seen again.

  I can’t offer her something special like my distant relatives Pacific and Atlantic. They could give her a whole peachy-white conch shell or a pointy shark’s tooth. But I give her what I have. I bubble up an arrowhead and deposit it right by her knees.

  Her face brightens as she picks it up. “Wow!” she says. “Look at this!”

  I flow in delight.

  She leaps up and runs toward the cabins. I watch as she flings open the door to the office and shows the arrowhead to her parents. Her dad whistles, her mom oohs and aahs, then taps her finger on the tip.

  “Let me see,” Jess says, leaning in. “Cool, but I’m sure there’s tons of arrowheads out there.”

  Not true. That was my only one.

  Annalise’s mom envelops her in a hug. I imagine their two hearts pressing together, each hearing the other’s.

  Tru and I have had many discussions about hearts. We have a simple one, directly in the deepest center, requiring only sunlight and oxygen to keep it going. People, I know, have a more complex heart. Ventricles, atriums, interconnected valves and muscles. And four separate chambers. Four, like the seasons, the winds, and the wings on a bumblebee.

  I’ve thought long and hard about those four heart chambers. A brilliant design. If one should break, as it must have for Annalise when she was first told about being abandoned, there are still three others to rely on. But what about me and Tru, with our simple heart? What if it breaks?

  “Tru?” I call softly.

  No answer.

  “Tru? Can you hear me?”

  Tru is sluggish and steamy today. My cousin’s a moody river, impulsive, changing course without warning. If Tru doesn’t feel like talking, there’s a quiet, empty space between us.

  Lately, I’ve been feeling warm too. The rain was heavy last night. An angry storm, sending debris and branches into my waters, ripping them into sharp fragments of driftwood.

  When people are too warm, they jump in from the pier, wanting me to cool their reddened skin. But I’ve wondered, what will cool me if I stay this warm?

  The days are getting longer now. The pines are shedding their brittle needles and the lindens are caring for their young saplings. Soon, people will fill up my shore from end to end. I rustle my ancient, watery bones. Time to get ready for summer.

  Mom’s holding me so tight, my nose is smooshed against her T-shirt. “Happy found day, sweetheart,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  She lets go but puts her hands on the sides of my shoulders and sniffles a little. “Twelve. I still can’t believe it. How did that happen?”

  “It happened because you can’t stop it from happening,” Jess answers, spinning, making her skirt flare out.

  Dad hugs me too; then they glance at each other and launch into their found day rhyming song, with Jess humming along, pretending she’s holding a microphone. I let them go, until they finish on a long, drawn-out note and round of applause. They beam at me and I try to smile back.

  I slide the arrowhead into my shorts pocket. It feels smooth and flat against the fabric. When I take out my hand, I realize it’s shaking. Walking by Alden’s, I always felt kind of uncomfortable, a little tragic and wounded, but I never saw that shadow inside.

  Mom studies my face. “What’s wrong? Are you getting too old for this now that you’re almost a teenager?”

  I clasp my hands to steady them. “No, no.”

  “Even if you are,” Dad says, “we’re going to keep singing and embarrassing you.”

  Jess laughs. “Even when she’s, like, ninety?”

  “Even then,” Dad replies.

  How could I ever tell them to stop? Mom and Dad tried for years to have a baby. Then I appeared. A miracle, they said. Jess was a surprise. Mom got pregnant one year later.

  “I always feel bad that your birthday and found day are at the beginning of the season, when we’re so busy,” Mom says. “But we’ll celebrate tonight at dinner. The usual found day menu: mac ’n’ cheese and cupcakes with sprinkles. Your favorites.”

  “Cupcakes!” Jess shouts.

  Dad looks at her. “Nice outfit.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  Dad goes to the ladder in the corner, climbs up, and unscrews a light bulb. His head practically touches the ceiling. He’s tall—six three—and his hair is wispy, like loose pieces of thread. Mom’s tall too, five ten, and her hair is darker than Jess’s and cut short. They’re both thin and freckly. The only jewelry they wear is their plain, slim gold wedding bands.

  When I was starting kindergarten, they told me that I was adopted before some kid in class blurted it out. I asked Mom what she thought I was. My heritage, I meant. I could be a blend of anything, really.

  She explained that I could do a DNA test to find out when I was older, but for now, I shouldn’t spend time worrying about it. “One of the most beautiful things in the world is its mysteries,” she said. “The unknown.”

  I went to Renn that day. It was almost September, and the cabins were quiet. Just a few last guests. I unbuckled my white sandals and planted my toes on the sandy shore. I peered into the water, trying to see below the surface. The water was a little cloudy, but then I spotted a school of tiny fish darting back and forth. Renn bubbled around them, like they were playing. I smiled and dipped my hand in, but the fish swam off. I remember looking toward the other shore, thinking there must be lots of fish swimming in the lake, even though I couldn’t see them.

  Mom ducks behind the front desk and when she pops up, she’s holding something behind her back. Dad gets down from the ladder. They both have sneaky smiles, like they can barely hold in a secret.

  “What?” I look from one to the other.

  Mom hands me a small wrapped box. They always give me a present on found day. I tear the paper and carefully lift the cover. Inside is a delicate necklace, with a tiny house pendant. Silver, with a triangular roof, two windows, and a door etched in the metal. It swings gently back and forth from my fingers like a pendulum, catching little house-shaped squares of light.

  “I saw it when I was in Madison last month,” Mom says. “I fell in love with it, just like I fell in love with you the first time I saw you and brought you home.” She gulps, puts a hand across her throat. “But it’s returnable, if you don’t like it—”

  “No, I love it.” I undo the clasp and put it on. “How does it look?”

  She lets out a breath. “Perfect. Just beautiful. I think it was meant for you.”

  Dad nods. “Agree.”

  “Pretty,” Jess says, then sighs. “So what am I doing? Welcome bags?”

  “Yes.” Mom points to the table by the front door. “I already started. There’s just a few more coupons to add.”

  Jess walks over to the table, picks up a stack of coupons, then fans them out like cards. “Anyone have a
five?”

  Dad laughs. “Go fish.”

  Jess starts dropping coupons into the small paper bags lined up on the table.

  The office phone rings and Mom takes the call, pulling up the reservation calendar on her laptop. Dad looks over her shoulder as she types. “Another booking,” he says. “We’re full until the second week in August.”

  “Awesome,” I say. “It’s going to be a great summer!”

  Mom finishes typing the information, then hangs up. “We certainly need one. The last few were so slow. I was beginning to think no one wanted to stay at sleepy old cabins anymore. Not when there’s water parks and all the attractions in the Dells.”

  “We could build a water park here,” Jess says, rearranging the bags by color.

  “We could,” Dad answers. “If we had a few million dollars to spare.” He scans the laptop screen. “It cost us an arm and a leg, but maybe the ads we put in those vacation guides really worked.”

  I glance at Dad. “How much did they cost?”

  “A lot. But if we keep getting bookings, it was worth it. I think we can get those three cabin roofs repaired now. We didn’t have enough money last year.”

  “And let’s replace the windows,” Mom adds. “The ones that are leaking. It’s never-ending, keeping this place up.” She smiles. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

  When Mom’s grandpa was young and first came to Wisconsin, he bought some land around the lake and built the cabins. He passed them down to Mom’s dad, who passed them down to Mom. There’s a picture of the three of them above the fireplace at home. Mom was around eight. They’re standing proudly in front of the office, in the shade of a pine tree. Bands of sunlight are poking through the branches, and their arms are around each other’s waists.

  The cabins have been here so long, it’s as if they’ve sunken in and become part of the earth, like the grass and the soil and the lake. When I’m inside them, enveloped in their woody smell, their roots beneath my feet, Alden’s, across the street from the lake, seems miles away. Harder to believe.

  Mom pushes a strand of hair off her forehead. “Annalise, I know it’s your found day, and maybe you wanted to hang out with Maya later, but Vera’s out sick. I haven’t had a minute to check if she got to all the bed linens and towels—”

  “Maya’s visiting her aunt and uncle in Milwaukee until tomorrow.” I grab the ring of keys from the front desk drawer. “I’m on it.”

  Mom hands me the clipboard with each cabin listed, and little boxes to check off for clean sheets, towels, fresh bars of soap, vacuuming, and emptying trash. “Thank you. I’ll send Jess over to help when she’s done with the bags.”

  “I can do reservations,” Jess pipes up.

  “No,” Mom and Dad blurt at the same time.

  “I won’t delete any this time, I promise.”

  Dad pats her shoulder. “Maybe next year.”

  Jess reads one of the coupons. “Ten percent off a smoothie. Does anyone even use these? I mean, can’t the stores get apps or something? Because that would be the way to go, if you want my opinion.”

  “Good idea, Jess, but I don’t think they can afford that,” Mom says, turning back to her laptop.

  “Maybe we can get an app. For, like, reservations. People could just click and come.”

  “Maybe…,” Mom says.

  “I mean, you know, when the windows are fixed and stuff.” Jess drops the coupon into a bag. I tuck the clipboard under my arm and go out, then head straight to cabin 1, which is closest to the office. Vera’s worked here as long as I can remember, and while I don’t want her to be sick, I’m glad to be busy.

  Cabin 1 has a king-sized bed, made perfectly, the blanket tucked in tight. I check the living room, kitchen, and bathroom; all neat and ready for the next guests. Cabins 2 and 3 are in good shape too, but cabin 4 is missing everything—no sheets, pillowcases, or towels. And I catch a whiff of dirty socks. I find two on the floor next to the bed, plus a sweatshirt on a chair, and a pacifier on the bathroom sink.

  People always leave stuff behind. We throw everything into a lost-and-found bin in the office. No one ever comes back for their things, so I don’t know why Mom and Dad hold on to them.

  I take the socks, sweatshirt, and pacifier to the bin, then grab what I need from the supply closet. Back in cabin 4, I drop everything on an armchair, then open a window to get the smell out. The carpet is damp near the window. This must be one that’s leaking. I arrange the towels in the bathroom—layering them big to small, all folded in thirds. I am a towel master.

  I fling the mattress cover across the bed, then lift each corner, pulling the cover underneath, snug and tight. Jess seems so certain about acting (for now), but it’s hard to imagine myself being something. A doctor? A teacher? A sheepherder? I will say this, though. If my career involves anything to do with bedding and towels, I’m golden.

  I go from cabin to cabin—there are twelve in total—and only 8 and 11 are also in need of bed-making/towel-hanging. I don’t come across any more left-behind things except three pennies and a quarter, which I immediately claim. Since I started helping with the cabins a few years ago, any coins I find go into a glass jar in my room. When I last counted my haul, I had sixteen dollars and seventy-two cents. I’m saving it for something. I don’t know what yet.

  As I’m finishing up the last cabin, Jess waltzes in. “Hey.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Sorrryyy. I was tying ribbons on the bags.”

  “This whole time?”

  “Yeah. I was curling them. Making the presentation more appealing. That’s what it’s about, you know.” She snorts. “Mom made me use little kid scissors.”

  I scan the clipboard. “Well, I’m done.”

  On the way back to the office, Jess elbows me. “There’s that weird boy again. The one who was by your school.”

  She’s right. He’s kneeling next to a tree. He has longish brown wavy hair in a ponytail and is even skinnier up close. He’s hunched over the dirt and peering through a magnifying glass. I hear him mutter, “Not good. Definitely not good.”

  I wonder what he means. But he’s completely immersed in whatever he’s looking at, so I continue to the office. Dad’s on the phone and Mom is putting some Sharpies into a Renn Lake Rentals coffee cup.

  “Done,” I announce. “Every cabin is ready. Except four, eight, and eleven need vacuuming. I forgot to take the vacuum with me.”

  Mom waves a hand. “I’ll do that. Terrific. Thank you.” She gives me the cup and Jess a stack of sticky notes. “You two want to inaugurate the Thought Wall this year?”

  “Sure.” I pick a blue Sharpie and Jess grabs an orange one.

  There’s a wall in the office where people can put up notes with messages. They write the craziest, most hilarious, strangest, sweetest things. Mom even had a plaque made that says: “Hi, I am a wall. Fill me with your thoughts.”

  I peel off a paper square, then glance back at Mom and Dad. Sometimes their faces crease over with this nervous look, and they have it now. Like they worry that one random day, maybe one found day, I’m going to suddenly explode and scream: Someone left me in a store when I was an infant! I am really not okay! then fall down a black hole.

  Jess scribbles something, then sticks her note to the wall, the first one for this year. It says: JessiKa was here.

  Mom, Dad, and I look at it.

  “What?” she asks. “I’m thinking of changing the spelling of my name. If I’m going to be a famous actor, I need to be unique.”

  Mom sighs. “We’ll see.” Dad pats the top of Jess’s head. “A capital K, huh?”

  “Yes. Unique.”

  I touch the house necklace, then write: One of the most beautiful things in the world is the unknown. I put it on the wall too.

  “Good one,”
Dad says.

  “Indeed,” Mom adds.

  Their faces are back to normal.

  I stare at what I wrote. Most of the time I am okay. But what would have happened if Mrs. Alden hadn’t been there? What if no one had found me?

  They are here.

  A dizzying array of blankets and towels are spread along my shore. Umbrellas are stuck into the sandy earth, chairs underneath them, and everywhere there are bags overflowing with food. People seem to be hungry all the time.

  They jump from the end of the pier, sending splashes into the air, and they float on rafts, their noses painted white to block the sun. Their words bounce and echo, skimming my surface and landing on my edges. Lemonade. Canoe. Goggles.

  Tru and I, and other bodies of water, communicate with sound too, but it moves through waves and currents, not the air. And sometimes, things are simply understood, from one to the other.

  Many of their words are confusing. Lollipop. Balloon. Hairdresser. And bassinet. I asked my cousin about that one. Why would a container to hold a baby be described as a fish in a net? Tru smiled and explained the word has nothing to do with a fish or a net. It’s from the French. Bassinet, Tru said, means “little basin.”

  That made more sense. And I realized it’s another connection between Annalise and me.

  I am a big basin; she was left in a small one.

  There is only a small number of people who have talked to me and could hear me. Most of them were long ago, when I was Nepew. One, a girl who studied plants and learned to use them for healing. Another, a hunter, who dropped the arrowhead into me.

  I remember well the first time Annalise heard me. She was three years old. With a yellow shovel clutched in her chubby fist, she was digging in the sand. When I trickled over her feet, she looked up and laughed. She watched me flow away, leaving bubbles behind, and she laughed again. “Renn,” she said.

  I answered, unsure. Hello.

  She stood, came closer, waved. “Hi, Renn.”

  Her mother, nearby, asked who she was talking to. Annalise pointed at me. “The lake.” Her mother smiled and continued to feed Jess with a tiny spoon.