Hello from Renn Lake

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  As we’re walking back to the office, Jess shades her eyes and looks out at the lake. “So what’s going on? I got here late and missed all the commotion.”

  “See that green stuff on the surface?”

  “Yeah.”

  I tell her what happened.

  “Well”—she fingers one of the feather earrings—“maybe they can just, like, wash it off.”

  “Maybe. I hope so.”

  When we get inside, Sophie, the girl who was asking Dad about the dead fish, is standing by the Thought Wall with her grandparents. She’s writing on a sticky note in crayon.

  “You need help?” her grandma asks.

  Sophie shakes her head and continues to write, biting her lip. Then she gives the paper square to her grandma, who reads it, nods, then sticks it on the wall. I can see it clearly from where I’m standing.

  The lake is sad, it says. Inside the d, she made a frowny face.

  Her grandpa says, “C’mon, sweetheart,” and takes her hand. They leave and I read those four words over and over. The. Lake. Is. Sad.

  I pull the old, worn key from my pocket. In the dulled grooves, there’s a green residue, like it’s now permanent.

  I go outside, walk across the empty shore, and try once more. “Renn?”

  Nothing.

  “Renn…why can’t you…”

  Then I understand. The two curved lines on the key…the old room number…it might’ve once been a six, but now, it looks like a broken heart.

  The next day, people from the health department come. They look important and official, with dark sunglasses and brown shirts tucked into khakis.

  Two men and one woman talk to Dad and Greg, our mayor. They make notes on their clipboards and take pictures of the lake.

  I stand close enough to overhear something about testing the water, how that’s costly and they don’t have enough staff, but then Greg says, “We can use our reserve fund to pay for the test. We need to know.”

  The woman gets tall rubber boots and long gloves from their truck, puts them on, and wades into the water. She dips glass vials into different areas of the algae, filling each to the top. One by one, she hands them to the men, who cork them tightly and label them with tape. Then they’re arranged in a plastic holder with slots for each vial. It’s all very precise and orderly.

  A crowd slowly gathers. Maya, with Henry and Tyler, lightsabers in hands. Mom and Vera. Sophie and her grandparents. Some of the people who were shouting questions at Dad. Zach, with his glasses on, and even Jess. Everyone’s watching.

  The woman carefully lifts the vial holder and carries it to the truck. Pieces of Renn being taken away.

  One of the men is talking to Dad. “The lab will analyze the samples for cyanobacteria. If that’s positive, they’ll test for toxins,” he says.

  “What’s your gut feeling?” Dad asks, running a hand through his hair.

  “Couldn’t say. Only way to tell is to look at it under a microscope. There are hundreds of different algae species in Wisconsin. But we have been seeing blooms more frequently. Planktonic blue-green algae are what we’re concerned about. That’s your toxin producer.”

  Dad lowers his voice. “Do you think this is planktonic?”

  The man looks at the algae. “We have to wait and see.”

  Dad nods. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll be in touch as soon as possible. It’ll take several days. Nothing to do now except sit tight. And stay out of the water.” He gives Dad a nod as he leaves.

  On the last day of school, my teacher handed everyone a roll of tape. She told us it was a funny kind of send-off, but it was to remind us that there’ll be lots of times that something’s torn, and the best thing to do is tape it back up and go on. I wish that I could tape up Renn right now and everything would be back to normal.

  The other man pulls out Dad’s cardboard, handwritten sign. He goes to their truck and comes back with an official sign, then shoves the metal pole into the dirt with several sharp smacks of a hammer.

  HEALTH ALERT. TOXIC BLUE-GREEN ALGAE MAY BE PRESENT IN THIS AREA. AVOID SWALLOWING LAKE WATER AND DO NOT TOUCH ALGAL SCUMS. KEEP PETS AWAY FROM THE WATER. DO NOT SWIM IN AREAS WHERE YOU CANNOT SEE YOUR FEET IN KNEE-DEEP WATER.

  There’s a website at the bottom for more info, but I don’t want to read any more right now. The sign is bad enough.

  The people climb into their truck and drive away with the vials of Renn’s broken heart sloshing around in the back.

  Vera’s talking to Mom. Maya’s reading the sign to Henry and Tyler, who are insisting they can destroy the algae with their lightsabers. “Were you even listening,” she asks, “it says ‘do not touch’!” Jess is standing with a girl I don’t recognize—is that Amy?—and they’re both looking at their phones. Zach’s leafing through his field guide.

  I can barely look at the lake. My throat feels raw. My head’s throbbing. I’m filled up with a heaviness, a dread, and it’s heating up my skin, flowing into my muscles and bones.

  A teenage boy with pimples and a big, bulging Adam’s apple tosses a water bottle onto the algae. It sits on top of the scum, the plastic glinting in the sun. “Bull’s-eye!” he shouts.

  The boy next to him, short and muscular, is also holding a water bottle and he winds up to throw it too.

  “Stop!” I yell, tearing toward them, pushing people out of the way.

  The boy lowers his arm and looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “Don’t you dare throw that!” I yank the bottle from his hand. “Don’t even think about it!”

  “Hey,” he says. “What’s your problem?”

  The boy with the pimples takes a step back. “Whoa. Chill, okay?”

  I point the bottle at the two of them like it’s a weapon. “Get away from the lake. Leave it alone.”

  The muscular boy shakes his head. “Are you, like, possessed or something?”

  I shove the bottle closer to them and they laugh, put their hands up. “We surrender,” one says. The other grins. “You gonna toss us in jail? Causing property damage with a water bottle?”

  Mom comes up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder. I’m shaking. I lower my arm and see that I’ve crushed the plastic. People are trying not to stare, but they are.

  “Take it easy,” Mom says softly into my ear.

  “No! I don’t want to take it easy.” I gulp and gesture to the water. “How can I take it easy?”

  The two boys snort, slap each other’s backs, and jog down the shore.

  Mom tucks a curl behind my ear. “We know, honey.”

  But they don’t. None of them do.

  How can Renn keep me safe when it’s sick, covered up, and silent? When parts of it have been taken away to a cold, sterile lab to be analyzed.

  And when things are too close, too much, where do I go?

  Later that night, Mom, Dad, and I are sitting on the porch. I’m in the chair and Jess is on the steps, texting. Amy, probably. Mom and Dad are in the swing, Dad’s long, thin fingers circled around Mom’s hand. The only sound is the cicadas humming and buzzing.

  I can tell Mom and Dad are trying not to look worried in front of us, but I overheard them while they cleaned up after dinner.

  “What if people cancel their reservations?” Dad said in a soft voice. “The deposits are nonrefundable, but we’ll be out a lot of money. Without the lake, there’s not much to do around here. If we plan those marshmallow roasts and movies under the stars, will people still want to come?”

  Mom sighed. “I read online that algal blooms are getting worse and there’s more of them. I didn’t think it could happen here.”

  They were quiet as dishes clinked and cabinets opened and closed. Their footsteps creaked on the old wood floor.

  “We have some money saved up from snowplowing, don
’t we?” Mom asked.

  Dad: “Not that much, to be honest. We spent a lot on those ads. Plus, we replaced every mattress last year. That wasn’t cheap.”

  Mom: “Maybe we should put off the roof repairs until we hear from the health department. Or the new windows?”

  Dad: “Maybe.”

  In the winter, when the cabins are closed, Mom and Dad run a snowplowing business. They’ve had some good customers—the urgent care clinic, the high school—but I know they’re not sure who will still need them for the next season.

  Jess shouts “Cool!” and breaks the silence on the porch. “Amy’s going to do a song from Hamilton for her audition! She has an incredible voice. I’m sure they’ll take her.”

  Mom nods. “I hope we can meet Amy soon. Invite her over?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I take the broken-heart key out of my pocket. “I found this at the edge of the lake yesterday.”

  Mom reaches for the key. “Wow. I remember these from when I was a kid. How strange.”

  “I guess it just washed ashore.”

  “That’s so random,” Jess says, not looking up from her phone.

  Mom traces the curved lines with her finger. “Hard to tell which cabin it was for.”

  “I thought six, maybe?”

  “Could be.” She puts the key on the table. “A memory of a different time, a different place. I wonder what Gramps did with all those old keys.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Back then?” Mom closes her eyes. “Slower. Softer.”

  “Yes,” Dad says, even though he didn’t grow up here. Mom and Dad met in college. “Memories are like that.”

  “I vividly remember swimming in the lake when I was little,” Mom says dreamily, touching her toes to the floor, gently rocking the swing. “The other side seemed a million miles away.”

  “Everything always looks so big when you’re a kid,” Dad says.

  “I used to think that under the surface there was a magical land, filled with fairies and goblins. Water spirits. I’d search for them, keeping my eyes open underwater for as long as I could.”

  “Did you ever see one?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Once, I was positive I saw a mermaid—I told everyone and they were all very amused—but I think it was just a large fish. I refused to believe that mermaids could only live in oceans.”

  “Hey, I know there are lake mermaids,” Dad says. “I’ve read about them. They’re rare, but they’re out there.”

  Jess rolls her eyes and bumps down a step. “Dad.”

  Mom stops the swing with her foot. “I’m always so busy now. But there are times when I look out at the lake, and it’s like I’m a kid and Gramps is in his shirt and suspenders behind the desk. Gram’s baked a pie, and my dad is fixing something, whistling and talking to guests. I’m in the water, pushing myself deeper, hoping to spot a mermaid.”

  Dad pats her hand and we’re quiet again. Even the cicadas seem to get quieter. Then a voice blasts from Jess’s phone. “Hey! What’s up, Oliver?”

  I jump, and so does Mom.

  “Hey, Miller!” Jess turns her phone toward us and I glimpse a girl on the screen with long brown hair. “This is Amy, everyone!” Jess says. “We have the same number of letters in our last names. So we’re meant to be BFFs, right? She’s going to do her audition song.” Jess looks at the screen. “Okay, go.”

  Amy starts singing. She sounds pretty good but stops halfway through. “That’s all I’ve practiced so far.”

  Jess claps. “That was completely amazing!”

  Amy says thanks, then groans. “My dad is calling me.” They tell each other goodbye about ten times until Jess finally puts her phone down.

  I get a twinge of annoyance. “Aren’t you worried about the lake? I can hardly think about anything else.”

  “Well, yeah. But other things are still going on. I’m helping her practice. This is important too.”

  “It’s just a little audition. The algae, that could affect everything. I started reading about it online, and—”

  “Hey!” Jess leaps up. “I’m trying to be a good friend!”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

  She slaps the railing. “It wasn’t my fault that Emily fell into the mud at the class party and ruined her new skirt! She told everyone I pushed her because I wanted to win the race, but I didn’t!”

  “Oh, Jess,” Mom says softly. “Are you sure you didn’t push her?”

  “I didn’t! She cut in front of me and tripped. But no one saw. They all believed her!” She stomps her foot.

  “Sounds like it was just a mix-up,” I say. “Maybe you could explain—”

  “Don’t try to help, Annalise!”

  Dad raises an eyebrow. “Jessica.”

  She huffs. “How come you never get mad at her? Of course you wouldn’t!” Jess runs into the house and bangs up the stairs. A minute later, I hear her door slam.

  Mom looks at Dad, then gets up. “I’ll go talk to her.” She goes inside.

  It’s just me and Dad, and the cicadas. I don’t know what to say. Dad’s quiet too. Finally, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Everything will work out. Somehow.”

  I don’t know if he means with Jess or the lake.

  “Sometimes your sister reminds me of an excitable puppy, always getting into things and barking like crazy. You never know when she’s going to nip your ankle.”

  “That felt like more than a nip.”

  “I don’t think she meant it.”

  I sigh.

  Dad clears his throat. “When we started the process to adopt you, it was complicated and stressful. We weren’t sure if it was going to happen. I worried enough then to last me for the rest of my life. But”—he smiles—“here we are.”

  I blink back tears. What if the adoption hadn’t happened? Sometimes I think about that in the dark, when I can’t fall asleep. Where would I be?

  “And the algae,” Dad says. “It might look bad, but let’s not worry until we have to, okay? Maybe this’ll turn out to be nothing. We’re going to sit tight and wait for the results.”

  I wipe my eyes and nod. “Okay.”

  Dad stands, steadies the swing. “I’m beat. It’s been a long day. You coming in?”

  “In a minute.”

  He goes inside. I walk down the steps and park my bare feet in the grass. I listen for night sounds, but everything’s still. It’s like the whole of Renn Lake is holding its breath, waiting to see what the test shows. Even the moon seems dimmer.

  I pick up the key from the table, then put it on the mantel next to the picture of Mom’s family. I never knew her dad or grandfather. They were both gone before I was born. Sometimes I wonder what they’d think of me.

  Something stirs from deep in my heart as I look at their faces, speckled with bits of sunlight through the tree branches. And I realize I know what I want to do when I grow up.

  Jess figured it out a few days ago when we were on the porch and she was talking about living in LA. I see how much you love them, she said. The cabins.

  Actually, I think I’ve known since the first time Renn said hello.

  The results are in, and it’s bad.

  The samples had toxins. High levels were in every vial.

  Zach was right. It’s a HAB, a harmful algal bloom.

  What if the lake does become a dead zone? No mermaids could ever live there, not to mention fish and frogs and plants. And Renn…

  Today, a different woman from the health department pulls out the sign and pounds a new one into the sandy dirt. It has a picture of a person swimming and a dog drinking lake water, and both have diagonal lines through them.

  WARNING. AVOID CONTACT WITH THE WATER.

  TOXIC ALGAE PRESENT. LAKE CONT
AMINATED.

  UNSAFE FOR PEOPLE AND PETS.

  UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE: DO NOT SWIM. DO NOT DRINK LAKE WATER. KEEP PETS AWAY. AVOID AREAS OF SCUM.

  CALL YOUR DOCTOR OR VETERINARIAN IF YOU OR YOUR ANIMALS HAVE SUDDEN OR UNEXPLAINED SICKNESS OR SIGNS OF POISONING.

  I read the words over and over but can barely process them. Just two keep echoing in my head: Avoid Contact.

  I look at the water, more than half of it smothered with the toxic algae. I want to grab a canoe, furiously paddle out there, then do something, anything, so Renn can talk to me.

  “I feel terrible about this.” Behind me, Zach is poking the dirt with the toe of his shoe. Untied laces again. “I kept hoping it wasn’t what I thought.”

  “I—I don’t want to talk right now.” I look away, but when I glance back, he’s still there. “I just need to be by myself, okay?”

  He doesn’t move. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Unless there’s a solution in your book, probably not.” I close my eyes for a second, try to feel any sort of sensation from Renn. Nothing. “This isn’t just a lake to me. A body of water. See, I have this thing about it….”

  “What kind of thing?”

  I take a deep breath and tell him about being abandoned at Alden’s. The brief version. “But when I’m here, it’s like…” I choke up, gaze toward Renn.

  “It goes away,” he says.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “And I can hear the lake. And it can hear me.” I can’t believe I said that to someone I barely know. The words just slipped out, like something was urging me to let him in. Trust him.

  Zach sits on the ground, pulls up his legs, and wraps his arms around them. “That’s astounding.”

  “But”—my voice cracks—“not anymore.” I sit too. More like collapse. Under the weight of the glaring yellow, black, and red AVOID CONTACT sign.

  “What did you used to hear?” he asks.

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  Zach takes off his glasses and rubs the sides of his nose. “Try me.” He folds the glasses and puts them in his lap. His eyes look lonely and sad without them, and a little lost, like he can’t focus.