“How about we walk to the docks?”
I don’t know him at all, but there’s something about him that draws me. Maybe because I feel bad his aunt was discovered. Still, I follow him down the steps and around the house.
We don’t speak until we’re almost at the docks. “So, how old are you?” I ask, trying to break the silence.
“Twenty. What about you?”
“I turn nineteen in a couple more weeks.”
“Cool. Maybe we can get a group together and take you to the casino.”
“That sounds fun,” I say, truly meaning it. “So, you play golf?”
“Yep. Started by being a caddy as a kid. I liked being outside and watching people play the game. One day, I picked up a club and started swinging. My boss bought me a bucket of balls, placed me at the driving range, and said, ‘Let’s see what you can do.’ I’ve been golfing ever since.”
“I don’t golf.”
“We’ll have to change that.”
Just like that, we were talking like two chums who were catching up. We sit on the dock and look out across the lake. I feel reassured now that I can truly ask this guy anything. “My grandmother told me that most of this land is Indian territory.”
“Yes. The written pact between the tribes and government goes back at least two hundred years. The verbal one between the two tribes goes back much longer than that.”
I think of something I have read and ask, “Is the land cursed?”
“Some say it is.” His face becomes somber. “This lake has secrets, and it wants to keep it that way. Or at least that’s what some say.”
“What do you say?”
“Legend has it that two Indian tribes battled for the land. One tried to negotiate peacefully, the other violently. The violent tribe won. They had a powerful witch doctor who cursed the tribe and its land. That was before the white man invaded. The tribes are gone now, but a few believe the curse is still real. Anyway, that’s what I know, which isn’t a whole lot.”
“Are you a descendent of one of those tribes?”
“Yes. I am a part of the Apache tribe. Most of our people live in the southwest, like New Mexico and the desert, but a small band explored north. We were outnumbered and lost that vicious battle. The curse supposedly still plagues us.”
“What is the curse?”
“That we will always turn to violence, and the greatest battles and loss will be between our own people. Those of us who are still in these parts have very little to do with each other. In part because of what happened over there.” He points down at where the body was discovered.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“Only speculation.” He stops and turns toward me. “Can you explain what happened? It’s probably a difficult topic, but it may bring peace to my household. How did you stumble upon the body?”
“Our boat—I was with Isaac and Ian—got stuck over there, we tried to climb up that dirt cliff, and a root snapped and I fell onto the body.”
“Is that the whole story?” he asks quietly.
Before I can respond, a bug crawls across my foot. I don’t even need to look. I shake the beetle off and shudder.
Mitch, however, stares in the direction where the beetle landed. When he finds it, he carefully picks it up. “This is different.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never seen a beetle-like this before.”
“I know. My Dad and I can’t figure them out either, and Dad’s an entomologist.”
“In my tribe, insects like this signify a warning. Stay away. If you see them often, well, that doesn’t matter.”
“If you see them often, what?” my eyes nearly bug out of my head.
“It means they have attached themselves to death, and death has chosen you. It’s probably more tradition than anything, but I still don’t kill them.”
I think I let out a squeak, but I’m not sure.
He is too perceptive, and says, “We also believe that a soul manifests itself as an animal it most connects with. But why would a soul want to connect with an insect that represents death? But I may not know what I’m talking about either.”
But I do believe him, and I sense it’s the latter. “When I fell on the body, these beetles covered it, and they were all over me. I’ve been shaking them off since I got here. One was even on my head this morning.” I shudder again.
Mitch’s mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”
“Please don’t look that freaked out because it’s going to freak me out in a huge way. Am I going to die? Is the ghost going to kill me?”
“Ghost? Do you see her?”
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m babbling. “I’m probably losing my mind. Please don’t tell Isaac.”
“But do you see her?”
“Once I did. And before that, I felt her. I can’t describe it. A cold wind blew at me. I even took a picture—I didn’t mean to—but she sort of showed up on the picture.”
“Whoa,” he says and stands up.
His reaction isn’t helping. I stand up, too. “Give it to me straight. Am I going to die? Are these beetles going to come and kill me? I’d like a heads up, you know?”
“It sounds like it wasn’t an accident that you were the one who found my relative.” He says the last sentence more to himself.
My heart bangs against my chest, and I press my palm to it. “That’s ludicrous. I’m from London. Not here. I don’t want this. I want the beetles to leave me alone, and the girl to stop haunting me, and I don’t want to be sucked into some bloody murder mystery. I mean, I’m sorry about your aunt, but she needs to rest in peace.”
“That’s not possible. She died because of the curse.”
“So, there’s no peace for her?” I stop thinking about myself and dying and think about the girl instead. I always thought that there was some peace with death. I can’t imagine this much unrest for eternity.
But Mitch doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s shaking his head and glancing across the lake where we can faintly see the yellow tape.
“Please tell me what’s going on?” I try again.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Mitch turns and stares out at the sight. I wish he would stop ignoring my questions. “That only means one thing,” he finally says. “I don’t understand how or why but it has to be the case.” He turns back to me and sighs. “Every forty years a life of a tribesman is taken by the curse. It’s always some calamity or misfortune, but the curse has never missed its appointment since the witch doctor of the Comanche tribe chanted it. I’m not sure about it though. Our legend also has it that ghosts can only visit those of our blood.”
“Then your legend is wrong. I’m not your family.”
“I don’t get it either. Your father and mother?”
“My Mum was born in South London and was raised in Ireland for a bit. My father was born right here to Rose Paxton. I was just looking at baby pictures this morning. Trust me, I’m not related.”
Mitch presses his lips together as if thinking about how to say something. He blows out a breath and says, “Ginnie, I don’t know how to tell you this, but these events can’t be a coincidence. I don’t know all the answers yet, but if all of this is happening to you for a reason, then you and I might be somehow related.”
16
The rest of the day I am, once again, a jumble of nerves. Maybe it’s because these nasty beetles symbolize death, and they’re coming to get me. Or, because this girl has chosen me for whatever reason. Or, because I am somehow related to a cursed Indian tribe, and the curse is about ready to rear its ugly head again. All I know is that London keeps looking better and better.
Mitch is gone by the time Dad gets back. I’m looking at Dad differently now. His skin is whiter than most Indians, but he has thick black hair and dark eyes. Then again, Gran has dark hair, and so does Aunt Sue. Sure, Gran’s has a lot more gray in it now, but they still resemble each other in that face. As I hug Gran, I notice her blue eyes. Now th
at I think about it, Aunt Sue has blue eyes, but Dad’s have always been a deep brown. Did Gramps have brown eyes? It’s possible.
“You seem lost in thought,” Dad says.
“I’m looking at your eyes,” I say and smile in what I hope is a disarming smile. “They’re almost black.”
“My brown-eyed boy.” Gran sits next to me at the table since Dad’s making us both lunch. “That’s what I’ve called him since I first laid eyes on him.”
“I bet labor was difficult.”
“Well, I don’t recommend it until you’re married, so don’t get any ideas.”
Dad finishes up the chicken salad sandwiches and says, “Let’s eat on the deck, ladies. It’s beautiful out there. Virginia, grab the plates while I wheel your grandmother out.”
“Oh, dear Mary, mother of God,” Gran says. “I’m not dead, and I’m not going to be confined to a wheelchair.” She gets up, grabs a plate with food on it, then pats Dad’s cheek. “Thank you for lunch, my son.”
I take the other three plates. “Why do we have an extra plate of food?”
“Laura’s coming over for lunch.” Dad’s holding the door open for Gran and me.
“What? Why?”
“Because I want her to meet my lovely daughter now that we’re not in a hospital waiting room. Please be nice.” He takes two of the plates and walks outside.
“You could have warned me. I’m dealing with too much to have to put on my nice face. My talents only go so far.”
“I’m warning you now.”
And speaking of the devil, who rings the doorbell at that moment? “I’ll get it,” I say. “Since I’m standing and all.”
Dad gives me a warning look.
I go to back inside and walk to the front of the house. When I open the door, I smell that perfume that had been on my Dad’s clothes in the hospital. I decide I don’t like it.
“Ginnie,” she says with a warm smile. “Did I get it right this time?”
“Yep. Come on back.”
As we walk, she tries her hand at conversation. “Your father was telling me that you get to go to college a year early.”
“Yep.”
“Have you decided on a major?”
“No, not yet.”
We make it to the back deck area. Finally.
“There she is,” Dad says. I realize he’s not talking about me. He stands up, kisses Laura on the cheek, and leads her to sit between my plate and his.
Gran’s watching me. I’m pretty sure she can read my mind. “Anything happen while I was gone?” she asks me as I sit down and begin eating.
“Not really.”
“I caught Virginia with Isaac Fulton.”
“Dad!” I drop my sandwich. “It wasn’t like that and you know it.”
“Relax,” he says. “I’m teasing.”
I pick at my food, letting Dad and Laura do the talking. I hear my name but don’t pay any attention.
“Virginia.”
I glance up at Dad. “What?”
“Laura’s talking to you.”
I swallow. “Oh, sorry, I was in my own little world.”
“I was asking if you might follow in your father’s footsteps and become an entomologist.”
“Probably not.”
Dad acts genuinely surprised. “Why not? I think we make a great team.”
I shrug. This whole situation has put me on edge, so I blurt, “I want to study photography.”
“That’s a good profession,” Laura encourages. “Is there a specific type?”
“I don’t know yet. I just want to get through the summer without thinking about it.”
“You need to start thinking about it,” Dad says. “University of Michigan starts mid-August.”
“If I go there.”
Gran gasps.
“Sorry, Gran, I don’t want to upset you. Let’s change the subject, okay?”
“No other school will do,” Gran says. “My money goes to the Maize and Blue.”
I refuse to get upset at Gran. She needs to limit her stress. “Don’t worry, Gran.”
Gran deepens her frown. “Ginnie Paxton, please stop treating me like I’m on death’s door. We’ve got a doctor right here if there’s a problem. Now talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“Talk about your future,” Dad says. “It seems you’ve got ideas that you’re keeping from even me. I thought we talked about everything.” He doesn’t mask the hurt in his voice.
“Fine,” I say. “You want me to talk? I’ll talk. I don’t want to go to college.”
Dad stops chewing the food in his mouth and stares at me.
I feel guilty, so I look away. “I want to go into photography, and I don’t need a degree for that. What I need is a good apprenticeship. If I can get under some experienced photographer, I can learn from them and then work my way up.”
No one says anything.
When Dad does finally speak, he asks, “So, do you want to do this here in Michigan or back in London?”
“I’ve never wanted to leave London, Dad.” I throw my napkin on the table. “That’s always been your dream. Not mine.” I stand up and grab my plate. Just to be saucy, I add, “Thanks, Laura, for bringing me into the conversation.”
I walk back into the house, close the door, drop my plate in the sink, grab my camera bag, and head out the front door. I need to walk and think.
I hear the screen door slam before I’ve left the front yard.
“Virginia, wait.”
“I need to be alone,” I say, even though now that I’m nearly surrounded by trees, I’m questioning the statement.
“All right. I’ll leave you alone. In a minute.”
I stop and turn to face him. “I know what you’re going to say. You want me to go in there and apologize for my poor manners, and I will. After I take the walk and cool down.”
“Yes, I do want you to do that, but that’s not why I’m here.”
I wait for him to go on.
“Virginia, all I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy. If photography makes you happy, then go for it.”
My heart seems to fall out of my chest. “But what about college?”
“I want you to go to college. It’s paid for. If you go to Michigan, your Gran will cover everything. If you decide to go to school in London, I’ll pay for it. Either way, as your father, I’m asking you to please earn at least a preliminary degree. I know you don’t think it now, but having those credentials helps when it comes to getting jobs. Not only that but that’s the best place to meet professional studios or photographers who are looking for someone to study under them.”
I stare at my Dad in shock. “You mean I don’t have to go to Michigan?”
“No, of course not.”
“And I can stay in London?”
Dad pauses and presses his lips together. “Yes.”
“Yes, but what? I can tell you’re holding something from me.”
“When you go to college, you won’t need me. Now that I’ve raised you, it’s time for me to think about moving back here.”
“Of course I need you! You’re not leaving me, are you?”
“I thought we had it worked out that you would be at the University of Michigan, sweetie. That’s why I was surprised at your admission today. It doesn’t mean you can’t go to school in London, but I may still decide to move back here.”
I swallow that big lump as the weight of his words falls on my shoulders. I should have seen this coming. Dad’s always wanted to move back.
“Our family’s here,” Dad says quietly. “Your mother’s parents passed away over ten years ago. Other than for some distant relatives of your mother’s that you’ve never met, everyone is over here.”
“Then why stay in England at all? Why didn’t you just bring me back to the states? You’ve had sole custody since I was a tot. Why keep me somewhere where I’ll develop friendships and a lifestyle that’s not American?”
“Because your
mother asked me to stay. She wanted us to be close in proximity. I hoped that you two could develop a relationship, but Virginia, how long am I—I mean, are we—supposed to wait?”
This time, I don’t say anything.
“Has she called you since we’ve been here?”
I shake my head.
“Come here.” He pulls me to him and hugs me. “We’ll work this out, okay?”
I don’t say anything, but I do hug him back. I can’t imagine living in London without him.
“Let’s go finish lunch. I worked hard on that chicken salad sandwich, and you’ve only eaten half of it.”
Deciding I would rather apologize to Barbie than face the woods by myself just yet, I walk back with him. “Can I ask a question without you laughing or thinking I’m nuts?”
“I’ll try to resist.”
“Do we have any Indian in our blood?”
Dad chuckles.
“Hey! No laughing!”
“I’m not laughing. It’s only that I wasn’t expecting that question. But no, I don’t think so. We can ask your grandma, but I doubt it.”
“You look like an Indian. Sort of.”
“You mean, Native American? Thanks, I guess.” We enter the house, but Dad grabs my elbow before we get to the kitchen. “And will you ease up on Laura?”
I shrug and walk back outside.
“There’s my girl,” Gran says and reaches for me. I give her my hand, and she squeezes it.
When I sit down, everyone seems to be waiting expectantly for my apology. “I’m sorry that I stormed out of here even though I felt I was being attacked.” There. That is as good as that apology is going to get.
“I would have felt attacked, too,” Laura says. Then she continues a conversation with Gran.
Thankfully, I’m able to eat the rest of my lunch in peace. As we clean-up, a fancy speed boat drives up to our dock. “Hey, all you crazy people!”
“Uncle Doug!” I am running down to the docks in glee. Finally, Cassie will be here!
Lake of Secrets Page 13
