Lauren turned and watched a heron break the surface of the water, stretching for a fish, before taking its catch to the shore. “I love to paint, but what if I can’t cut it? I can’t imagine doing anything else, but what if I don’t make a living at it?”
“There’s no doubt, it’s scary to try to make it as an artist,” Lolly said. “But as I always say: If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, oh, what a merry Christmas it would be!”
Lauren cocked her head, confused.
“It’s an old, old phrase, my dear.” Lolly laughed. “Older than me, even. What it means is: You can’t worry about all of that. You can only control the now, your own happiness. Let me ask you, what if you didn’t try? How would you feel in ten years? Twenty years?”
“You sorta sound like Lexie,” Lauren said.
“Life is filled with risk and uncertainty,” Lolly continued. “I face it every day battling my memory. Your mom is learning to let her walls down with Jake and to listen to you. And you have all the talent in the world.”
Lolly walked to the easel and studied the canvas.
“What are you painting?” Lolly asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”
“No, not at all!” Lauren said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I’m painting our dock. I’m painting the generations who have been joined by this place, this water, this light.”
There was silence. Too long of a silence, Lauren thought, for her grandmother. A whippoorwill sang, and Lolly pursed her lips and returned its call, a beautiful whistle that matched the bird’s: Whip … or … wiiiillllll!
“Are you okay, Grandma? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” she said. “You just … understand this place. You get me. I’m a little sentimental. I guess I’m just happy to have my girls home with me for a little while.”
Lauren gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek and noticed that she smelled wonderful, like flowers.
“What is that perfume you’re wearing?” Lauren asked. “It’s amazing!”
“Wish I could take credit for that, but it’s not me. It’s those!”
Lauren looked to where her grandmother pointed and saw a little garden perched at the front of the dock, between the warped wood and the lake.
“Peonies!” Lolly said. “The most beautiful flower in the world!”
The two walked over, and Lauren leaned down to inhale the sweetest scent she’d ever smelled.
“Those are early blooming,” Lolly said. “Stunning, aren’t they?”
The just-opening buds were the size of small eggs, and the flowers smelled like heaven. The flowers were as white as a bridal gown, save for tinges of pink along their edges, and they were dense and thick, row after row of petals, woven together to create a round ball of beauty.
Lauren crouched down and held a heavy bloom in her hands, admiring its beauty, watching a chorus line of ants journey to its scented center. She smiled and lifted the peony to her nose, inhaling deeply.
“Now, that’s a picture I need to paint!” Lolly said. “Those started from a simple seed.”
Lauren stood and stretched. “I feel a story coming on!” She laughed.
“You know me too well. In a while. But, right now, you should paint, and I need to water before I head off to work. These flowers can’t grow without a big drink and lots of verbal encouragement.”
Lolly grabbed the coffeepot off the pier and turned to head inside, but not before Lauren grabbed her arm.
“Thank you, Grandma.”
“For what, my dear?”
“The encouragement.”
Lolly smiled and disappeared into the cabin. Lauren turned and began to paint. Inspiration came quickly, the light her guide, and Lauren swore she could feel her grandmother’s hands, right now, right here, on top of her own, helping her paint just like when she was a child.
Time seemed to stop, and Lauren became lost in her work. Slowly, three generations of women appeared in front of the lake, seated together at the end of this warped dock, the images of the women in the foreground as they appeared now—older, wiser, damaged but strong—while their reflections in the water were from their youth—younger, sadder, lost but hopeful. The connection?
This place.
Home, Lauren thought happily.
As the morning passed, the scene around her seemed to change and grow deeper.
Just like my family, Lauren thought.
In the stronger sunlight, the lake began to turn a million shades of the Pantone chart: the deeper water a midnight blue, the shoals aqua, the sandy shallows caramel, the wind turning them all forest green and midnight black when it churned the waves. Ducks drifted across the lake, as if they were sliding on ice, their feathers ruffled by the breeze. White swans—as white as newly fallen snow—bobbed. Fishermen veered their colorful johnboats in and out of the reeds, searching for the right spot, nets at the ready. Kids in bright swimsuits splashed in the water, teens sunned on Crayola-like float rafts, while their parents readied barbecues or sipped beers in retro-colored lawn chairs and Adirondacks.
I am home, Lauren thought again.
Lauren heard the screen door slam, and she was back in the present. Her mother emerged with a cup of coffee, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.
Lauren glanced at her watch.
“You slept until ten a.m.?! I’m proud of you, Mother!”
“For what? Being a slacker?”
“No. For taking care of yourself. It was a late night.” Lauren stopped. “And thank you, Mom.”
“For what?” she asked again.
“This,” Lauren said, nodding toward the easel. “For listening.”
Arden ducked her head. “You’re welcome.”
“Mom?” Lauren started. “I just want you to know that I’ll help pay off my loans, I’ll do a work study next year, I’ll…”
“You let me worry about that, okay?” Arden said. “I gave up my dreams, and I regret it. I’ve been trying to ensure you’d never worry about money, but I realize now that it’s more important that you never have the regrets I do.”
She stepped forward to study the painting. “It’s stunning, Lauren. It really is. Not just your talent but your understanding of subject. There’s depth on so many levels.”
Lauren’s face flushed, and she hugged her mom, leaving a trail of paint down the back of her T-shirt. “Sorry.”
“Your grandma bought me this shirt years ago,” she said. “Speaking of which, where is she?”
“Watering, I think.”
The two stopped and tilted their heads. They could hear the faucet running on the backside of the cabin, where Lolly had a large yet still emerging cottage garden of phlox, hydrangea, lilies, dinner plate hibiscus, bellflower, daisies of all colors, foxglove, coral bells, and hollyhocks. Lolly cut from the garden all summer long.
“What’s that?” Lauren asked, looking down at a tiny, but growing, river of water, rolling downhill toward the lake.
“Mom?” Arden yelled.
The tone of Arden’s voice intensified from question to panic, when there was no response.
“Mom!”
The two took off running, Lauren dropping her brush and Arden her mug, until they saw Lolly, sitting on the ground holding the hose, a peony in her hands, the water running. She looked like an old garden statue, a fountain come to life, sitting there, expressionless.
Arden sat next to her mother, put her arm around her shoulder, and removed the hose from her hand while Lauren turned the water off.
“Mom, are you okay?” she said quietly. “Are you hurt? Can you talk? Tell me what’s going on, okay?”
Lolly looked at her daughter very seriously and said calmly, “I’m sorry. I forgot what I was doing. And then I got tired.”
Without warning, Lolly began to shake.
“I’m so scared,” she said, as Arden held her tightly. “I just forget sometimes.”
“We all do,” Arden said, placing her arms around her mother. “We all do.”
/> A whippoorwill called from the lake.
Lolly didn’t return its whistle.
Lauren and Arden helped Lolly to the screened porch, where they lay her on the couch, covered her with a blanket, and made her some tea. She quickly fell asleep, the soft light off Lost Land basking Lolly in an ethereal glow.
She looks like she’s wearing a halo, Lauren thought, holding her hand.
Arden retreated to the kitchen and called Jake. Then she went upstairs to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and the shower, and began to weep.
Forty
“How are you feeling, Lolly?”
Lolly’s false eyelashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes—one at a time.
“I was dreaming of loons,” she said with a dry voice, still holding the peony from the garden. “Looks like I still am!”
Dr. Van Meter, Jake, Arden, and Lauren were all hovering around her, anxiously waiting for her to wake up. They all laughed at Lolly’s words, greatly relieved.
Lolly noticed that Arden’s cheeks were quivering, as she tried to hold back tears. She gave her earlobe a weak tug to show her daughter everything was going to be okay. Arden smiled and repeated the gesture.
“We’re going to try you on some new meds, Lolly,” Dr. Van Meter said. “I think they will help with your clarity and not make you as confused. Might make your mouth dry, but that’s about it. And I want to see you again in a couple of weeks.”
Lolly nodded. “Thanks, Doc,” Lolly said. She looked to Arden and Lauren. “I am thirsty. Could I get some water?”
“I’ll get it,” Lauren said.
“I’ll walk you out,” Arden said to the doctor.
“I’ll keep you company,” Jake said to the others.
“I’ve always had that effect on men,” Lolly laughed.
“So, what’s really going on, Doctor?” Arden asked out of earshot, as they approached Dr. Van Meter’s SUV.
“MCI patients will have good days and bad. This is a bad one. Unfortunately, there can be more like this as the months progress, especially if your mother’s condition should ever deteriorate into dementia. You need to be ready for that, just in case.”
The doctor looked at the inlet, where Fred and Ethel were floating. She turned and considered Arden with a serious expression. “Living so far away, you need to begin to think about where your mother might live long-term.”
“Long-term?”
“When, and if, she’s ever unable to live on her own way out here,” the doctor said. “Right now, you just might consider having someone check on her regularly.”
Arden turned toward the lake to hide her emotions.
“I know it’s hard,” Dr. Van Meter said. “But dementia is like thunderstorms in the brain. Lolly’s short-term memory will be affected, so she will have trouble with daily activities as some time progresses: bathing, cooking, eating, paying bills. No need for immediate alarm, but—like we all do—your mother has to prepare for the future.”
Arden extended her hand to the doctor, who was looking toward the lake.
“Can I ask a personal question?” Dr. Van Meter asked. “Who painted that picture of your family that is on the dock? It’s stunning. It would be perfect at Lakeview. I think it would inspire a lot of people.”
Arden felt instantly proud. “Lauren painted that.”
“Do you think she would ever consider selling it?” Dr. Van Meter asked.
“It’s not for sale,” Arden responded without thinking.
“Well,” the doctor started, “your daughter is very talented.”
Arden returned to the screened porch to find her mother sitting up, the peony now behind her ear, a natural embellishment to the rather unnatural wig she was still sporting. Lauren and Jake were seated at the little table, sipping tea and fidgeting with the unfinished jigsaw puzzle on the table.
“I see that look on your face, Arden,” Lolly said, smiling. “But I’m not scared, my dear. My only fear is that I might forget you. But I’m not scared of the future. I don’t regret a single day of my life.”
Arden looked at her mother and shook her head. “You are remarkable,” she said. “Why didn’t I ever realize that before now?”
“You were never the brightest bulb in the box,” Lolly quipped with a wink, her joke breaking the tension. “I’m just teasing you, my dear. It’s just that you’ve always been so intelligent, but sometimes you have to believe in the things you don’t understand.”
“Like you?” Arden said, returning the wink.
“Exactly!” Lolly laughed. “I have faith. You need to have faith, too. So does Lauren. I didn’t, for the longest time, however.”
Lolly set her water down on the floor and began to flip through her charms, until she found one of a tiny yellow seed encased in a little bubble of glass and surrounded by a frame of woven silver.
“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, then you can move mountains. Nothing will be impossible.”
Arden shot her mother a suspicious look.
“There’s a difference between faith and religion,” Lolly said, wagging the charm and a finger at her daughter. “We are all given a tiny seed of faith. What we do with it is up to us. How did I survive such heartache? How did you end up with such a special daughter? Faith. You believed. Even if you didn’t know it at the time.”
Lolly removed the peony from behind her ear, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. “Heaven,” she sighed. “This is what heaven will smell like!”
She tossed the flower to her daughter, who caught it just before it hit the floor of the porch.
“My peonies started from seeds,” she said. “They were planted by my grandmother Mary. They can bloom for hundreds of years. Those flowers will outlive all of us.”
Lolly sat up on the couch and stretched her arms high toward heaven.
“There was a time when I had very little faith,” she continued. “I felt lost, like I didn’t have a compass. And then one day, I met a poor man whose soul made him richer than Donald Trump.”
Forty-one
1988
Lolly cast her line into the lake, close to the reeds, and gave the lure a quick tug.
Nothing.
She reeled in the bright, wooden lure and gave it another cast—whiiiirrr!—into the water, where it hit with a soft splash.
There was something about the act of fishing—the repetitiveness of motion—that relaxed her. It had the same soothing effect as sewing.
It, too, connected her to her father, her husband, her past.
Lolly set the rod down on the dock, her legs dangling over the edge, and zipped up her hooded jacket. Though it was only early October, a fall chill had settled over Scoops. Lolly inhaled and—whoosh!—blew out a gasp of air to test the temperature.
I can already see my breath! Winter is around the corner, she thought.
The giant sugar maples that rimmed Lost Land Lake were already losing their leaves. The lake, in fact, glowed, looked as if it were on fire, between the reflection of the maples’ delicate orange, gold, and crimson leaves off the water and the ones already floating on its surface.
Lolly was happy she had found a job that occupied her on fall color weekends and kept her busy over the summers and holidays. She was happy that Arden was doing well at school. Lolly missed Arden and Les, but there was something deeper that seemed to be missing, too. Something that made Lolly ache, even more than the damp chill that surrounded her.
“You gotta have a lot of faith to fish.”
Lolly let out a yelp, nearly dropping her pole, before turning to see an elderly man with a white wisp of hair jutting forth from the middle of his forehead.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “My name is Joseph.”
“I usually don’t scare so easily,” Lolly said, leaning back on the dock—pole in hand, line in water—to extend her hand. “My name is Lolly. It’s just so quiet these days. Everyone has left for the season.”
“Quiet don’
t mean lonely to me,” the man said, shaking her hand.
If Michigan were dressed in its Sunday finest—drenched in brilliant Technicolor—the old man was dressed in his work clothes: worn Dickies work pants, tattered coat and torn overshirt, muddy boots, hands and fingers that were red and curled, knotted as the sassafras that dotted the woods.
“What brings you to Lost Land?” Lolly asked. “Come to fish?”
Lolly was a trusting soul, but there was something about this man—almost an aura, if you believed in such a thing—that made her feel a bit off-kilter.
“Came to build,” he said.
“Build?”
Lolly reeled in her line and pushed off on the dock to stand. After the buying boom of the 1980s, Lolly hated the word “build.” Scoops—and Lost Land—didn’t take kindly to renovation, gentrification, and escalation. Things were just fine as they were. She took a step toward the man, and nervously zipped and unzipped her jacket.
“Just a little house,” he said. “A peaceful place, somewhere near the lake.”
“Do you have property?” Lolly asked.
The man laughed, revealing perfect white teeth that didn’t fit his aged, whisker-stubbled face, Lolly thought.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Where are you staying?” Lolly asked next.
The man’s eyes twinkled, like the lake, and seemed to turn a hundred shades of grey, before settling on slate. “In an old stable just up the road.”
“Whose barn?” Lolly asked. “I grew up around here. Know pretty much everyone.”
“Just some nice folks,” he said. “I help look after their animals in exchange for room and board. Gives me a chance to build in the afternoons. I’m looking for some help, if you’re interested.”
Lolly narrowed her eyes and gave the man a wary look.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sensing her distrust and stepping slowly backward until he was off Lolly’s dock. “I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries. Just looking for someone who might have some skills to offer. You have a good day, ma’am.”
“I don’t have any skills!” Lolly called, surprising herself. She hadn’t even considered responding. The words just came out as if she couldn’t control them.
The Charm Bracelet Page 21
