by A. LaFaye
To make things even worse, they rented our cute little house in Perryville to a family with two hairy, smashed-faced dogs that grunted when they ran. I couldn’t stay behind unless I wanted to defend Kippers against grunting dust mops all summer.
Then Hillary told me her parents wanted her to go stay with her grandmother for a month while they taught a class in Mexico. Grandma Homzie lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Hillary slept on the couch. There’d be no room for me.
And no matter how hard I searched, I couldn’t find a summer camp that didn’t include swimming. Even the Ven Valley Horse Camp had swimming lessons—with your horse!
I had to go live on a lake. A huge, enormous, pool of drowning water.
As we drove to the stupid lake, I tried to draw a map of the one trail Hillary and I had cleared and marked with the posts we’d made ourselves, but Mem and Pep kept telling me silly silkie tales.
They dropped folktales into a conversation like other parents told when-I-was-your-age stories. But Mem and Pep’s were no Cinderella-type tales. And even though I’d heard them enough to recite them backward, I still listened because I always hoped Mem and Pep might let something about themselves slip. Other kids heard about the time their parents got caught taking a neighbor’s bike for a spin or trying to sneak into an R-rated movie, but the only things I knew about my parents were that Pep tricked Mem into dating him with soggy Chieftains tickets and that they decided to honeymoon in the U.S. because they’d heard about the fabulous beaches, ferries, and islands off the coast of Maine. That vacation had become a permanent move to the U.S. when they adopted me.
But if they missed home, they never showed it by telling me tales of their childhood. No, I had to hear about a goofy mythical creature who could’ve used a map. Silkie lore. No stories about those lifeguardy creatures would make me feel safer about being near that lake.
“They guide ships through dark waters,” Mem said, her eyes squinting as if she led a ship herself.
“I won’t be on a ship in any waters,” I said, petting Kippers.
Pep tapped the steering wheel. “Now Kyna, if you’re swimming . . .”
“Swimming!” I sat forward. “I’m never going swimming.”
“Just listen, love.” He smiled into the rearview mirror at me. “If a swimmer, any swimmer, were to have a bit of trouble in a silkie lake, the silkies would rescue them. You can’t drown in a silkie lake.”
“Pft!” I crossed my arms. “What’s a silkie doing in an American lake anyway?”
“They’re immigrants, like us,” Mem said.
Pep lowered his voice into adventure-story mode, then said, “In a summer so warm folks thought the North Pole might melt, a pod of silkies set to sea. Young adventuresome silkies they were. Wild ones who grew up on stories of the seal folk who guided Leif Erikson on his journey over the great ocean. They swam clear to Canada, right into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Slipping into the St. Lawrence River, most of the pod made their way to the Great Lakes for a bit of a holiday.
“But as the story goes, a young silkie lad named Terin got himself turned around. The water had lost its salt and gone murky green long about twilight. His lungs hurt with that weak, salt-free water. And the sounds didn’t travel right, bouncing off rocks and the riverbed. With the water all shallow and filled with tiny rushing currents, he got tangled up in a batch of weeds, misheard the calls from the front of the pod, and went the wrong way down the Richelieu River. Finding him missing, a few of his kinfolk went hunting, winding their way down rivers and streams.
“Meanwhile, Terin came out in Lake Champlain, a grand, beautiful, clear lake filled with islands to the north and reflecting great gray mountains topped with pine trees to the southwest. But aye, what he loved the best were the rolling green hills to the east. What with the rocky shore and the green hills and the mist of the morning, Terin felt himself at home. And when his aunties and uncles found him there, swimming along the shores, they too had to agree with him. And there they stayed.
“That’s how the silkies came to Lake Champlain.”
“Oh yeah? When did the leprechauns show up?” I asked.
“And how would they do that?” Pep asked. “Have you ever seen a rainbow big enough to cross the Atlantic?” He glanced back at me. “Well, have you?”
“No.” I rolled my eyes.
“Well, then, there you have it. They can’t get here, now can they?”
“Why not just buy a plane ticket over?”
Mem laughed, “I can see them all standing on each other’s shoulders to hand off a wee passport to the customs officer.” She squeaked up her voice, “‘We’re traveling for pleasure, sir. Off to see the rainbows cast by Niagara Falls, sir. See what they’ve got at the end of them.’”
Mem acted out what she described. “And the big one on the bottom’s all red faced and shaking. A minute later, they all tumble to the ground in a screaming pile of buckles and hats, poking out feet and elbows everywhere like some muddled-up hedgehog.”
We all laughed.
“And can you imagine trying to buckle a leprechaun into an airplane seat? One good bout of turbulence and he’d go sailing.” She zoomed her hand through the air. “Probably end up in some lady’s handbag.”
All the crazy stories and I almost forgot where we were headed. Then Pep pulled down a long tree-lined road. I could see the tall gray mountains in the distance to the south—craggy like the wrinkled faces of old men with pine tree beards and pointy hats. I feared these were the mountains to the south of Lake Champlain.
“Are we getting close?” I asked, sinking down in my seat.
“Why?” Pep asked. “Are you excited to jump out and see if you can catch sight of a silkie?”
“No. Just planning an escape route.”
Mem frowned at me. “And what if this is meant to be your best summer ever? You’re ruining any chance of that with your sour thoughts.”
Best? Try worst. I’d never sleep. They’d expect me to eat slimy fish. And those mop dogs would probably drool, chew, and piddle their way through my attic bedroom back home. I’d be lucky if I’d even survive my eleventh summer of life. I’d certainly never forget it!
HOUSE
We came to a gravelly halt in front of a big old house with a stone foundation, wide gray shutters that looked like splintered wood, and large boxy windows in the roof that looked out over the trees like bulging eyes.
Staring at the attic window eyes that faced the lake as I got out of the car, I said, “My bedroom doesn’t face the water does it?” I loved my attic bedroom at home, far away from the downstairs bathroom, but I didn’t want to be anywhere near a good view of that lake.
“Not at all.” Pep said, lugging a suitcase out of the trunk. “Your bedroom’s the back one, right there.” He pointed to a bay window above the back door.
“Come on, Kippers.” I put the cat down, keeping his leash in my hand, and walked him inside. Kippers liked to think of himself as a dog, so he traveled on a leash and played fetch with superballs.
His leash hook jingled and echoed through the nearly empty rooms. I could even hear his claws clickety clacking on the hardwood floors. I didn’t like the silence of the place. It made me feel like an invader.
My bedroom had two bay windows. One faced west to look over a small stone courtyard between the driveway and an old stone shed. The other window faced north to a ring of shrubby trees not even big enough to hold a birdhouse, let alone a tree fort like mine. At least I couldn’t see the lake. But the echoey bigness of the room made me kind of thin inside.
Even the closet was big enough for a bed. Big old houses with wood floors and echoey rooms had long histories. And histories hid ghosts. I didn’t like it one bit. I had half a mind to dig out our tent and sleep outside in the woods to the east. I had my Camping Badge. Why not put it good use? I even started searching the boxes for my tent until I realized camping outside would probably mean I could hear the waves lapping at the shore, threatening to flo
od. Scratch that plan.
Instead, I left Kippers to roam the house and Mem and Pep to unpack. I headed for the road we came in on, thinking I might find a mountain path I could map out for our Get With the Land project. Besides, heading for high ground sounded like a nice, dry way to spend the summer.
FIRE
Fire is the enemy of water. Flames can turn drowning waves into steam. I love fire. The quick flash and turn of the flames, the warming heat, and the way it burns the outer edge of marshmallows to a crunchy crust while warming the middles to a creamy mush, just perfect for s’mores. I love fire.
The fireplace in what Mem and Pep called “our lake home” had to be big enough to roast an elephant. So sitting there in front of the rumbling flames on our first night there, I felt safe. I loved the warmth on my tuckered-out toesies, the way the flames made the pine needles stuck in my clothes smell up the room like a tree at Christmas, and the light patterns that flickered over the walls. Even Mem opening the lakeside windows to let out the heat and let in the cool night air didn’t touch my cozy mood. And the sweet goo of s’mores made me feel even better.
Then Mem wrapped me up in a bed of knitted blankets by the fire. I nestled down to sleep with the taste of chocolaty marshmallows on my lips, which helped me keep my mind on the sooty logs crumbling, the ashes hissing. But the water started creeping in, lapping and rolling against rocks, raking at my nerves. I closed my eyes against the sound, hoping the crackle and pop of the flames would drown out the ugly sound of waves. But another sound broke in with a squawky kind of rhythm. Was it music from a beach house down the way?
No, it sounded like chirping or an animal kind of chortle. A dolphin? Was Mem playing another “sounds of the sea” CD to get me used to the sound of waves? I sat up to listen.
Nothing but the twittering of a mockingbird starting off its nightly songs in the tree at the corner of the house. Those waves sure played tricks with sound. I burrowed down into my little nest of blankets and focused on the flames, hoping they could keep my mind off the water.
But fires die. And waves go on forever. They washed into my early morning dreams, spilling over the side of the tub in my mind’s eye . . . The shower is on too high. I sputter for air as I struggle to find the knobs to turn the water off. Waves keep crashing in, spraying me with water, pooling at my feet, then my ankles, then my knees. I fumble with the knobs, my hands wet and slippery. I can’t get a grip to turn them.
When I scream, water fills my mouth, choking me. I can’t run. Water surrounds the tub as if it’s been set adrift in the sea. I can see the water turning black with the memory of the stormy waves that nearly killed me—churning me into the depths, choking the breath out of me.
“Kyna! Kyna!” Pep called to me from above like a voice from the clouds.
Turning my head, I could see him, his face wet, his mouth twisted up in fear.
“You’re safe, sweet. It’s all a dream. Just a dream.”
Feeling his legs along my sides, his arms around my chest, hugging me, I felt safe. “The tub was at sea. The shower wouldn’t turn off. The waves kept coming in!”
Pep nodded, rubbing my back. “It’s all gone now. You’re dry and safe here in the living room.”
“But you’re wet.” I reached up and touched his spiky wet hair.
He sniffled. “Sorry, sweet. We went for a morning swim. Shouldn’t have left you alone.”
I wanted to melt. Mem and Pep loved water more than I loved fire, even more than I loved s’mores. Sometimes, I wondered if they loved it more than me. That’s why they made me take water steps. Made me spend the whole summer by a lake. So they could go swimming any time they wanted. My melting feeling turned to flaming anger.
I spun around to get on all fours. “Is that why we’re here?” I shoved my blankets aside. “So you can swim? No more scaly skin from too much chlorine. No need to pack up and head to the Y. You can just dive on in!”
Pep held his breath for a second, then folded his arms and legs in front of him. “And what if that were so?”
“You know I hate the water. You know I do!” I shook from the inside.
“And your mem and I love it.”
“More than me?” I whispered.
He closed his eyes, then got to his knees in front of me. “Kyna, no man can love a thing as he loves his daughter.” He put his hand over my heart. “I just wish you and I could love the same things.”
“I won’t go swimming with you, Pep. Never.”
“Never’s an ugly word that closes the mind to wonderful things.” He kissed me on the forehead, then stood up. As he headed toward the kitchen, he changed the subject as fast as he switched rooms. “They’ve got a farmer’s market in town. Shall we buy enough vegetables to make the rabbits jealous?”
“And enough fruit to make the monkeys fall from the trees,” I added, knowing what he’d say next. Pep was trying to cheer me up. But I felt stuck. Mem and Pep wanted me to change. Become someone else. Someone who could swim. Wasn’t plain old me enough?
I heard a door open and close on the lake side of the house. Pep headed in that direction as Mem called out, “The air’s full of bees making the flowers spread! Who’s up and ready to admire their handiwork?”
Pep spoke, but I couldn’t hear him. Mem let out a mournful, “Oh.”
I snuck closer to listen in.
FRUIT
Mem and Pep spoke Irish in quick chirpy bursts like birds fighting over the same feeder. I could’ve sat in their mouths and still not understood what they said. Mem and Pep wouldn’t teach me Irish, asking what half-sane parent would give up a secret language? And I’ve never found a library or a bookstore with Irish language tapes. So their language stays a secret, just like their past.
When I ask to hear about her Irish childhood, Mem says, “Weren’t nothing in my childhood but a bunch of swimming and we all know how you love to hear about swimming.” She’ll bug out her eyes and blow out her cheeks to make a fish face. And I laugh. But I still want to know. Did she have brothers and sisters? Live in a little town with cobblestone streets and wandering sheep like you see in the movies?
Once, I asked if they had childhood pictures I could see and Pep said, “Do you like feet? How about sky? Lots of sky? Or maybe you favor bits of mashed up colors? Those are the kinds of pictures my family took. You’d think they’d never touched a camera in their lives.”
Mem sputtered out a laugh, saying, “Our family pictures got dropped in a pond.”
And when I tried to ask who dropped them or who took those sky-feet pictures, Mem and Pep would change the subject like they always did. Just like that day at the lake house, we went from me wondering who they loved better, me or the water, to plans for a trip to the farmer’s market in town.
Mem and Pep did their quick change act, then showed up in shorts and sun hats. “Ready for a trip into town?” Mem asked, setting her hat straight.
A trip to town might not be bad. I could see if they had a good camera store. Might find a new camera bag fit for hiking in the mountains. “How far’s this town from the lake then?”
“Oh, a good few feet.” Pep squinted in thought.
“Even the town’s on the lake?”
“It’s a big lake.”
Mem added, “Governor of Vermont tried to get it declared a Great Lake,” as she herded me out the door.
“Can’t we go to the mountains for the day? A good hike to give our lungs a stretch?”
“After you learn the backstroke.”
I skidded to a stop in the gravel drive. “Never!”
“Just remember, that’s what they said about people learning to fly,” Pep said as he opened the car door.
Why did I always get the feeling my parents had learned a thing or two from the Pied Piper about luring children into doing things they didn’t want to do?
Not only was Plattsburgh on the lake, but Pep said the farmer’s market was only feet from the shore. I waited on the hood of the car and shouted my
orders in. “Buy some watermelon! And cherries. Do they have cherries?” Everyone stared at me. But not Mem and Pep. No, they just kept shopping, picking up melons and smelling them like the out-of-towners they were. Who smells fruit?
But I had to admit that the way the lake played with the sun and sent raindrops of light onto the fruit made me wish I could sneak a little closer and take a picture. The drops of light, the bright fruity colors of green, yellow, and red—it’d make a great picture for the fair. Why didn’t they get me a zoom lens for Christmas like I’d asked?
“What, and have you tip over?” Pep had teased. “Those things weigh half as much as you do.”
Pep had what I called the diversion tactic approach to parenting. First he tried to distract me with his sense of humor. Making me laugh so I didn’t realize I’d gotten a knitted jumper (that’s Irish for sweater) for Christmas, again. Then he’d try tricky little trades to make me take another water step. If I’d actually washed my hair in the shower by the first of December, he’d have bought me that zoom lens I asked for.
He was a real trickster all right. But he wouldn’t trick me into liking that stupid lake. But that didn’t keep him from trying. He turned to me with bananas for ears, but I didn’t laugh. I wouldn’t laugh no matter what kind of fruit he put on his head.
“Taking pictures of the shoppers?” some kid asked me, his hair looking like he used a clam shell to comb it.
“No.”
He looked to the market, then to me. “Then why are you sitting over here?”
Thinking of Pep and his feet-sky pictures, I took a snap of the sky. “Better view of the clouds over here.”
The kid pulled himself up on the hood of the car like it was nothing more than a neighborhood fence, then said, “The townies treat me like I’ve got cooties.” He hung his head, then sat up real quick, shouting,
“But I don’t!”
Hey, he didn’t have to tell me about feeling like an outsider. The kids in my class think I’m a total camera geek. Not to mention my whole water problem.
