Water Steps

by A. LaFaye

  “This isn’t funny!” I spun to face them, ready to knock their heads together.

  Mem stared to speak, but only sputtered.

  Pep swallowed to catch his breath, then said, “Kyna, no one can see us. We swam too far out. No yard lights. No boats. Just us.”

  “And our birthday suits.” Mem posed like she showed off a new outfit.

  “What about when you got in and out?”

  “We got in from the point,” Pep said. “No one can see that far out in the dark.”

  “They might from up high,” I told him.

  “And who would be watching the lake from above at this time of night?” he asked.

  Oh no. I walked into more traps than a blind bear.

  “Nobody.” I tried not to sound suspicious, but Pep looked at me extra hard.

  Mem started to smile like I’d just told her my teacher gave me the student-of-the-year award. “Suits or no suits. You . . .” she pointed at me, “were on the beach.”

  “Aye!” Pep said it like he’d just realized it himself. “She was. Our little girl was on the beach.”

  He rushed forward to hug me. “Way to go, lass.”

  I had been on the beach. Scared out of my head, but I was on the beach. Afraid for Mem and Pep, not me. I guess that meant I’d made some progress.

  “Was that what you were up to last night?” Mem asked.

  I waited, not ready to tell them. Not wanting to give them such a gift after they’d scared me so.

  “Well?” Pep loosened his hold to let me dangle a little.

  I chewed my lip, deciding.

  Pep peered out of the corner of his eye at Mem, cocking his eyebrow. “Mem, I believe we have a girl who’s been doing a bit of scheming.”

  How did he know about our silkie spotting plan?

  “Really now?” Mem leaned into Pep’s shoulder like she’d come in to have a closer look at a boo-boo on my arm.

  “Well now, I figure her for taking a bit of a water step of her own.” He pursed up his lips, saying, “What do you say to that, Kyna?”

  I clenched my teeth, trying to hold it in, but I saw the look in their eyes, the please of it, the way Mem gripped Pep’s shoulder, hoping. And I had to say it. “Yeah, I guess I tried.”

  “Whoo-hoo!” Mem shouted. “I prayed it be true. Thank you, Good Giver!”

  Turning out of Pep’s arms, I said, “It’s not a big, big deal. It’s not like I got in the water.”

  “And when was the last time you got that close to the water?” Pep asked, just as Mem held my arm up boxer-won-the-fight style.

  A spark flew inside my head, setting off a memory. I felt my arms raised up by helping hands, saw my feet plodding through wet sand, heard myself laugh as the waves tickled my feet.

  Waves. Just waves. Cool. Wet. Not clawing and cold. Not dangerous or dark. Just cool. And wet. And those hands, holding mine. Wet, but holding fast.

  I snapped back to the moment, feeling all tickly inside and a bit scared.

  My mind scrambled a bunch of ideas around, each of them hopping and jumping, fighting to get me to see something. Photographs flashed in my head like memories. Kenny skipping rocks on the beach . . . Grandma Bella holding up a tiny, tiny fish she’d caught . . . Mom and Dad dancing on a dock in swimsuits and flippers . . . photos, but not real memories. Faces I loved to stare at, not just because it made me feel close to them, but so my eyes didn’t wander and see that ocean blue. Water. It stole so much from me. I couldn’t even remember the times when those photos were taken because they revolved around water, just like the stories that Mem and Pep didn’t want to tell me about from their childhoods. If I fought this fear, I’d get a lot more than wet. I might just remember my birth family. Feel my mom hold my hands. Maybe even learn a bit about Mem and Pep.

  “What is it, love?” Mem asked.

  “Just a memory of Mom.” I tried to smile, but I wanted that moment I remembered back. To feel Mom again. To hear her laugh echo mine. And to know the feeling of water when I actually liked it.

  Pep gave Mem a quick look, then slipped out of the room. When a memory of my mom came for a visit, I wanted Mem and only Mem. Well, really I wanted my mom. The mom who smelled of melon and wore pearls when she sailed. But it felt good to have Mem pull me into bed and hold me.

  Mem pulled off my shoes, saying, “Care to tell me what you remembered?”

  I shook my head, wanting to keep it safe and close.

  Pulling my shirt off, a sleeve a time, Mem began to talk. At first, I didn’t want to listen. I had a memory to hold onto, but then I heard the words she said and realized I had to listen.

  “Me mem had eyes so brown and bright they almost looked like a bit of bronze in the sun. She loved a good cove at low tide in late afternoon. Finding herself a good spot, she’d just nestle down into the water like it weren’t nothing more than a safe, warm bath. Then she’d watch the fish swim on by, loving how they moved like streamers through the water, looking the same, but each one different—a frilled fin there, a white scale here, a dot where no one else had it. Made her wish she could touch them, but if she so much as moved, they fled as if she meant to make a lunch out of them.”

  As that story settled over me like snow, I cried. To be close to my mom. To hold Mem’s hand even tighter as she pulled the blanket over us. To finally meet my Grandma Monahan. Knowing all I needed to focus on in that memory was her face, the bright brown eyes and the happy smile. No water, just fish floating by with flipping fins, and happy gills.

  “What was your mem’s name?”

  Mem turned my hand over in hers and tracked the lines in my palm, whispering, “Brida. And she sang me to sleep on many a night.”

  Bree-dah. It sounded like a word meant to be sung. And I could feel it like a musical note rising inside my head. I had me a new Gram. And two bright and happy memories to hold onto. If I fought hard, I’d get a flood of them, I felt sure. So I snuggled down with Mem and fell asleep to the sound of her singing an old Irish fishing song.

  MEMORY

  Memories of my birth family had grown so old, they came out broken. The smell of cinnamon and flowery perfume made me see my grandma handing me a slice of toast. When I heard the tune of a jack-in-the-box, my brother hopped in a circle in my head, holding up one foot and calling out, “My toe! My toe!”

  I usually only recalled wisps of my mother, a crinkle-eyed smile or a tickle-the-ear snatch of laughter. Until we came to the lake, I’d never remembered my mother and me together. Only three years old when she died, my memories were too frail and thin to last, but somehow I’d held onto that one of me and Mom going into the water together. I couldn’t recall what beach or what the body of water was called.

  Ah, the water. I remember enjoying the water, the cool wetness of it. The way it pushed against my ankles as I splashed through it. The pulling wetness had a sureness to it—a hugging kind of grip I liked. I liked it. I liked the water. I wanted to turn around, tell my mother. See her—know what she wore, how her face looked, but all I could conjure were my own feet. But I kept trying all day. Imagining that beach again and again until the water was nothing more than foamy static in my mind.

  From my perch on the deck, I watched the sun let out its red parachute to set. I wondered just what other memories I could fish out of my mind. Spotting a puddle in the driveway, I walked over, waded in—reminding myself with just a little wet tug, a watery little hug.

  Holding onto that memory of my feet in those friendly waves, I lowered myself down, feeling the cool muddiness of it like a wet blanket under me—it could fold over me, I thought.

  No, no, it’s just a little water. Not enough to drown a bug. So I lay there—wet and muddy, and tried to recall my own laughter.

  Big deal. I’d flopped down in a puddle. Like I could drown in that. Flicking mud, I started to think about water and memories, and how just one drop held my whole life in a way. The love of this stuff drew my family out onto the waves day after day until it took their l
ives. Even tried to take mine.

  I stood up feeling soggy and stupid, but as I caught sight of the sail-smooth water of the lake, the glossy sway of it pulled me in a little. Set me to thinking—water flowed through my life, reaching back to a shore I could no longer see. My family stood there—laughing, Mom and Dad with a cooler between them, Kenny racing on ahead, Gram with her slicker over her arm, headed for the boat they loved. And from that shore, the water ebbed back to me, to rocks among swirling waves, Mem and Pep standing there waving, calling me to join them.

  I could live my life afraid of sinking to the bottom of those memories or I could learn to float. Carry myself to the memories I wanted to keep. Make even more among the waves with Mem and Pep. Yeah, I could, if I ever got brave enough to step foot in water again.

  STEPS

  After calling into the house to let Mem and Pep know I was on my way to Tylo’s, I headed down to the beach. Didn’t even wait for them to answer me. Didn’t want to give them time to realize I planned to take the beach route and have them make a big production out of it. I wasn’t about to try going in the water, but I could plant my feet on the rocks and make my way to Tylo’s. Why not? People did it every day. And today, I planned to do it without fear. No worries darting around me like spirits. I’d take my first real walk on the beach since I didn’t know when, but I wanted the trip to be mine. Not ours.

  Funny how my feet felt kind of light going down. Didn’t want to let go of the railing, but I went a little fast down those steps and onto the rocky beach. Kept the swing in my mind going to the rhythm of the waves. Up, then back. Up, then back. The crunchy sand under my shoes made me a little nervous. The shiftiness of it like the floor of a ride at the fair—it could tilt out from under me at any second. I wished beaches had hand rails.

  The wind picked up a little. Heard the rustle of it in the leaves like chatty little rapids in a stream. No worries. The water didn’t even reach me. I had plenty of beach. And a lot of nice, sturdy rocks to climb on. Told myself I could probably reach Tylo’s if I went far enough. I crept along the beach, weaving behind the rocks. Keeping my eyes on dry land. Still felt the wind pushing at my back like one of those bratty kids who wants to be first to get a piece of the chocolate pudding pie the cafeteria ladies make once a month for birthday lunch.

  A sudden coolness made me look up. Gray clouds made the sky look crabby. Where did they come from? The sky had been happy and blue when I stepped onto the deck just awhile ago.

  I looked over my shoulder. I could go back. I’d get home before the clouds even thought of letting go of the rain. But that’d be giving in. Giving up.

  No. I‘d just hurry it up a bit and beat the rain. Fear wouldn’t turn me around like a chime in the wind today. No, sir. I’d go my own way.

  The wind had other ideas, whooshing in to pull off my hat. Saw it swept toward the water, but I jerked my head away before I could see it churned under. Hated that ratty old hat anyway.

  More and more rocks cluttered the beach as I got closer to Tylo’s. The wind picked up, lashing the trees until all their leaf rattling made them sound angry, too. A quick check told me the gray skies had started growing darker, the fear inside me getting just as ugly and black. The going got a little tougher with all the rocks, but I went faster. I could beat the storm. Outrun my fear.

  The first thunderclap made me jump, daring me to look. To see what the coming storm had done to the water. I could hear it in the chop, chop of the waves as they slapped at the rocks, feel it in the wet gusts of wind against my face. My lungs had started to shrink, making it tough to get a full breath.

  No. Keep your course. Don’t turn back.

  I stared at the shoreline above me, just trees and more trees. Where did that stupid Tylo live, anyway?

  I started to run, tripping over rocks. Thunder boomed closer. Steps. I could see steps ahead.

  Lightning cracked. Too close. I ran faster. But the clouds let out the rain before I’d made it three rocks farther down the beach. The water hit me like hot oil from a frying pan, burning a memory back into my body.

  Rain so thick I couldn’t see beyond the wet, red shoulder I stared over, looking, searching for someone, the rain like a wrinkled shower curtain clouding my vision. Bouncing against that shoulder, the arms that gripped me tight didn’t make me feel safe enough. Not in the wind that tore at the hat tied around my head. Not with the tilt of the boat toward the churning sea. I cried. Cried to be dry. Cried to be out of the storm. To be with my daddy. My daddy, who had run into that terrible rain to find Kenny. My brother, Kenny.

  “We’re almost there!” I heard my mother yell, then I turned to see the stairs lighted in the darkness ahead, the lantern hung above the door clanking against the wood. But a swell knocked everything loose, the lantern went flying, the deck lurched, Mom lost her balance, fell to the deck. Landing hard, her grip loosened and the wave crashing over the deck swept me away.

  I fought hard to get ahead of the memory, to push it back before I slid into that water, but the rain kept coming, my mind kept going deeper, falling into that night, so deep I couldn’t crawl back out.

  Mom scrambled to catch me, the water spraying over her as I slapped at the wet deck for something to hold onto before I slid right off the edge. The fall into the water felt like I’d been swallowed into the storm itself—all wind and rain and anger twisting me around.

  Then the water. The furious waves that chewed me up, pulling me down, not letting me go. I kicked, I screamed, I clawed, but the water just kept churning and churning, filling my mouth and my lungs, not letting me cough it out.

  Even on the beach of Lake Champlain where only rain threatened me as I clung to a boulder for safety, I choked on the memory of those waves.

  I wanted my mommy. Needed my daddy. Why didn’t they help me? Why didn’t they come? Too young to know they couldn’t, I screamed for them, swallowing more water.

  The waves washed over me. I came up sputtering, kicking and flailing, then I started sinking again. Down into the dark water that churned me around, filled me up until my chest near about exploded. Just as my mind gave in, something swept against my legs, then an arm closed around my waist and pulled me up. Then blackness.

  My mem said she held me to her as she swam sidestroke toward the shore. How did she find me in all that dark water? Carry me to the rocks against those angry waves?

  I woke to find her cradling me, patting out that water, trying to smooth out my terror with her warming hands, but I felt the tightness in her as she watched the waves, heard the prayers pouring from her lips. She prayed for Pep. Prayed he’d find my family. Return safe to her.

  I screamed for my mom. Fought to get away so I could find her and Dad. But Mem held me fast until Pep pulled himself ashore, panting and pale like a fish pulled out of the water after a long struggle against the fishing line. But he could save no one but himself.

  As I hugged the rock on the lake’s shore, the rain poured over me. I cried. Cried for my mom, my dad, Grandma Bella, and Kenny. Cried to have them there with me. As I looked out over the choppy waves, anger shook me from the inside out.

  Grabbing a rock, I threw it in, wishing it could shatter that lake like glass. Tossing rock after rock, I screamed and yelled at that stupid, awful water for taking them from me. I wanted to see it hurt, but it only twisted and turned in the wind, coming again and again to the shore.

  Angry, tired, and wet, my eyes fell upon a shell, eddied in, then out, in, then out, by the waves crashing in, then washing back out. They came day and night, again and again, never really changing except in speed and strength, shaped by the wind and the pull of the moon, but always coming back. The water didn’t care. Didn’t live like people do. Water would never change. I couldn’t hurt it. Couldn’t punish it for hurting me.

  Only I could change. Grow stronger.

  Standing, I walked away from that water to the stairs leading up to dry ground and a place where I could let go of all that anger. Let it sail out
to sea and never return.

  CLAN

  Funny thing I realized about lake houses as I walked along the upper edge of the shoreline—they have two fronts. Driving up to our lake house, I had seen all of the name plaques hanging from posts, mailboxes, and even trees. Each sign gave the family name of the people who lived at the end of the driveways we passed. As I read them, they almost seemed to be inviting us to come for a visit. Now that I walked on the shore side of the houses, I saw a whole new set of signs with the same names—Holbrook, Ryan, and Lushia—all silent wooden invites to come in from the rain. And a good thing, too, or how else would I have found Tylo’s house in that storm?

  Knocking on the door, I didn’t expect to find a storm inside, but that’s what I got. The door flew open with a bang as Tylo’s mom rushed out to pull me inside, shouting, “Kyna! You’re Kyna, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, as she started to dry me off with the towel she’d had over her shoulder, rubbing my head like I was the family dog caught in the rain.

  She kept talking in a gust of words as two of her sons fought over one of those handheld game gadgets and another dive-bombed a row of marshmallows on the counter with baby potatoes. “Your parents are a mess trying to find you!”

  “I told them I was coming here,” I said, pulling my head free.

  “Well, you must have been using a language only dogs can hear.” She shook her head and started to take my shirt off.

  “Hey,” I grabbed my shirt.

  “Oh,” she looked embarrassed for only a second, then she shuffled me into the laundry room. “Sorry, dear. Used to having only boys.”

  Closing the door, she yanked off my shirt before I had any chance to even speak, telling me, “Your mother’s calling all over the neighborhood, trying to find you. Your father’s out on foot. My husband even took Tylo out to search the woods.”

  She tugged and pulled and got me into dry clothes so fast I wondered if she’d roped and branded cattle in a past life. “Really, Tylo dragged his dad out to look for you. And here you are!” Stepping back, she took a look at me in the baggy shorts and too big T-shirt she’d dressed me in. Probably Trevor’s.