Dad holds me a little tighter and whispers: “Happy birthday.”
Mama always made pancakes on our birthday, chocolate chip for Amos and blueberry for me. She’d bring out a big jug of the maple syrup we help Uncle Mark and Aunt Mary boil down every spring and for once not even say, “Stop, that’s too much!” if we poured a big river on our plates. She knew Amos would eat all the leftover syrup with a spoon anyway. She’d watch him lick the plate and say, “I guess that’s how you stay sweet.” Like how else could Amos be so kind? Squeezing my hand when thunder cracked, hugging Mama around her neck after she got home from working the night shift at the hospital, on a morning thick with clouds. He really was maple-sweet, when we weren’t arguing about whose turn it was to bring in wood for the fire or dry and put away the dishes.
Mama sets the jug of syrup down on the table, then moves her hand from the jug to my head and lays it there, right on top of my hair. She’s standing so close to Dad and me I can hear her breath go in and out.
“Happy birthday,” she says. Then the fingers leave, so fast I can’t remember if I really felt them.
“Are we going to—” I start, but Mama’s gone already, looking out the window. All I hear is silverware getting scooped out of the drawer, knives and forks clashing. I wonder how many she’s counting out and hold my breath, hoping it’s right. The whole first month after Amos died, she kept bringing four sets of silverware to the table. The spare set just lay there, like silver bones. We all tried not to see it.
Until she put her fingers on my hair like that, I wasn’t even going to ask if we could go to the beach today. She always took Amos and me out there on our birthday, once the sun had gotten its chance to shine awhile. We’d wear our swimsuits underneath our clothes and dare each other to jump in even though the water is still pretty cold in early June. Mama always said cold was a matter of perspective. She said “melted” was good enough for her. She’d pull her shirt over her head and disappear. When she came up, she was almost always laughing, cold water beads rolling off her hair.
But that was the Mama before. The Mama before sang in the kitchen. The Mama before stayed awake long enough after her night shift just so she could kiss us goodbye when we woke up for school. The Mama before jumped into lakes and laughed.
The Mama after is made of silence and ice.
She brings out the pancakes. Just one kind: blueberry. As soon as I see them my throat closes up. I want to say thank you. I know she probably didn’t want to make pancakes, not this year. I know she didn’t have to. But the words won’t come. I feel Dad’s arms tighten around me.
Eat! I tell myself. But the harder I stare, the worse they look. If I take a bite, I think, they’ll taste like cardboard.
It’s not just mountains that change. If you’d asked me a year ago whether I could ever hate blueberry pancakes, I’d have said no way. But when Dad shifts me off his lap and we all sit down hard in our chairs, I can’t stop looking at Amos’s empty place. I used to stare at it and tell myself Amos had just gone out in the woods, picking branches to whittle. I used to pretend he’d stomp in soon, wild, hair sticking straight up with bits of leaf caught in it, and Mama would yell at him for being late but smile and hug him at the same time.
At first, I didn’t believe it. But now I know he’s gone.
What I haven’t figured out yet is who I am without him.
Right then, with all that sadness filling me, I reach behind and touch the coils of the notebook that peek out of my back pocket.
I finally cut a big bite of pancake with my fork so Mama won’t regret making them, but when I put it in my mouth I just taste dust. Slippery, syrupy gray ash. I chew and swallow, forcing it all down.
What Amos did when he died is draw a big line into our lives. We all had a before. Now it’s just the rest of us left with an after.
Chapter 4
After breakfast, I sit cross-legged on the bottom bunk and lay Amos’s notebook and the whale tooth in front of me. For a while I just look at the front cover. I wish Amos hadn’t crossed out his first title. For a magical creature, Evidence just doesn’t fit. Clues seems like the right word after all.
“Open it,” I say out loud. Just open it. “What’s the big deal?”
A fluttering starts inside my stomach. It’s not fear, though. It’s the feeling I used to get on the boat, that moment when Amos or I would hook what we knew was a big fish. I’d feel the tug on the line and watch how it skidded, how my arms strained to hold it. And I’d know that something in the inky blue deep was alive and rising.
This time too, I don’t know what I’ll find, but just touching the notebook feels in a way like having Amos nearby.
When we were little, Mama used to read us picture books about Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. Neither of us could stop thinking about creatures that seemed to grow right out of their places, whispering their existence through dimples in the waves and footprints in torn leaves. You had to look closely if you wanted to see them. And you had to believe.
So we used to stand on the beach holding our breath as the sun settled over the water and washed it in pinks and oranges. Goose bumps would rise on our arms the way little arrows of wave would poke up and swirl with glowing tips as we whispered to each other, Did you see that?
When I got older, I learned that water reflects light most when the sun is low in the sky, and I stopped thinking there was anything special about those sunset sparkles. But Amos never stopped.
I hold my breath and open the cover with my eyes shut. Then I count—one, two, three—and look fast before I can think about closing the notebook again.
The first thing I see isn’t very scientific, which I expected: there are no charts, no logs of dates and times. Instead, Amos has filled the first page with what looks like the beginning of a list, and lots of drawings.
1. On full-moon nights the water makes a different sound. Not scary, just different. Kind of like a really big drum.
It’s surrounded by doodles and letters he mashed together to re-create the sound: Booommp and Paaahhhw and Ssshhhhhwahh! I laugh out loud, hearing Amos making those noises.
But full-moon nights? I didn’t think Amos paid much attention to moon phases, and this was before Mr. Dale made us start tracking. Besides, how would he have managed to get out to the lake on a full-moon night without me knowing?
2. Sometimes when I’m out in the boat, especially near the green parts, the water starts moving underneath even if there’s no wind. The waves feel bigger then too, more like the ocean than Maple Lake.
A few more pages of doodles follow. He’s sketched out our boat, hoisted up on huge waves. A stick-figure version of him in the boat, his mouth a round O. Squiggles and question marks. I keep looking for some sketch of whatever he meant by green parts, but he just drew with pencil, so I can’t tell what he meant. Maybe he just imagined it. Maple Lake is definitely not green.
I turn the page to find another clue:
3. When I’m near the western edge of the shore, standing on Bear Rock, and if there’s enough light out in the middle of the lake to make Sparkle Island, I can see this shape in it. It comes up but just for a second, then goes back down. And it kind of shines. I know it’s not a bird because it comes out of the water, not the air. And it doesn’t jump like a fish either.
A shape—the one he was trying to show me before.
The next few pages fill with pictures: a smooth lake with different shaded shapes emerging in the middle. In one, a kind of blob of a creature hovers underneath the water with a cartoon word bubble coming out of its mouth. It’s saying: “Hello up there!”
4. Once when I went out on the ice—
I gasp and shut the notebook, fast as I can. I don’t want to read about the ice. Instead, I press my knuckles into my eyeballs until gold lines flash back and forth in the dark, until they hurt.
“You should come too,” he said. “Just to check something out real quick, something I noticed last time I went ice fishing jus
t with Dad. This time you’ll really see.”
“You shouldn’t,” I told him. “Come on. Mama said not this late in the season, not by ourselves.”
I was always the cautious one.
“Mama said, Mama said. Come on yourself, Addie! We’re almost twelve. It’s only March; the ice is still thick enough. We just fished last week, remember? I promise you’ll see.”
But all I saw, running down the narrow trail after too much time had passed, tripping over roots and calling his name, was the snow-covered water, the water hard and white as bone, except for the dark space in the middle where it had opened its jaws and swallowed him.
“You’re so stupid, Amos!” I whisper now to my empty room. Then I yell: “Stupid!”
Nothing answers. There’s nothing left. I bring my fist down on the pillow, hard, but all it does is give way, sagging under my knuckles. Just like the ice gave way under Amos. I close my eyes again, tight, willing that hole to freeze over. My mind lets it, and the darkness disappears.
Now a different memory brings Amos and me to hard ice earlier this winter, pulling a loaded-up sled to our favorite fishing spot. Dad’s already there, drilling with his auger, ice shavings whirring up around the dark hole we’ll fish from. Amos says something I can’t quite hear, and I see him throw his head back, laughing. I see his eyes. Green like mountains, like moss.
The sound of Amos’s laugh tumbles in my ears and I blink away tears, calm again. The indentation I punched into the pillow slowly crinkles away.
“Fine,” I say, at nothing. “Fine. I’ll read your clues.”
I open the notebook again and force my eyes back to number four.
4. Once when I went out on the ice, I saw something. It was almost dark so I couldn’t see much, but every time I took a step, these little flecks of gold spread up from under the ice and followed my feet. So I think the creature sheds scales while it swims. And the scales float up. And they’re magic, so they can move through ice. Maybe they’re real gold. I think if I could just go out again, maybe with my auger and ice scoop, I could catch them.
My eyes sting, and I shake my head.
But then, warmth settles on my shoulders. I wipe my eyes and take a deep breath. The warmth wraps itself around me and squeezes again, just a little. I squeeze back.
“Addie?” Dad’s voice floats just outside my door. He knocks twice. “You okay, honey girl? Thought I heard a yell.”
I sniff, wipe my eyes. Slide the notebook under my pillow. “No,” I say. “I’m okay, Dad.”
“Can I come in?” he asks. “I have something for you.”
I get up and twist the door handle. Dad’s standing there with a small box. He smiles at me and ducks under the doorframe.
“Your mama had to rest up before work later tonight,” he says. “But she wanted me to give this to you. From both of us.” He hands me the box.
“Thanks.” I slide my finger carefully under one taped fold of paper, then the other. Amos always ripped into wrapping paper, letting it fly out over his shoulder in little pieces. It always made Mama laugh.
The box slips out and I think I must be seeing things. “An iPhone! No way, Dad!”
Dad smiles. “You like it, then. Figured you were old enough.”
“Yeah. I guess I am now.” Lots of kids in my class have had phones since last summer at least, but I don’t tell Dad that. Maybe he knows Uncle Mark and Aunt Mary got Liza one for her birthday and wants to catch up.
“It’s—not quite new.” Dad scratches his chin like he does when he’s embarrassed. “One of the guys on the crew wanted to get rid of his old one, and he always kept it in a case, so—”
“It’s perfect.” My throat feels thick. I slide the phone out of the box, holding its cool heft. “But wait. Don’t you have to, like, pay for a special plan? Doesn’t that cost a lot?” I remember how much Amos wanted one of these.
“Don’t worry about that,” Dad says. “But don’t spend a bunch of time on the internet. It’ll suck up all the data. And if your mother or I want your attention, put the phone down.” His eyes shift down to his hands, the fingers working their way into knots.
“I know,” I say.
“We just want you to keep the phone on you all the time,” Dad says. “Be able to call, you know. Keep in touch.”
“Like—stalk me?” I’m not mad; I just think Dad might be taking this a little too far. “You always know where I am. School, home, sometimes Liza’s. That’s pretty much it.”
“Summer’s coming,” Dad says. If my snark bothered him, he doesn’t show it. His voice stays gentle. “You won’t be in school then, and even if you spend all your time at the farm, a lot can happen.”
I feel my cheeks redden. It’s so hard to keep anything from Dad. “Well,” I say slowly, “I might not always be at the farm. I… might be at Maple Lake too.”
Dad’s forehead wrinkles and his eyes change, going from soft to piercing. He crouches down, his elbows balanced on his knees, so he has to look up at me. “Maple Lake?” he repeats. His voice sounds like one big question mark.
I can’t look at him, so I look at my pillow instead, hiding the notebook underneath. “I want to apply for a summer thing out there,” I say. “A Young Scientist position. My teacher told me about it.”
Dad looks up at the ceiling for a second, sucks in a breath. “Have you talked to your mama about that?”
I shake my head. “I will,” I say. “I’m going to soon.”
“You know, Addie,” Dad says. “Things are just different now.”
I look down at the phone, so quiet and heavy in my hand. Like it would have saved Amos, stumbling into dark water. I thumb the icons that pop up when I turn it on.
Messages, one says. I wish I could send a message to Amos. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I know.”
Dad reaches out and wraps both of my hands in his big ones. My skin sticks to the iPhone. “Addie.” He looks straight at me. “They’ll always be different.”
Ice takes shape in my mind, spreading fast. I shiver. I know he’s right.
Then Dad leans over and kisses my forehead, like everything is settled.
“But Dad,” I say. “I really want to do the Young Scientist position.”
Dad just smiles sad and slow. That means he doesn’t know what to think yet. “We’ll see,” he says. “Hey, it’s about time to get ready to go to your aunt and uncle’s. I’ve got to load a few things into the truck. I’ll call you over when I’m done.”
He shuts the door so softly I don’t even hear it click into the latch. When I know he’s gone, I pick up the whale tooth and open the notebook again. Right below number four, Amos wrote 5. But that’s all. There’s no sentence, just the number.
“Number five,” I say. “What was number five, Amos? What were you going to write?”
I dig through my desk drawer for a pen and sit back on the bed. Dad’s words echo in my head: Things are just different now. They’ll always be different.
I bite my lip and rub the whale tooth, letting it poke my thumb.
So much is different. I thought Amos would be eating pancakes right beside me on our twelfth birthday, but he’s not. I thought Maple Lake was clean, but it isn’t.
And I thought Amos’s idea about the creature in the lake was crazy. I still think that. But maybe—
The notebook doesn’t make actual sense to me, not one bit, and the clues aren’t real evidence at all. It’s not the kind of evidence Mr. Dale will show me how to collect. I could never put it in a spreadsheet.
But when everything’s upside down anyway, it’s easier to see how what doesn’t make sense could still be worth looking at.
Suddenly, I know exactly how to finish number five. I move the pen across the paper before I can think too hard about it, writing down the date and taking some measurements with my ruler.
Barbara Ann found a white whale tooth on the beach, I write. But it’s so big. Too big.
The next part is harder, and not like me at
all. But I don’t have an explanation for it right now, and this is Amos’s notebook after all.
It looks like it came from something else.
Chapter 5
Dad drops me off early at Liza’s, he says so he can check on a job and Mama can get enough sleep before work, but he’s probably also thinking I might have the best chance of enjoying my birthday if I’m with Liza.
And it does always feel good to open Liza’s door. There’s noise—Bumble barking, Liza’s three little sisters babbling and yelling, her mom telling them to hush, music playing from the radio in the kitchen—and it’s thick and warm, spilling out of the farmhouse where my dad and Uncle Mark grew up.
“Sissie! Addie!” Two of Liza’s sisters, DeeDee just about to finish preschool and Sammie just about to start, tug Liza’s and my sleeves with sticky hands. “We’re making a store, and we’re selling raisins and marbles and crayons and everything’s two cents. Come ohhhnnnn!”
I let them pull me into the living room and my aunt Mary rounds the corner from the kitchen, holding Baby Katy.
“Addie, honey,” Aunt Mary says, and pulls me into a hug with one arm. The baby pats my shoulder with her fat fingers. “Happy birthday.” Aunt Mary’s voice catches. Please don’t cry, I think. Just let it stay noisy and normal.
She pulls away and I smile, relieved. She’s not going to cry, even though her eyes glisten like everyone’s do when they look at me.
“I’m glad your parents can make it for dinner and cake,” Aunt Mary says. “If you want to stay the night—”
“That’s okay,” I cut in. Spending my birthday night without someone to talk to on the top bunk won’t be easy, but staying at Liza’s might hurt even more. There’s something about being around people who remember Amos that makes me miss him harder. The same goes for Mama and Dad, but at home, it’s easier for me to close my door and just be alone. At Liza’s, I can’t hide.
The Light in the Lake Page 3
