“Is that why you didn’t want me to do the Young Scientist program?” I ask. “Because you knew what was wrong with Maple Lake, and you didn’t want anybody to find out?”
“That’s part of it.” Mama looks down at her hands. “But after your brother died, I wasn’t just worried about finding out what was wrong with Maple Lake. I was worried about the lake, period. I didn’t want it to take away the only thing I had left—you.”
“But I love Maple Lake, Mama,” I say. “And it’s like Barbara Ann said—that makes me want to stay close by. I mean, I might leave for a little bit. I want to go to this summer camp Dr. Li told me about. Later I do want to go to college and learn more. I want to visit China someday too; Tai’s told me so much about it. But I also want to come back.”
Mama hugs me close again, and we both look out at the water. From way up here, usually it’s hard to see waves. But all of a sudden they start coming, little points of white spiking up everywhere, bumping against each other, folding over and under. And then, in the middle of the lake—a shape, round and glowing, starts diving and swirling in the deep. As soon as it came it’s gone, and like a blue sheet, the lake folds back in place.
I turn to look at Mama and her mouth is hanging open. “Did you see it?” I ask, even though I know she did.
She nods slowly. “Is that what Amos was talking about?” she asks.
I nod. “Amos believed there was more to Maple Lake than what we could see on the surface, or—or what we could explain,” I say. “I didn’t want to even look for it at first. But honestly, the more time I spent out there, doing the research Dr. Li and Mr. Dale asked me to do, the more I just realized that even though there’s so much I can understand about Maple Lake, so many numbers and charts and things we can figure out, there’s just so much I’ll never understand.”
Words keep pouring out, and Mama nods, urging me to keep going. “There’s this—this feeling out there,” I say. “It’s like when we’re fishing, and you can feel the fish bite, and you can even see them swimming while they fight the line, but you pull them out of the water and you can’t see the world they came from at all, not really. And no matter how much you measure it, there’s just—something more there. Something wild.”
“Well, when I saw those harmful algal blooms,” Mama says, “all I felt was scared, Addie. I didn’t know what to do. That’s the difference between you and me.”
“No,” I say. “I was scared too. I was especially scared to talk to Uncle Mark and Aunt Mary. And then to tell Dr. Li and Mr. Dale that we needed to listen to them too.”
“But you did it anyway.” Mama reaches around my shoulders and pulls me close again.
We sit there awhile, quiet again, but not the same kind of quiet we were before. Now it feels like we’re finally breathing the same air. Mama sighs. “Every parent hopes their child will be better and braver than they were,” she says, resting her chin on my head. “And you are.”
I can feel her tense up then, and she takes a shaky breath. “Amos was too.”
I can feel Mama’s quiet tears soaking into my hair, and mine drip onto her knuckles.
“Will it always feel like this?” I ask Mama. She pulls away a little and looks at me, swiping her hand across her eyes.
“Like what?” she asks.
How can I describe what hangs between us? The air that’s supposed to have a shape, a breath?
“Like he’s gone.” I look into her face for an answer. But instead, she smiles and shakes her head. She pulls a strand of hair away from my eyes.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “He is gone. But at the same time, he’s not. Don’t you see?”
I know that all I see around me—the shivering leaves, the spicy pine needles on the ground, the flutter of wings, the sheet of water—reminds me of him. But it feels empty too, because of the empty spaces where he should be.
But Mama puts her palm against my chest and smiles. Her eyes sparkle now. “He’s right here,” she says, her voice cracking. “And I don’t mean that you’re him, or even that you have to be like him. You just hold him in your heart. You always will.”
I put my hand over hers and close my eyes. When I open them, I see Mama looking right at me. And I feel the warmth, the pressure around my chest, the arms I can’t see pulling me close.
“When I look at you,” Mama says, “I see my Addie. My brave girl.”
I think I finally do too.
Chapter 29
I ended up showing Amos’s notebook to Liza, and telling her about the creature. I guess I finally realized that there wasn’t any point in trying to keep secrets from someone who loved Amos too. And I know now that I don’t need to make myself more alone than I already am. I need Liza. She’s not just family; she’s my friend.
On the mountains around Maple Lake, some of the leaves are already starting to change color. I see them popping, tiny bursts of orange and red holding their own in all that green.
People get nervous when the leaves turn, even though it happens every August. They start talking about frost, and fall. But I’m not worried. It just means there’s more beauty coming—a different kind. No use trying to hold on too tight. Everything keeps moving, just like mountains, whether we want it to or not.
I tap my back pocket, where the whale tooth Barbara Ann gave me at the beginning of the summer sits, wedged deep in the corner. My first clue, I think. The first one I added to the notebook.
Next to the tooth is a folded piece of paper. I pull it out. I’ve folded and unfolded it so many times since Liza gave it to me, I’m worried the creases will tear it apart. But I open it again anyway.
She must have been listening when I asked her where the people were in her drawings, because she drew two into this one: a boy and a girl. They’re looking at the lake, so you can’t see their faces, and they’re holding hands. I didn’t have to ask; I knew she’d drawn Amos and me.
I fold the picture back up and stand with my toes in the lake. I won’t be able to do this when the ice comes.
It always took Amos a while to stop going barefoot on the beach. “Just one more time,” he would say. “It’s still warm enough.”
Just once, he convinced me to run in with him. I think we were ten, and it was mid-October. All the summer people had packed up and closed their camps. We were the only ones on the beach.
“Trust me, Addie,” Amos said. “It’s soooo warm.” He was trying to sound convincing, but he was cracking up, tugging at my hand.
“You’re so bad!” I yelled. “I know you’re lying!”
“No, I swear!” He laughed, doubled over, tears streaming from his eyes. “It’s like a warm bath!”
I don’t know why I gave in. “Okay, fine!” I yelled into the wind. “I’ll race you!” I started running, but it didn’t take Amos long to catch up. And we didn’t just dip our toes in. We belly-flopped, flat on our faces, in our clothes. We shrieked with laughter.
And the strange thing was, even though the water was cold at first, even though it made us gasp, there was this tiny piece of warmth left. This sliver of summer, hiding under the surface. It’s like the lake was reminding us: I was warm once. And I’ll be warm again. Just wait.
When we came up, dripping, too out of breath to keep laughing, feeling the cold all over again, Amos hooked his arm around my waist. I leaned into him. And we trudged back onto the sand.
Now, alone, I catch my breath. I open my eyes as wide as I can, take in the lake, its rough waves, its steely blue. I wade in to my ankles and feel the water on my skin, clear and cold. I miss you so much, I say. I always will.
Does he whisper back then, Press your hand to your heart? The words hang in the air, clear as water. His voice feels so close, my ear vibrates from the sound. It can’t be, I think. How can you be here?
But I put my hand where he tells me. And when I pull it away, and turn up my palm, I see it. A bright golden scale, wider than my thumb. I stare, drinking in that light, then quickly close my fingers up in a
fist. I feel the scale still underneath, warm and smooth.
Maybe it will melt away when I open my hand. But I know for sure it was there.
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Acknowledgments
Writing and publishing a book is part science, part magic. I’m grateful for everyone who helped shape Addie’s journey on Maple Lake.
Special thanks to my agent Katie Grimm, who not only believed in this story, but connected with my mission to continue writing about the magic of nature. Katie, you’ve worked tirelessly on my behalf and provided exceptional guidance; I’m grateful for your wisdom. Thanks also to Cara Bellucci, who read and gave insight.
To Lisa Yoskowitz, the most thorough and thoughtful editor I could hope to have: thank you for breaking your own rule and taking a chance on a sad story. You appreciated what this manuscript already offered, and clearly saw what it needed. Thanks to Hannah Milton, Barbara Perris, Annie McDonnell, and the entire team at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers for connecting with Addie and turning The Light in the Lake into a real book. I’m also in awe of the beautiful cover illustration and design by Ji-Hyuk Kim and Karina Granda.
All writers benefit from mentors who believe in them, and the late Vermont author Howard Mosher was mine. He patiently read, gave feedback on, and encouraged me in revising this story. He was not only an inspiring role model for many writers, but also a wonderful neighbor to me. Phillis Mosher, thank you so much for reading and providing support and friendship. I miss you both more than I can say.
Many other early readers of this book shaped it invaluably. Amy, Cole, and Quintin Janssens, I appreciated your wise and loving feedback. Nicole Goldstein, you are the world’s most responsive, helpful critique partner. Rose Daigle, your enjoyment of the story helped me believe it was worth telling, and I relied on your ideas to make it better. Leslie Rivver, Liz Greenberg, and Lisa Higgins, thank you for providing such helpful suggestions and support. Zoe Strickland and Jeni Chappelle, I’m grateful for your excellent editorial feedback. Taryn Albright, thanks for your early confidence. Jim and Nancy Rodgers, your bed-and-breakfast in West Glover, Vermont, was a lovely place to write. The Vermont College of Fine Arts’ Writing Novels for Young People Retreat run by Sarah Aronson gave an enduring gift of creativity and knowledge.
Judy Lin, thank you for reading and bringing your extensive expertise to my characters. I’m very grateful for your help.
Two issues that fuel this story—water quality and farming—are rooted in places I love. Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, where I used to live, has a big piece of my heart and always will. This book would not exist without it. I’m originally from Michigan, the Great Lakes State, so living near and playing in the water is a way of life for me. We are all affected by water quality, whether we live in an urban, rural, or suburban environment, and everyone bears a responsibility to help keep our waterways clean. If you’re interested in learning more, one great step you can take is to investigate your local watershed. Start with the National Environmental Education Foundation’s Watershed Sleuth Challenge at neefusa.org/watershed-sleuth.
As much as I care about conservation, I’m not a scientist. Therefore, special thanks go to Dr. Kris Stepenuck, Extension Assistant Professor of Watershed Science, Policy and Education at the University of Vermont’s Rubenstein School of Environment and Natural Resources, for reading the scientific portions of this book and giving me so much information about phosphorus, watersheds, ancient oceans, and more. Thanks also to Ralph Tursini, Forest Lands Manager and Facility Coordinator, for providing clarity about forest management. I appreciate Laurie Carr, science teacher extraordinaire, who let me discuss my story with her class at Lake Region Union High School.
My grandparents Aaron and Irene Reinhard were dairy farmers. Their dedication to caring for animals and land made a significant impression on me, and I wrote more short stories than I can count in their farmhouse. I’m grateful to my father, Donnie Reinhard, for drawing on his own experience raising prizewinning 4-H calves to verify the accuracy of Liza’s; and to my mother, Sharon Reinhard, who patiently listened to the whole book read aloud. I also appreciate the help of Megan Webster and Jim Dam, who generously shared their experience and knowledge about dairy farming, and read portions of this book.
I couldn’t have written much at all without the support of my wonderful husband, Matthew, who always said “Of course” when I needed a day of drafting or editing, and who never stopped believing in me, even when I wanted to. I’m ever grateful for our two amazing children, Aaron and Joan, who inspire me daily, and remind me why I write in the first place.
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Ashley Cleveland
SARAH R. BAUGHMAN taught middle and high school English in the United States, China, Bolivia, and Germany. After six years in rural Vermont, Sarah now lives with her husband and two children in her home state of Michigan, where she spends as much time as possible in the woods and water. The Light in the Lake is her first novel. Sarah invites you to visit her online at sarahrbaughman.com.
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