by Nicole Baart
The cramps hit almost instantly. Abigail’s right calf knotted like the spring fiddleheads of the potted fern she kept in her Florida apartment, and her side twisted angrily as if punishing her. But Abigail wasn’t stupid. She knew the water would make her body seize, and she hadn’t gone deeper than her waist. Settling her left foot on the uneven bottom of the lake, she burst out of the water and began to flex and point her right foot to work out the muscle spasm. The stitch in her side was a different story: no amount of stretching or twisting would rid her of that ache. Abigail didn’t mind the pain. It was temporary.
Back on the beach, she sank to the ground and let her body unwind. A hot, dry breeze licked the water from her skin, and Abigail’s nerves settled somewhere between the extremes.
“Go home,” she told herself, her voice raspy and slight before the great expanse of water and sky.
It would be a simple enough thing to do. Abigail could get back in her car and retrace her steps: past Thompson Hills, over the mountains, through the blue cool of Vancouver, across that scenic border, and then back on a plane to reality. Johnson, McNally & Bennett awaited. In the arms of her cute neighbor girl, so did that nameless tabby. But then, Lou waited in Florida, too. And so did Hailey, in her haunting, unforgettable way.
Hailey. This was the thought that Abigail carried with her when she laced up her running shoes for a second time and made her way back to the rented Kia. This was the thought that galvanized her resolve. This was the thought that made Abigail realize, probably for the first time, that even if she wanted to she couldn’t go back. Not until the scales stacked so pitifully against Hailey had somehow, someway, been balanced.
†
“I wondered if you’d be back,” Jane said with a smile when Abigail returned to the cramped Sunny Grove office. The TV was on again, and this time it was turned up enough that Abigail could hear the insipid dialogue between some chisel-chinned leading man and his doe-eyed lover. Both were terrible actors. Jane followed Abigail’s line of sight and turned the ancient television set so Abigail could see it better from where she stood.
“I just love soaps,” Jane admitted. “Are you old enough to remember the original cast of General Hospital? Of course not,” she sighed, answering her own question. “Nothing quite compares these days, but I still like a good dose of romantic tragedy on a daily basis.”
No thanks, Abigail thought. I already have more than my share of tragedy. Out loud, she said, “I don’t suppose you still have that room.”
“Believe it or not, I do. The Conners called this morning to say that the baby’s sick and they can’t make it.” Jane put up a warning finger and turned enthusiastically to the TV. “Shhh, I’ve been waiting for this. She’s going to tell him she’s pregnant.”
Abigail was repulsed by the sight of all those fake tears and wrung hands. But rather than alienate her benefactor by being snide, she waited for the show to cut to commercial and Jane’s attention to switch back to her. When an advertisement for laundry detergent took command of the orange-hued screen, Jane seemed to emerge from a trance.
“He’s gonna leave her,” she predicted with a glint in her eye. “It’s a foregone conclusion.”
“The room?” Abigail reminded.
“Oh, of course.” Jane heaved her logbook across the counter and made a quick notation above the scratched-out line that indicated the Conners’ stay. “How long?”
“How long can I have it?”
“They had it booked from Friday until Friday, so I guess you can have it the whole time if you’d like.” Jane looked up. “But if you commit to the week, you pay for it—even if you change your mind and leave early.”
Abigail nodded, even though she suspected that the Conners were paying a hefty fee for canceling at the last minute themselves. “I can pay you up front if you’d like.”
“Your word is enough,” Jane said with a sudden jovial shake of her head. “I just had to let you know.”
Abigail waited impatiently for Jane to get her key. She was eager to retreat from the older woman’s cheerful company and even more eager to take another shower. Sweat, lake water, and a dusting of gritty sand mingled on Abigail’s skin in a fine, itchy film.
“I’m sure the girls haven’t gotten around to your room yet. Check-in is at four, and we’re usually cleaning rooms up until the last second. You can wait by the pool if you’d like.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Abigail took the proffered key from Jane’s outstretched hand. “You can take my room off the list for today. I already made the bed, and everything else is pretty much as I found it.”
“It’s up to you. Would you like another coffee packet at least?” Jane held up a frayed basket with dozens of single serving packets in premade filters.
“No thanks.” Abigail forced a smile and promised herself that she’d make work of finding the nearest Starbucks.
Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon tossing fitfully beneath the sheets of her hard-mattressed bed and trying to think of a way out, a reason to leave. But no extraordinary solution presented itself, and Abigail knew that she had no choice but to do what she had come to do. She had already indulged her fears and tried to exorcise them in a run that left her well-trained muscles sore. Now, whether her weaknesses had been expunged or not, it was time to put all her misgivings and worries aside and focus on crafting a plan: Abigail had to get close to Tyler.
The truth was, Abigail had no desire to ever see Tyler again as long as she lived. But she also knew that she didn’t have a choice. Her presence here, her every action was a small piece of the whole that would eventually help her atone for whatever role she had played in Hailey’s death. This fundamental purification was as natural to Abigail as washing her hands when they were dirty. A quick wipe with a wrinkled napkin or a hurried rub against stiff jeans was not enough to clean the filth that Abigail was sure had accumulated on
her hands and her heart. This penance demanded time, dedication. Some serious scouring. And a whole lot of water.
Just before dusk, Abigail locked up her musty motel room and set off on foot into Revell. The Sandy Grove overlooked the little town, and from her perch above it, Abigail could see the buildings angle gently toward the water. She knew from a number of brochures that there were restaurants and parks, docks and walking trails along the lake. Even though her legs were a little wobbly from her run, Abigail looked forward to the two-kilometer walk and the chance to let the fresh air clean the foggy corners of her mind.
The road to the lake slanted ever downward, and Abigail let gravity pull her toward the water at its own leisurely pace. There were people everywhere: families still dressed in beachwear with swimming suit straps peeking out from rumpled T-shirts, young couples with fingers intertwined, clusters of teenagers trying to look tough and failing because of the telltale innocence of youth.
Under different circumstances, Abigail could have liked this place. She could almost envision coming here as a child for some uncommon family vacation. The Bennetts didn’t usually take trips, but Abigail could imagine the roles that they would have played if things had been different and they were a normal family unit.
Melody stood center stage in her mind, decked out in a white linen shift, grinning as Lou mouthed the word he reserved for her: stunning. There was Hailey, drawn to the sun and sand, charmed by the old-fashioned ice-cream stands and carnival-like feel of the place. And as always, Abby would be peripheral but necessary, the ignorable skin that held the muscle, bone, and heart of her family together. How would she have seen this place at the age of twelve? fifteen? eighteen? Abigail was convinced that her childhood self would not have reacted much differently to Revell than her adult self did; she was a lone visitor and, frankly, prevented from being interested in the sunny tourist trap by obligation.
Whether or not she was particularly enamored of her surroundings, Abigail had to admit that she was starving and needed to find a place to eat. She hadn’t had anything, and after her ago
nizing run and the subsequent sleepless nap, Abigail’s stomach felt cavernous. She passed two pizza parlors, an ice-cream stand, and a burger joint that claimed to have the best onion rings in town. Instead of making her salivate, the options left her feeling disappointed. Abigail wasn’t a vegetarian or even a picky eater by any standards, but she longed for a veggie wrap or a huge Greek salad with some of those bell peppers like she had seen advertised at Mack’s.
The sun was slipping down the horizon, and a cool breeze wafted inland from the rippled surface of the water. But the sand was warm when Abigail stepped off the road, and since she could tell that it was obviously maintained and sifted, she took off her shoes to let the fine grains massage her tired feet.
Abigail headed north along the water because there was a restaurant that looked promising farther up the beach. She wove through groups of people carefully so as not to step on anyone’s abandoned towel, shoes, or bag. Mostly she looked down to avoid making eye contact, and she tried to blend into her surroundings as much as possible. It was a bit of an exercise in futility. When Abigail did look up, she realized that not only was she practically the lone person on the beach wearing more than a swimming suit or cover-up, she was also as white as the little pools of foam that lapped gently at the sand. Everyone else had the beginnings of a summer tan; they were relaxed, laughing, enjoying themselves. Abigail caught someone staring at her and averted her eyes.
She didn’t even notice that the dog was there until she nearly vaulted over him. He was a mangy thing with scruffy hair and long, clumsy limbs that indicated he was still little more than a puppy. The dog burst in front of her and grabbed a stick from the edge of the water, then turned in one fluid motion and tangled himself hopelessly in Abigail’s legs. Though she had managed to stay upright the first time he passed by, when the dog crossed her path again, Abigail landed on the sand with a thud.
In less than a second he was all over her. The dog attacked her face with enthusiastic, sloppy kisses and thumped her leg with his madly wagging tail. His beloved stick was abandoned on her stomach, forgotten because Abigail had deigned to play with him.
“Fernando! Get off her! Down, boy! Bad dog!”
Abigail felt rather than saw someone haul the energetic puppy off her. Her chest felt momentarily light at the absence of his quaking weight, and she followed the buoyant feeling to a sitting position almost involuntarily. Sand slipped from her curls in dusty rivulets and trickled down her back. She shuddered and slapped her hands against her capris, trying to rid herself of some of the grime.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” a gruff voice said in a less than convincing tone. “Nan’s just a puppy. He thought you were playing with him.”
“It’s okay,” Abigail murmured, her own tone as unconvincing as his. She sighed and gave her legs one last hard pat, then shaded her eyes to survey her rescuer. He was tall and thin with hair that was more gray than brown and skin as wrinkled and dark as tree bark. He reminded Abigail of a hermit; she could picture him living off the earth with nothing but a backpack and his dog for company. But there was also something gentle in his eyes, and though his face was hard as he watched her, Abigail sensed a certain concern in his manner.
“I’m fine, really,” Abigail said again, partly for herself and partly to wipe the shadow of care from the stranger’s shielded eyes.
The man nodded in satisfaction and pushed a hard breath between his teeth. Then his gaze flicked away from her and he concentrated on his dog. Knotting his hands around the collarless scruff of golden fur, he gave Nan a deep and loving scratch. “You’re just a puppy, aren’t you, Nan? It’s not your fault.”
Maybe it was your fault, Abigail thought, staring at the man. After all, he was the one who had thrown the stick right in front of
her. But Abigail was saving her accusations for Tyler, so instead of prolonging their encounter, she made a move to stand up.
“Here.” The man offered her his hand.
Abigail didn’t want to accept his help, but it seemed rude not to place her hand in his. She did so reluctantly.
The man gripped her hand in his own leathery fingers and hauled her to her feet with an unceremonious tug. He let go of her the second she was upright.
“Thank you,” Abigail said stiffly.
“You have some sand on your back,” he grunted.
Abigail twisted away from him quickly, afraid that he might offer to help brush her off. She didn’t want to just stand there craning her arms around as she tried to reach unreachable places, but the man seemed intent on detaining her.
“You from around here?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you on the beach before.”
“No.” Abigail looked over her shoulder and tried to dissuade his brusque conversation.
“Vacation, then?”
“No.”
“Those are your two options, honey.”
Honey? The way he said it implied that she was anything but.
He caught the angry cast of her features. “All I’m saying is unless you’re a trucker—and I don’t think you are—living and vacationing are the only two reasons you’d find yourself in Revell.”
“I’m a trucker,” Abigail spat out.
The man smirked. “Yeah, right.”
Abigail glared at him for a moment and then spun on her heel to march off.
“Aw, come on. Don’t be so sensitive.”
Although it was against her better judgment, Abigail gave him the satisfaction of one last backward glance. This man was old enough to be her father, maybe even her grandfather, and the comparison didn’t warm her heart any. But something about him made her think twice, and when he caught her eye, he grinned unreservedly.
“I’m a crusty old man,” he said. There was a self-deprecating tilt to his features, and Abigail couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking. “I shouldn’t tease but I can’t seem to help it.”
Abigail paused, and when she did, the man took his hand off Nan. As if he had commanded the dog to do so, Nan trotted up to Abigail and pressed his muzzle against her open palm. She traced the warm head with her fingers and then gave in and scratched the puppy hard behind the ears. He was a handsome dog, though rather unkempt. Part golden retriever and part Lab, she guessed. If it was true what they said, dogs were usually pretty good judges of character. Too bad this sweet young thing was obviously lacking in judgment.
“Look,” the man entreated her, shoulders half-hunched in supplication, “I figure I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Abigail cut in.
His raised eyebrow was enough to make her clamp her mouth shut.
“I lied,” he continued. “If you’re not vacationing in Revell and you don’t live here, there is one more reason why a person might find herself here in the summertime.”
Abigail kept her expression blank.
“Work,” he finished with a crooked smile that said, I’ve got you pegged.
She opened her mouth to relieve him of that misplaced notion, but the truth was that the thought had crossed Abigail’s mind and she couldn’t stop it from crossing her face as well.
“I might be able to figure something out,” the man offered.
Warning bells went off in Abigail’s head, but before she could respond, he bent down to pick up her forgotten shoes. Tossing them at her one at a time, the man asked, “Where are you staying?”
Abigail answered almost obediently, her mind on the sandals as she snatched them out of the air. “The Sun—” She broke off,
catching herself at the last second. “I’m not staying in Revell,” she lied.
It was obvious he wasn’t convinced. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
“No, I—,” Abigail tried to protest, but the man’s sharp whistle cut her off.
Nan’s ears pricked instantly, and he let out a happy bark before taking off after his owner. The man was already making his way up the beach, and Abigail was left standing alone, holding her shoes and wondering what in the
world she had just gotten herself into.
†
By the time Hailey was thirteen, she was adept at getting herself into situations so deep, so weighty and complicated and consequential, that she had more than her share of trouble getting out. As far as Hailey was concerned, there were only two people she deemed worthy enough to come to her rescue. Abby didn’t appreciate being one of them.
Mercifully, counseling had been a part of Hailey’s life since the incident on the roof. The Incident—that’s the way it was referred to around the house, if it was referred to at all, which it was very rarely and usually by Abby. But the few times that conversation about The Incident was necessary required them to have an innocuous way to mention it, as if there were something hazardous about remembering too accurately what Hailey had done. The Bennetts worked hard to forget, and the only lasting consequences of Hailey’s nosedive into a snowbank were a small, jagged scar on her lip and the introduction of Dr. Madsen into the knotted circle of their family. The scar was soon covered by lipstick. If not for those weekly, hour-long visits to Dr. Madsen, they could have almost believed that The Incident had never happened.
Hailey cycled in and out of Dr. Madsen’s office for years. And for years his request to prescribe “a little something” was vehemently denied. He talked about ADD, ADHD, depression, and even personality “issues.” But Lou didn’t want to hear it, and truthfully neither did the women in his life. To them, labeling Hailey felt heavy-handed somehow, like the persuasive doctor was trying to finish a sentence that was yet to be written. Wait, became their mantra. Just wait and see what happens. Even Abby bristled when Dr. Madsen became too pushy. After all, Hailey might be eccentric, occasionally obnoxious, and even impossible to handle, but she certainly couldn’t be sick.
Though the Bennetts rejected the idea of medication, they quietly accepted the counseling. At first, Hailey’s pediatrician had recommended a few months’ worth of visits, but as the months turned into a year and the years began to number two and three and four, the plush little office in the neighboring town of Kent was simply a part of their routine.
