The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [11]
“Hey, Pete. What’s happening?”
“Hey there, Blake.” Pete was short, with wiry dark hair, and he sprinted across the road, ducking to look in the truck window. “It’s a rally—save the black terns, or something.” He gestured to the south, toward our land, toward the marshes. “One group is trying to get all of this designated as a protected wetlands area. I don’t know what the rest want yet—about six other groups have showed up. You here to watch the fireworks?”
Blake laughed. “Not me. I’m on my way back from the airport. My sister just got in—this is Lucy. Lucy, Pete.”
I nodded hello.
“Developers here, too?” Blake asked.
Pete nodded. “Oh, yeah. All kinds. Plus, the Iroquois want it back, and there’s a coalition to protect a herd of rare white deer that’s living on the land. Some of the descendants of families who got evicted during the war have filed claims, too. You sure you don’t have a dog in this fight, Blake? Everyone else seems to.”
Blake grinned. “Nah. Haven’t even figured out who the dogs are yet.”
Pete laughed. “Plenty to choose from, that’s for sure. Well, good seeing you. Good to meet you, Lucy.”
He slapped the side of the truck as he stepped back. Blake drove slowly through the crowd, picking up speed as the road cleared. Glimpsing the shallow reeds where my father always loved to fish, where herons hid in the rustling grasses, I was pierced suddenly with grief, remembering the long, thin sound of the line flying through mist.
“I used to love it when Dad took us fishing.”
Blake took his right hand from the wheel and gripped mine for a second.
“I know,” he said. “I did, too.”
It was a deep and yet comforting silence that rose between us, one I could have shared with no one else. When we reached the driveway, low-hanging branches of the apple tree scraped the truck roof. The grand house, Italianate, with two wide porches and a cupola, sagged a little, as if it had exhaled a deep breath. Paint was peeling on the trim and the porch. My mother’s moon garden had run completely wild. It had once been a magical place, white crocuses, daffodils, and freesia poking from the mulch, the angel trumpets and night-blooming water lilies carried outside once the air had grown as warm as skin, everything fragrant and luminous, the blossoms floating in the dusk. Now, the trellises were broken and leaning at crazy angles; the moonflower vines cascaded over the fence and tangled in the overgrown roses. The peonies were in full bloom, extravagant and beautiful, and the lavender and lamb’s ears had spread everywhere, straggly in the center, ragged at the edges.
Our mother was sitting on the side steps in the sun, her legs extended and crossed at the ankles, her right arm in a bright green cast cradled across her ribs. I’d come back to visit many times in the decade since I’d left for college, and she’d been to see me in Seattle and Florida. Each time I was struck by how familiar she looked, and how young. Her face was almost unlined, but her hair had turned a silvery gray when she was still in her twenties. She wore it pulled back, silver at her temples and running in a thick rope down her spine. She stood up when we pulled in and came right over to meet the truck.
“Lucy!” She hugged me with her good arm as I got out, her cheek soft against mine, smelling faintly of oregano and mint. I hugged her lightly in return, remembering her broken ribs. She kept her good hand on my arm as we walked. “I’m so glad to see you, honey. Oh, you look so good, so beautiful. Did you get taller? That’s not possible, is it, but you seem taller. Come in—are you starving? Thirsty? You must be just exhausted.”
We went through the screened-in porch to the kitchen; I dropped my bag near the door. Everything seemed just the same, the wide windows overlooking the garden, the table pressed against the wall, the turquoise-and-white-checked curtains I’d made in middle school still hanging in the window of the door. My mother filled tall glasses with ice while Blake cut