The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [30]
Keegan chuckled. “Seriously, come on up, Lucy, if you have time.” He stepped aside so Tina could leave. She was slender, waiflike, and very quiet, her hands plunged into the pocket of her hoodie as Keegan pulled bills from his wallet and thanked her for coming on such short notice. He pointed Max back toward the stairs. “Bugs or not, I need to get you some lunch. The next babysitter’s supposed to be here at one o’clock. Mom’s sick, isn’t she, buddy?” Keegan said, ruffling Max’s hair.
“I shouldn’t come up, then,” I said. “I don’t want to disturb her.”
“Oh, she’s not here,” Keegan said.
“Mom lives in Auburn,” Max confirmed.
“We’re separated,” Keegan explained. “We have been for about the last year. The regular babysitter couldn’t make it on such short notice, so we had Tina, and this afternoon we’ll have Tracy. Max and I also worked out a deal, didn’t we? A little bit of coloring, a little bit of Play-Doh, a visit from Dad every hour, and a video.”
“Plus the cell phone.”
“There you go,” Keegan said, tapping his pocket. “It’s right here.”
We entered a loft space with soaring ceilings and beautiful golden pine floors, sanded and polished, scars and all. The vast paned windows I remembered from the factory were still in place across one wall, and Keegan had set up little living areas, using furniture to mark off spaces. A couch faced the windows overlooking the canal, flanked by a coffee table and two chairs. Adjacent to this was an area dedicated to television and games, with beanbag chairs and low tables all around. This was clearly the space Max had been frequenting, for there were crayons everywhere, stuffed animals and plastic blocks, an open box of animal crackers, and a wealth of crumbs on the rug.
On the opposite side of the loft, the windows were much higher, light drifting down from another story. Here, Keegan had installed a kitchen with a counter that opened onto a dining area. His furniture was garage-sale eclectic, the cabinets stainless steel, the dining room Danish modern from the 1950s. Against a white wall there were shelves displaying rows of molded blue glass insulators, all lined up like little glass hats; these had been made in this factory in the town’s glory days, Keegan explained, before oil prices went sky-high and fiber optics were invented and businesses fled south. He made a habit of collecting them. I touched the sea-blue glass, clear and full of air bubbles, trying to imagine myself back in a time when these rooms had been filled with the roar of machines, the heat of glass, the voices of the workers calling. Silence now; the waters of the canal flowed below.
Keegan had gone right to work, placing slices of wheat bread on the counter, slathering on peanut butter and jelly.
“Want a sandwich, Lucy?”
“No, thanks.” I slid onto a stool, watching Keegan slap the sandwiches together, feeling right at home. I thought that it must be good to be Max, to have a father as silly and interesting and attentive as Keegan was. “I just ate.”
“Apple? Glass of milk?”
“I’m fine.”
I wanted to ask Keegan whom he’d married, but not with Max in the room.
“This will sound crazy,” I said instead, “but this feels like exactly the same space where you used to hang out. The same view from the windows anyway.”
Keegan cut Max’s sandwich into quarters and looked up.
“You have a good eye. This is just the same space.”
“Really? Your old crash pad?”
“My home away from home,” he agreed, opening the refrigerator for some milk.
Max asked for apples, and I wandered back to the space with the overstuffed furniture, gazing out at the canal with its steady waters. In high school Keegan had discovered this place and carved out a spare retreat, furnished with a battered leather sofa and an orange crate table, amid the abandoned machinery and debris. He came here to clear his head, he said, but the one time I’d come here with him I’d felt claustrophobic, the heat of the day trapped in the motionless rooms and the water, unconcerned with anything, drifting by outside. I preferred the thrill of the motorcycle rides,