The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [87]
I’d been letting the commentary wash over me, listening for key words, and at this I interrupted.
“You mean Rose was arrested, too?”
“Well, yes. I think that’s what Aunt Lydia said. More than once, as I recall. Aunt Lydia used to call Rose the fire to her oil. Or maybe it was the oil to her fire. It’s terrible, you never think to write these things down and then later they’re just gone. Poof!”
I let my breathing slow, forced myself to be calm as I asked the next question.
“I wonder—did they take those boxes full of papers? The Women’s Rights National Park?”
“As far as I know, they did. Bobbie Jean didn’t say otherwise. More tea?” she asked, as she saw me glance at my mother.
“No, thanks so much.”
“I’m afraid we have to get going,” my mother added.
“I wish you’d have more tea. I wish you’d stay a little longer.”
“We’re already late. It was so nice of you to see us, though.”
She walked us to the door, talking all the while, and didn’t stop even when we’d stepped out into the hall. Finally, I put my hand on her arm. She glanced down and paused in the stream of words.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll let you know if we find out anything.”
And before she could start talking again we were striding down the hall. I took the steps two at a time, and burst out into the cool, damp air. The rain had stopped and the sky, though overcast, was lighter.
“She seems very lonely,” my mother said.
“I know,” I said, glad for my skin, my clear eyes, but aware of how fleeting youth is. There had been a photo of Joan as a young woman on the wall above the table; she’d once been just as strong and agile as I was now.
We took the highway back, passing the signs for Geneva, Seneca Falls, Waterloo, winding through the countryside on local roads for the last few miles. There were deep puddles in the gravel driveway, and rain dripped from the foliage, so dense around the fence. The bucket on the porch was overflowing; inside, the boxes waited, their contents strewn across the living room floor.
“It’s this hour I don’t like,” my mother said. “This, and when the wind is up, that’s the other time this house seems like a hostile place.”
“You’d be happier somewhere smaller?”
“Absolutely,” she said, turning on the lights. “A maintenance-free condo, that’s what I have in mind. It’s beautiful here, but sometimes this house feels like my enemy.”
That night I lay awake for a long time, listening to the steady rain on the roof, thinking over the events of the day, so excited about the boxes at the Women’s Rights National Historic Park that I couldn’t sleep, worried because I hadn’t heard from Yoshi in two days, except for his brief e-mail. When I called him, he was packing, heading for his flight, so we didn’t talk long; he’d be in Jakarta by evening. I closed the phone and lay awake in the darkness, remembering my argument with Blake, what he’d said about change, wondering what it was I’d set in motion, and whether I’d be glad, at the end, that I had.
Chapter 11
I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO A SUNNY DAY, THE AIR washed clear by the rain, the prisms I’d hung in the window years ago casting dozens of little rainbows on the ceiling and the walls. It was still early, just chilly enough for a blanket. I stretched, then relaxed back into the narrow bed. Outside, Andy arrived to pick my mother up for brunch, gravel crunching under his tires, the car door slamming shut, his steps on the stairs. The screen door slammed shut, too, and my mother’s laughter floated out, hers and then Andy’s, followed by a silence when I imagined that they kissed, standing in the sunny kitchen. More doors, floating voices, their footsteps on the stairs. I sat up to watch them depart, Andy walking around the car to open the passenger door, my mother smiling up at him as she slid into the seat.
I sat crossed-legged on the bed and pulled the