the roof that looked out over the trees like bulging eyes.
Staring at the attic window eyes that faced the lake as I got out of the car, I said, “My bedroom doesn’t face the water does it?” I loved my attic bedroom at home, far away from the downstairs bathroom, but I didn’t want to be anywhere near a good view of that lake.
“Not at all.” Pep said, lugging a suitcase out of the trunk. “Your bedroom’s the back one, right there.” He pointed to a bay window above the back door.
“Come on, Kippers.” I put the cat down, keeping his leash in my hand, and walked him inside. Kippers liked to think of himself as a dog, so he traveled on a leash and played fetch with superballs.
His leash hook jingled and echoed through the nearly empty rooms. I could even hear his claws clickety clacking on the hardwood floors. I didn’t like the silence of the place. It made me feel like an invader.
My bedroom had two bay windows. One faced west to look over a small stone courtyard between the driveway and an old stone shed. The other window faced north to a ring of shrubby trees not even big enough to hold a birdhouse, let alone a tree fort like mine. At least I couldn’t see the lake. But the echoey bigness of the room made me kind of thin inside.
Even the closet was big enough for a bed. Big old houses with wood floors and echoey rooms had long histories. And histories hid ghosts. I didn’t like it one bit. I had half a mind to dig out our tent and sleep outside in the woods to the east. I had my Camping Badge. Why not put it good use? I even started searching the boxes for my tent until I realized camping outside would probably mean I could hear the waves lapping at the shore, threatening to flood. Scratch that plan.
Instead, I left Kippers to roam the house and Mem and Pep to unpack. I headed for the road we came in on, thinking I might find a mountain path I could map out for our Get With the Land project. Besides, heading for high ground sounded like a nice, dry way to spend the summer.
FIRE
Fire is the enemy of water. Flames can turn drowning waves into steam. I love fire. The quick flash and turn of the flames, the warming heat, and the way it burns the outer edge of marshmallows to a crunchy crust while warming the middles to a creamy mush, just perfect for s’mores. I love fire.
The fireplace in what Mem and Pep called “our lake home” had to be big enough to roast an elephant. So sitting there in front of the rumbling flames on our first night there, I felt safe. I loved the warmth on my tuckered-out toesies, the way the flames made the pine needles stuck in my clothes smell up the room like a tree at Christmas, and the light patterns that flickered over the walls. Even Mem opening the lakeside windows to let out the heat and let in the cool night air didn’t touch my cozy mood. And the sweet goo of s’mores made me feel even better.
Then Mem wrapped me up in a bed of knitted blankets by the fire. I nestled down to sleep with the taste of chocolaty marshmallows on my lips, which helped me keep my mind on the sooty logs crumbling, the ashes hissing. But the water started creeping in, lapping and rolling against rocks, raking at my nerves. I closed my eyes against the sound, hoping the crackle and pop of the flames would drown out the ugly sound of waves. But another sound broke in with a squawky kind of rhythm. Was it music from a beach house down the way?
No, it sounded like chirping or an animal kind of chortle. A dolphin? Was Mem playing another “sounds of the sea” CD to get me used to the sound of waves? I sat up to listen.
Nothing but the twittering of a mockingbird starting off its nightly songs in the tree at the corner of the house. Those waves sure played tricks with sound. I burrowed down into my little nest of blankets and focused on the flames, hoping they could keep my mind off the water.
But fires die. And waves go on forever. They washed into my early morning dreams, spilling over the side of the tub in my mind’s eye . . . The shower is on too high. I sputter for air as I struggle to find the knobs to turn the water off. Waves keep crashing in, spraying me with water, pooling at my feet, then my ankles, then my knees. I fumble with the knobs, my hands wet and slippery. I can’t get a grip to turn them.
When I scream, water fills my mouth, choking me. I can’t run. Water surrounds the tub as if it’s been set adrift in the sea. I can see the water turning black with the memory of the stormy waves that nearly killed me—churning me into the depths, choking the breath out of me.
“Kyna! Kyna!” Pep called to me from above like a voice from the clouds.
Turning my head, I could see him, his face wet, his mouth twisted up in fear.
“You’re safe, sweet. It’s all a dream. Just a dream.”
Feeling his legs along my sides, his arms around my chest, hugging me, I felt safe. “The tub was at sea. The shower wouldn’t turn off. The waves kept coming in!”
Pep nodded, rubbing my back. “It’s all gone now. You’re dry and safe here in the living room.”
“But you’re wet.” I reached up and touched his spiky wet hair.
He sniffled. “Sorry, sweet. We went for a morning swim. Shouldn’t have left you alone.”
I wanted to melt. Mem and Pep loved water more than I loved fire, even more than I loved s’mores. Sometimes, I wondered if they loved it more than me. That’s why they made me take water steps. Made me spend the whole summer by a lake. So they could go swimming any time they wanted. My melting feeling turned to flaming anger.
I spun around to get on all fours. “Is that why we’re here?” I shoved my blankets aside. “So you can swim? No more scaly skin from too much chlorine. No need to pack up and head to the Y. You can just dive on in!”
Pep held his breath for a second, then folded his arms and legs in front of him. “And what if that were so?”
“You know I hate the water. You know I do!” I shook from the inside.
“And your mem and I love it.”
“More than me?” I whispered.
He closed his eyes, then got to his knees in front of me. “Kyna, no man can love a thing as he loves his daughter.” He put his hand over my heart. “I just wish you and I could love the same things.”
“I won’t go swimming with you, Pep. Never.”
“Never’s an ugly word that closes the mind to wonderful things.” He kissed me on the forehead, then stood up. As he headed toward the kitchen, he changed the subject as fast as he switched rooms. “They’ve got a farmer’s market in town. Shall we buy enough vegetables to make the rabbits jealous?”
“And enough fruit to make the monkeys fall from the trees,” I added, knowing what he’d say next. Pep was trying to cheer me up. But I felt stuck. Mem and Pep wanted me to change. Become someone else. Someone who could swim. Wasn’t plain old me enough?
I heard a door open and close on the lake side of the house. Pep headed in that direction as Mem called out, “The air’s full of bees making the flowers spread! Who’s up and ready to admire their handiwork?”
Pep spoke, but I couldn’t hear him. Mem let out a mournful, “Oh.”
I snuck closer to listen in.
