LakeSide Magic

 Lakeside Magic

  By

  Heidi Christine Sprouse

  Dedicated to my lifesavers: my husband, Jim, and my sweet boy, Patrick, who make magic happen everyday in my life by loving me.

  In memory of my father, Stephen Smith Pedersen, a master fisherman and fly tier, who caught my heart forever.

  Chapter 1: Forest Lake a.k.a. Home, Sweet Home

  My daddy always taught me to look for the magic in Forest Lake. Tucked in the foothills of the Adirondacks of New York, it was narrow and stretched out like a river until it opened up into a big bowl at the north end. Thick pines pressed up close to the edge wherever there weren’t houses, probably giving the lake its name. Thanks to Daddy and his rowboat, I knew just about every inch of that water and didn’t think there was a place on God’s green earth that could top it. From the time I was a baby, he had me on the dock, in the water, or out in the boat. And every time we were on that lake, Daddy showed me its magic. I thought about the wonders of the lake as I dangled my feet in the water. Memories swam to the surface, like the minnows tickling my feet, the lake at the heart of every one. I only had to close my eyes to feel the biting cold of winter as my skates kissed the hard surface of the ice and my voice echoed back to me. I saw flashes of spring when the ice crackled, popped, and slowly melted away. My mind’s pictures were strongest in the summer as I felt the water’s cool touch on a burning, hot day when I dove in and swam like the fish. Side-splitting laughter bubbled up when Daddy did a belly flop off the dock each day and ended up with a beet-red stomach, no matter how many times he tried to dive. Images flashed of bats skimming the water in the moonlight and the glow of the fireworks lighting up the sky on the fourth of July. The memory projector flickered to fall as the mallards filled the air with their quacking chatter or swarmed around me for a bit of bread. In the evening, Daddy would honor the lake’s beauty, blowing into a conch shell as he stood on the deck, its strange music traveling over the waves. I could pull out memories of magic as easily as Daddy tugged a fish out of the water every time he dipped his line.

  Daddy taught me one of the lake’s best lessons on an autumn morning when the trees were bursting with color, leaves drifting in the air and swirling with the current. He woke me up early, before the dawn met the day, told me to get dressed and get in the boat. He started the little engine, its hum almost a lullaby as we went up a few miles to the “bowl,” or part of Forest Lake that looked like a lake was supposed to look. He cut the engine and started rowing, his gangly arms tightening as each stroke glided through the water, the creak of the oarlocks and the drip-drops as the oars lifted making the only sounds. He stopped, gently set the oars down, and let us drift, a finger to his lips. I held my breath, waiting, watching, listening. The sunrise set the sky on fire, taking my breath away in a gush as hundreds of Canadian geese took flight, their thrumming wings and honking chorus filling the air around me. I felt a smile stretch across my face and I bet what I saw on my daddy’s face was just like looking in a mirror. He reached forward and tousled my hair. “What did I tell you, Christina? It’s magic.”

  That was two years ago. A year ago, cancer stole my daddy away from me, and ever since, the magic of the lake has been hard to find. I’ve been learning different kinds of lessons though, now that I’m twelve years old. Magic lesson number one: sometimes people you love disappear and they never come back.

  Chapter 2: Annie Smith a.k.a My Mother

  “Christina! Christina Anne Smith, get inside for dinner!” My mother’s voice gained in pitch, volume and sharpness with each word. My mother didn’t seem to have anything gentle in her anymore. Jagged edges and angles had replaced the warm, safe haven she used to be. All her softness, at least for me, seemed to have died with Daddy. The only time I saw a poor substitute, a big, fake, phony, was when she spoke to John Collier, her new…I can’t even say the word!

  I took my fishing pole out of the water, carefully secured the hook like Daddy taught me, and slipped into my sneakers, muttering with every step that led to the house. Our place is an old camp, redone to be the greatest home on earth as far as I’m concerned. It’s only twenty steps from the lake, and though it may need some fixing up--Daddy wasn’t a handyman--I wouldn’t trade it for any mansion. I reminded myself how much I loved it as I yanked open the screen door, set my pole and tackle box on the porch, and stomped inside, glorying in the way the house shook as I made my entrance.

  My mother tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and gave me the look. You know, the look all mothers have perfected, the one that will freeze your heart and make your tongue shrivel up inside your head before you can say anything that’s out of line.

  I think they must send mothers to school for this look, or maybe it’s a special secret they all pass down to their daughters. It’s the look every child learns to fear. I would have turned tail and run back down to the water, to spend my remaining days as a mermaid, if I could only get my feet to move.

  “Go get cleaned up and make yourself presentable,” my mother ordered curtly. I let out a sigh of aggravation as I glanced at the table. It was set for three.

  I felt my stomach start to knot. “He’s coming, isn’t he?” I spit the words out, filled with bitterness.

  My mother’s hands went to her now narrow hips and her eyes flashed; the look before was nothing compared to this one. “Young lady, you will drop that tone right now and when you appear at this dinner table you will keep a civil tongue in that head. Now move!”

  I did as I was told. After all, I didn’t have a death wish. I raced upstairs to my little bathroom tucked off of my attic bedroom. I said a prayer of thanks to Daddy once again that he had given me this hideaway where I could find a little peace. I scrubbed my face until it was red and yanked a comb through my long brown hair, tugging at the snarls and snags. I inspected my reflection. A girl with red-rimmed green eyes, all stretched out arms and legs, looked back at me, reminding me of Daddy’s pet name, “String bean.” I pulled off my bathing suit and slipped on a tank top and cut-off jeans before throwing myself on the bed.

  My eyes flooded with tears and overflowed as I stared into Daddy’s eyes, my eyes, in my favorite picture of him. His eyes were filled with laughter; they always had been until the disease killed it. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly and held the picture close to my heart. It hurt so much; I could swear it was truly breaking. “Oh Daddy,” I whispered to myself. “Why did you have to go? How could you leave me with her the way she is now?”

  At that moment, there came a knocking at the door. Perfect timing. My mother let John Collier, her new friend, inside. I tiptoed to the railing of my loft and stared down, holding my breath as John’s dark head tipped toward my mother’s oh-so-perfect blonde waves. She’d just had her hair colored, permed and styled in a way she never had for Daddy unless there was a party. John kissed her lightly and mother’s arms came up around his neck. I backed away, trying to erase the picture in my head. How could she? Did she have any feelings for Daddy?”

  “Christy, come to dinner, Honey.” Her voice was so sugary, sicky sweet. I just wanted to gag. I wondered what John would think if he saw the real Annie Smith, the one that I lived with now. It was like Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. This stranger that appeared for John was the Dr. Jekyll, close to being the woman I used to know as my mother. Mrs. Hyde, the woman with the razor tongue, hard eyes and pinched face had moved into my house and come to stay when Daddy first got sick. I wish I knew how to get my real mother back. A poor imitation would come out for him and leave when he went home.

  I walked downstairs and noticed with some satisfaction that my bare feet were filthy. I forced a sm
ile that was so wide it hurt my cheeks and gave him a voice that was as false as my mother’s Dr. Jekyll voice. “Hello, John. How are you?”

  The dangerous light returned to my mother’s eyes though she forced her tone to be light. “Christina, you know that you address adults with respect. Mr. Collier is the proper name.” She looked down at the floor--who knows what made her look at the floor?--and gasped. “Oh my God! Look at those feet. Go wash them right now, young lady!” This was good. Now that John could see the real Annie Smith, he might head for the hills!

  John held up a hand in an attempt at smoothing ruffled feathers. “Hey, Annie, give the kid a break! She’s twelve, summer vacation started today. When I was her age, you couldn’t tell where the dirt stopped and I began. As for my name, I want Christy to call me John. I want her to think of me as a friend. I’m great, by the way. Thank you for asking, Christy. How are you?”

  His blue yes twinkled and his smile was kind. He had even tried to be peacemaker with Mother. Darn him for being so nice! I couldn’t hate him this way! It was his sweet nature that had won over my mother. John had been a hospice volunteer and helped Daddy for the last six weeks of his life. He had been so good to my father and a help to us all. It was natural for mother to turn to him. He was handsome, sweet, good…but he wasn’t Daddy. The tears threatened again and I looked down quickly. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  We sat down to the torture of dinner. My mother was like a teenager, laughing at everything John said, acting all fluttery and ditzy. I honestly didn’t know what he could see in her when she was like this…until I noticed you could see her lacy bra through her low-cut blouse. When did she get that fancy thing? Only plain Jane white for Daddy. I stabbed my lettuce with disgust. My mother had lost weight since Daddy became sick, a lot of weight, going from pleasantly plump to what I thought looked a little scary. She had taken to wearing new clothes that flaunted this new body. I wanted to gag.

  My mother cleared her throat loudly. “Is there something wrong, dear?”

  I met her gaze, saw anger there and met it with my own. Was there something wrong? My father was dead and the one person I could always turn to, who had been my best friend and understood me even better than Daddy was my mother and she was among the missing too. I was stuck with this cold, mean substitute that wore my mother’s mask but didn’t sound or act like her. I kept the words in my head and mumbled, “I’m not really hungry.”

  My mother sighed in exasperation. “You need to eat more, Christina. You’re getting too thin.”

  I stood up and took my plate to the sink. When I’d cleaned up my spot, I walked out to the porch and sat on the steps. I could hear John speaking in a low, concerned tone to my mother, something about depression and counseling. Great, now I needed a psychiatrist. Could my life be any more messed up?

  A few minutes later, they walked outside. I remained seated, chin in my hands, staring at the water. My mother dipped down and kissed my cheek. “Please clean up. John and I are going for a walk.” Off they went.

  I felt the churning inside again as I watched them holding hands. I’d learned my next magic lesson: Life can trick you every time. Someone you think you really know can turn into a complete stranger, like an alien abducted them or something. I stormed inside and filled the sink with hot, soapy water, shoving the plates in. I scoured each dish, my fury building until I finally took a plate and flung it at the door, just as it opened and a head ducked in time to miss it.

  “Geez, Christy! Are you trying to kill me or what?”