On Mystic Lake

She pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. “Nick, we’ve got to talk.”



“Not now.”



“You’ve got to make a better effort with Izzy.”



He looked at her finally. “I don’t know how to help her, Annie. She scares me.” The words were spoken softly, and they were steeped in pain. “I mean to have one drink with the boys after work, but then I start thinking about coming home . . . to my empty bedroom and my disappearing daughter, and one drink turns into two. . . .”



“You’d be fine if you’d stop drinking.”



“No. I’ve always been shitty at taking care of the women I love. Ask Kathy about it.”



Annie fought an unexpected urge to brush the hair away from his face—anything to let him know that he wasn’t as alone as he felt. “You couldn’t make her well, Nick.”



He seemed to deflate. A low, tired sigh slipped from his lips. “I’d rather not talk about this now. I don’t feel good. I need—”



“Izzy loves you, Nick. I understand your broken heart— at least to the extent anyone can understand such a thing— but nursing it is a luxury. You’re her father. You simply don’t have the right to fall apart. She needs you to be strong. But mostly, she needs you to be here .”



“I know that,” he said softly, and she could hear the heartache in his voice, the hushed admission of his own failure. “I’ll be home for a family dinner on Friday night. It’ll be a beginning. Okay? Is that what you want from me?”



Annie knew that it was another lie, a promise that would be broken. Nick had lost faith in himself, and without it, he was in a turbulent sea without any sense of direction, waiting to be sucked under the current once again.



“It isn’t what I want from you that matters, Nick,” she said softly, and in the deep sadness that seeped through his eyes, she knew that he understood.



If Izzy stood very, very still, she could feel her daddy in the house. There was the faintest smell of him, the smoky smell that always made Izzy want to cry.



She hugged Miss Jemmie to her chest and inched out of her bedroom. She heard voices coming from her daddy’s new room, and for a split second, it sounded like it used to, before the bad thing.



But it wasn’t Mommy who was talking to him. Mommy was up with the angels, and down in the ground, and once you went to those two places, there was no coming back. Daddy had told her that.



She crept down the darkened hallway and went downstairs. Everything looked so pretty; there were fresh flowers in a vase on the table, and the windows were open. Her mommy would have liked the way it looked now.



She opened the big wooden front door and went out onto the porch.



A pink sun was hanging just above the tops of the trees, and she knew it would soon rise into a blue sky. But it was still too early, and a layer of soft hazy fog clung to the sides of the lake and peeked out from the trees. Her heart started beating faster and she had trouble breathing.



She cast a quick glance back inside to make sure no one was watching, then slipped past the screen door. Birds chirped from the high branches of a big old tree as she made her way across the wet grass.



Ducking into her hiding place in the forest, she stared hard at the fog. Mommy?



She listened really, really close. After a few moments, she heard it, the whisper-soft answer of her mother’s voice.



Hey, Izzy-bear, are yah busy?



Her eyes popped open. In the wavering gray fog, she saw a woman’s outline, golden hair and all.



I’m disappearin’, Mommy, just like you.



Her mommy’s voice was a sigh that sounded like the breeze. She felt her touch, a gentle ruffling of her hair. Oh, Izzy-bear . . .



For the first time, her mommy sounded sad, not happy to see her at all. She peered into the mist, saw her mommy’s blue, blue eyes through the gray. Red tears fell from her mommy’s eyes, like tiny drops of blood. It’s getting harder for me, Izzy, coming to see you.



Izzy felt a rush of panic. But I’m comin’as fast as I can!



She felt it again, the softness of her mother’s hand in the coolness of the breeze. It won’t work, Izzy-bear. You can’t follow me.



Tears stung Izzy’s eyes, blurred everything until she couldn’t see anything anymore. She blinked away the tears.



The fog was moving away from her.



She ran after it, following the pale cloud to the edge of the lake. Mommy, don’t go, Mommy. I’ll be good this time . . . I promise I’ll be good. I’ll clean my room and brush my teeth and go to bed without a sound . . . Mommy, please . . .



But sunlight hit the surface of the water and cut through the fog until there was nothing left of it.



She knelt down on the cold, gravelly bank and cried.



Nick limped out of his bedroom. It had taken him forever to dress in his uniform, and buttoning the collar was flat impossible. With one hand on the wooden wall for support, he made his way down the hallway. Clutching the slick wooden handrail, he went down the stairs, one painful step at a time.



His body felt as brittle as a winter leaf. Sweat crawled across his forehead and slid in cold, wet streaks down his back.



It was a miracle that he reached the bottom of the stairs without falling or puking. Still holding the banister in a death grip, he paused, sucking in air, trying to keep the bile from rising in his throat. Tears stung his eyes from the effort.



He blinked and forced the nausea away.



When he reopened his eyes, he noticed the changes Annie had made in his home. A fire leaped and danced in the gray river-rock opening. The two leather chairs had been shined up and now sat opposite the sofa, and between them the rough-hewn wooden coffee table glowed a beautiful reddish brown. On the table was a polished silver water pitcher full of fern fronds and white blossoms.



He had often dreamed of a room just like this one, filled with the sounds of laughter . . . instead of the hushed silences and sudden outbursts that had been Kathy’s way.



With a heavy sigh, he moved away from the stairway.



That’s when he saw his Izzy. She was standing beside the big windows that overlooked the lake; golden sunlight created a halo around her face. Time drew in a sudden breath and fell away, leaving Izzy as she once was, a porcelain doll dressed in pretty clothes, with satin ribbons in her braided hair.



She looked at him from across the room, her eyes wide.



“Hey, Izzy,” he said, trying to smile. “You look gorgeous.”



She blinked and didn’t move.



He wet his dry lips. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.



Just then, Annie came bustling out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming pot of coffee and a covered serving dish. At the sight of him, she stopped dead. “Nick! This is wonderful, you can join us for breakfast.”



The thought of breakfast sent his sour stomach into revolt. “Izzy, go help your daddy into the sunroom. I’ve got breakfast set up in there. I’d better add another place at the table.”



She apparently had no idea he was about to throw up. She just kept on talking—about what, he had no idea— and fluttering between the kitchen and the sunroom. Her chatter buzzed like gnats around his head.



“Annie, I don’t—”



“Izzy,” she said again. “Go help your daddy. He doesn’t feel well.” And she was off again, scurrying toward the sunroom.



Izzy looked up at him when they were alone in the room. Her brown eyes were wide with uncertainty.



“I don’t need help, Izzy,” he said. “I’m just fine, really.” She looked at him a moment longer, then slowly she moved toward him. He thought she was going to walk past him, but at the last second, she stopped and looked up at him.



It killed him to see the fear in her eyes, and that damned black glove almost did him in. Annie was right. He had to be a better father. No more drinking to dull the memories and sugarcoat his failures. He had to take care of his baby. Feeling awkward and unsure, he smiled down at her. “Come on, Izzy-Bear. Let’s go.”



Slowly, he covered her one bare hand with his larger, calloused one. Together, they walked toward the sunroom. His steps matched hers perfectly. It was sadly silent between them, the daughter who no longer spoke and the father who had no idea what to say.



Annie was beaming when they walked in. The sunroom looked like a picture from one of those women’s magazines. There was a bright blue tablecloth on the rickety plank table, with a centerpiece of huckleberry and dogwood in a crockery vase. Plates were heaped with scrambled eggs and pancakes. Beside the three empty plates were glasses of milk and orange juice.



“Sit down,” she said to both of them. She helped Izzy into a seat and scooted her close to the table.



Nick slowly sat down, trying to ignore the drums beating inside his head.



“Just coffee for me,” he croaked. “I feel like shi—” He glanced at Izzy. “I feel bad. A headache, is all.”



Izzy’s eyes told him that she knew all about Daddy’s headaches. Guilt came at him hard, riding on the crest of shame.



He reached for the pitcher of orange juice, but his aim was off. He whacked the vase with his fist, sent it flying. Water sprayed everywhere, evergreen boughs flopped across the eggs, dripping. The vase hit the floor with a loud craaack.



Nick squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit,” he moaned, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.



“Now, don’t you worry a bit about that. Everyone has accidents—don’t they, Izzy?” Annie stood up and dabbed at the puddles with her napkin.



He turned to Annie, ready to tell her that he had to get the hell out of here, but her smile stopped him. She looked so damned . . . hopeful. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat and wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow with a weak hand.



Annie gave him a broad smile and began dishing out food. She served herself a man-size portion of eggs and a stack of pancakes a logger couldn’t finish.



He tried to concentrate on that, her food—anything besides his headache and the tremors that quaked through his limbs. “Are you going to eat all that?”



She laughed. “I’m from California. I haven’t had an egg in fifteen years, and lately I’ve been eating like a pig. I’m hungry all the time.” Still smiling, she poured syrup over the whole god-awful mess and began eating and talking, eating and talking.



Nick curled both shaking hands around a thick porcelain coffee cup. When he thought he was steady enough, he brought the cup to his lips and took a slow, thankful sip. The hot coffee soothed his jittery nerves and took the shine off his headache. Slowly, slowly, he leaned back in the chair and let himself be carried away by the comforting buzz of Annie’s voice. After a while, he managed to eat a bit of breakfast. Through it all, Annie talked and laughed and carried on as if they were a family who ate breakfast together every morning, instead of a silent, disappearing child and her hungover father. She acted as if it were normal, what Nick and Izzy had become.



He couldn’t take his eyes off Annie. Every time she laughed, the sound moved through Nick in a shiver of longing, until he began at last to wonder how long it had been since he had laughed, since his Izzy had laughed . . . how long since they’d had something to laugh about or a moment together in which to find joy. . . .