The Secrets of Lake Road

CHAPTER FIVE

The air was thick with humidity, fermenting what was rotten in the lake. At times it smelled like dead fish, dank and feral. Other times it smelled like a thousand decaying lily pads and plant life, sodden and moldy. Tonight it smelled a little bit like both.

Caroline breathed into the palm of her hand to keep from getting sick. She was standing under the overhang on the top step of the Pavilion. The sheriff’s deputy had chased her off the beach, forcing her inside and out of the storm. She had backed up slowly at first, breathing into her cupped hand, unable to move her eyes away from the water. A loud crack of thunder had felt as though it shook the ground beneath her feet. When she had turned, she caught sight of her mother on the bar balcony. Even in the dark she could see the haunted look on her mother’s face, the one that thrashed her insides and kept her hidden inside herself. It could be days until her mother surfaced.

Lightning flashed. Thunder stomped and bumped across the sky. One of the deputies escorted Sara’s mother to his vehicle. She was in for a long night. The underwater recovery team had packed their gear and gone home. They weren’t expected to return until morning.

“There you are.” Gram pulled Caroline into her arms. “You didn’t come home for supper. You know you’re supposed to check in and let me know your plans.”

“Didn’t you hear?” She stepped back and searched Gram’s wrinkled and worn face, her thinning white hair, and her eyes, where the youthful spirit sparkled even in dark times. It was the sparkle Caroline relied on and looked for, a sign to tell her everything was going to be all right.

“Yes, I heard,” Gram said. Rain poured onto the roof of the Pavilion, battering the old building with its onslaught. She yelled over the storm, “Let’s go home. You must be starving.”

Gram had told her once that she had seen enough death in her lifetime, and she didn’t like to talk about it. She had said, “It is what it is, and there’s nothing anybody can do to stop it.” She told Caroline it was something everyone had to live with, and Caroline often wondered if Gram had been referring to something more personal, someone in her past other than Pop.

She followed Gram through the Pavilion. The pool table and pinball machines stood empty. The jukebox remained quiet. A few people milled around the snack stand, but the loud rain halted any conversation they may have otherwise had. They hurried through the wind and rain to Gram’s big Oldsmobile parked on the other side of the Pavilion, far away from the beach. They were soaked by the time they reached the car. Caroline was wet and cold. Goose bumps prickled her skin.

Back at the cabin, Caroline ate two helpings of Gram’s infamous homemade macaroni and cheese, a favorite comfort food, before curling up in her new hand-stitched quilt in her bedroom. She tucked her hands under her chin. The storm had been fierce but quick, lasting thirty minutes or less. A welcomed breeze blew through the open window. The cool air swept over her sun-kissed skin, sending shivers up and down her arms and legs.

“I’m scared,” she said to Willow, the name she had given the big weeping willow tree outside her bedroom window. In response it brushed its branches against the side of the cabin and scratched at the screen.

Ever since she was little, she had talked to Willow, her imaginary friend who just happened to be a tree. It was silly really to think of a tree in this way, but Willow was one of the constants during her summers at the lake. He listened when she couldn’t find the words to talk with her mother or Gram. He never rolled his eyes or sulked the way Megan sometimes did when they’d disagree over something stupid. He didn’t pick on her or make fun of her like Johnny did. Willow was there when she closed her eyes at night, every night. She imagined him standing guard while she slept. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. He would protect her. And he was always there the moment she opened her eyes the next morning.

Although she hadn’t talked to Willow much over the last few summers, tonight she fell into past habits, needing to feel secure. As always he was there, towering high above the cabin, watching. His branches reached toward anyone who paused long enough to gaze at his splendor. Sometimes she’d climb into the crook of his arms and listen to his leaves in the summer breeze. Other times she’d read to him from one of her mystery novels. She imagined he liked mysteries as much as she did.

“Her name was Sara,” she whispered to Willow. A knot clogged her throat, and she swallowed hard. “She’s still missing.”