I thought about calling Dulcie and asking her, but if Mom saw the number on the phone bill, she’d want to know why I’d called my aunt and what we’d talked about. Mom had “issues with Dulcie”—her words. They couldn’t be together for more than a few hours without arguing. Politics, child raising, marriage—they didn’t agree on anything.
Maybe because I couldn’t talk to anyone about the photo, I began dreaming about “T” and the lake. Week after week, the same dream, over and over and over again.
I’m walking along the shore of Sycamore Lake in a thick fog. I see a girl coming toward me. I can’t make out her face, but somehow I know it’s “T.” She seems to know me, too. She says, “You’d better do something about this.” She points at three girls in a canoe, paddling out onto the lake. One is my mother, one is Dulcie, and I think the third girl is “T.” But how can that be? Isn’t she standing a few feet away? No, she’s gone. The canoe vanishes into the fog.
That’s when I always woke up. Scared, shivering—the way people feel when they say, “Someone’s walking on my grave.”
I wanted to tell Mom about the dream, but I knew it would upset her. Although Dad didn’t agree, it seemed to me she’d been more nervous and anxious since I’d shown her the photograph. She started seeing her therapist again, not once but twice a week. Her headaches came more frequently, and she spent days lying on the couch reading poetry, mainly Emily Dickinson—not a good choice in my opinion for a depressed person. Dickinson’s poems were full of things I didn’t quite understand but that frightened me. Her mind was haunted, I thought, by death and sorrow and uncertainty. Sometimes I suspected that’s why Mom liked Dickinson—they were kindred spirits.
Except for my dream and Mom’s days on the couch, life went on pretty much as usual. Dad taught his math classes at the university, graded exams, gave lectures, and complained about lazy students and boring faculty meetings—standard stuff. I got involved in painting scenery for the school play and doing things with my friends. As the weather warmed, Mom cheered up a bit and went to work in her flower garden, mulching, transplanting, choosing new plants at the nursery—the best therapy, she claimed.
And then Dulcie paid us an unexpected visit and threw everything off track.
2
One afternoon in May, I came home from school and found Dulcie and Emma in the living room with Mom. My heart gave a little dance at the sight of my aunt’s tall, skinny figure, her fashionably baggy linen overalls, the familiar mop of long tawny curls, the rings on her fingers. Right down to her chunky sandals and crimson toenails, she looked like what she was—an artist.
“Ali!” Dulcie jumped to her feet and crossed the room to hug me. “It’s great to see you.”
“You, too.” I hugged her tightly and breathed in the musky scent of her perfume.
Holding me at arm’s length, she gave me a quick once-over. Her silver bracelets jingled. “Look at you—a teenager already.” She turned to Mom with a smile. “They grow up so fast!”
“She’s only thirteen,” Mom murmured. “Don’t rush things.”
Dulcie frowned as if she might start arguing about how grown up I was. Before she could say anything, though, Emma flung herself at me. “Ali, Ali, Ali!”
“Whoa,” I laughed. “You’re getting so big, you’ll knock me down! Look at your hair—it’s almost as long as mine.”
Emma giggled and hugged me. “That’s ‘cause I’m almost five. Soon I’ll be as big as you.”
Keeping an arm around my cousin’s shoulders, I turned back to Dulcie. “Are you in town for a show or—”
“I had to see the owner of a gallery in D.C. She wants to exhibit my work in a group show next fall, and I need peace and quiet to paint, so…” Dulcie glanced at Mom who sighed and shook her head, obviously worried about something.
“Your mother thinks this is the worst idea I’ve ever had,” Dulcie went on with a laugh. “But I’m going to fix up the old cottage at the lake and spend the summer there.”
I stared at her, hardly daring to believe she was serious. Sycamore Lake, the place that had obsessed me for two months now. Before I could bombard her with questions, Mom said, “Dulcie, I really think—”
“No arguments. My mind’s made up.” Dulcie smiled at Mom and turned to me. “I need a babysitter to entertain Emma while I paint. I’m trying to talk your mom into letting me borrow you for the summer.”
“Me?” My face flushed. “I’d love to baby-sit Emma at the lake! I’ve wanted to see it for ages. I found a—”
“Ali,” Mom interrupted. “I told you what it’s like there. Rain and mosquitoes and cold, gloomy days. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. You’ll hate it.”
“Don’t believe a word of it,” Dulcie told me. “Sure, it’s cold and rainy sometimes. It’s Maine—what do you expect? But there’s plenty of sunshine. The mosquitoes aren’t worse than anyplace else. The lake’s—”
“The lake’s deep … and dark … and dangerous,” Mom cut in, choosing her words slowly and deliberately. “People drown there every summer.”
Dulcie frowned at Mom. “Do you have to be so negative about everything?”
To keep Mom from starting a scene, I jumped into the conversation.
“I’ve taken swimming lessons since I was six years old. I know all about water safety. I’d never do anything stupid.”
“Please, Aunt Claire, please, please, please!” Emma begged. “I want Ali to be my babysitter.” She hopped back and forth from one foot to the other, staring hopefully at Mom.
Say yes, I begged silently, say yes. My best friend, Staci, was going away, and a boring summer stretched ahead. I loved Emma, and I loved my aunt. A few months at the lake would be perfect.
Ignoring my pleading look, Mom shook her head. “I can’t possibly make a decision until Pete comes home from work. Ali’s his daughter, too. We have to agree on what’s best for her.”
Dulcie dropped onto the sofa beside Mom. “Sorry. I’m used to making my own decisions about Emma.” Tossing her hair to the side, she grinned at me. “It’s one of the many advantages of being divorced.”
“I didn’t mean—” Mom said.
“How about some coffee?” Dulcie asked, quickly diverting Mom. “And some fruit juice for Emma?”
“Of course.” Mom got up and headed for the kitchen with Dulcie behind her. I trailed after them, but at the doorway, my aunt turned and smiled at me. “Why don’t you read to Emma, sweetie? She put some of her favorite books in my bag.”
Secrets, I thought. Things they don’t want me to know about. I was tempted to follow them into the kitchen anyway, but it occurred to me that Dulcie might have better luck talking to Mom without my being there listening to every word.
Emma rummaged through her mother’s big straw bag and pulled out The Lonely Doll, a book I’d enjoyed when I was little.
“I like when Edith meets the bears, and she isn’t lonely anymore.” Emma climbed into my lap and rested her head against my shoulder.