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As if it will hold answers, or her voice.
I have trouble getting into the story. Plus, the voice sounds nothing like her. She’d laugh at the seriousness of classic literature.
I persevere, though, because it is a classic, and it beats the war biographies my father gives me every Christmas.
The thought strikes me I could go out and buy books on my own. Decide on the spot what I want to read. Maybe a comedy. Or a thriller. Mom would have liked the spontaneity of that.
Oh yeah, perfect. I’m trying to take my mind off Brylee and Riddick, off the possibility of meeting them by chance or seeking them out, and instead of thinking how to achieve that, I want to become more spontaneous?
Son of a bitch.
I should settle down. Rediscover my interest in boating and fishing. Take a weekend off, drive to the cabin at the lake, and relax.
Yeah, that’s what I should do. And if for some strange reason the thought of staying at the cabin alone for two days has my heart tripping, that means nothing. As soon as I’m away from all this, from all the people, things will uncomplicate themselves.
It will all be like before.
It has to.
***
The drive to Lake Geneva isn’t long. I make it in less than an hour, the road familiar although I haven’t been down here in years.
The few times I came here with my father, after Mom passed away, it was kind of awkward, and then I’d come on my own.
My father hasn’t come here since, as far as I know. He sure is a creature of habit.
And I’m turning into him.
Okay, enough. I’m here to relax, stop obsessing about things out of my control. It’s quiet, the rustle of foliage overhead soothing. I park outside the lake house and lug my bag and laptop to the porch, the soles of my shoes crunching on the frozen leaves as I climb up the steps.
The key sticks a little in the lock, but then it clicks and the door opens. I step inside.
Dust covers everything. There are white sheets spread over the furniture. Huge paintings hang on the walls. There’s a smell of pine wood and something chemical.
It’s not a big house, compared to others down the lake shore. It has been in my father’s family for generations, altered by each passing owner, so that it’s a mish-mash of styles. Heavy furniture of shiny mahogany that I reveal by throwing off the covers—followed by a fit of sneezing at the clouds of dust—and thick, perhaps Persian carpets, combined with a rustic fireplace and sleek steel light fixtures on the ceiling.
Huge windows open over the lake, and there’s a hot tub on the terrace below. I glance outside. The lake looks still. No boats. Heavy clouds are hanging overhead.
I find some dry wood and start up a fire in the fireplace, to drive out the dank chill that seems to be seeping into my bones with every passing minute. Soon enough there are yellow flames jumping and I sit back on the rug, staring into them.
More déjà vu: my mom sitting here with me, teasing me, ruffling my hair. She laughed so much. Teased me mercilessly at every opportunity—about my hairdo, about my interest in programming, about something I said—and it never bothered me. It was good-natured ribbing. Affectionate. She was so funny and full of life.
Like Brylee.
Fuck, don’t go there, not again.
Groaning at myself, I get up and go check the bedrooms. Also dusty, and the sheets have strange stains I hope are mold and not the product of some very sick animals. I rip everything off and go in search of clean linen.
I find some in the downstairs closet, and climb back up the stairs to change them.
This used to be my room, way back when. It has a view to the lake and the dark, brooding trees. Sometimes I climbed out of the window and down the house. If Mom had known, she’d have had a heart attack.
She had one later, anyway.
And Jesus Christ, will my mind stop flashing to all the things I want to forget for just one fucking moment?
I drop the sheets and walk out of the bedroom, slamming my fist into the wood-paneled wall as I go.
