Ivy of Our Hearts

Sixteen

I spun, as if expecting my mother to be right behind me. The cabin gazed back, a lonesome ghost. Its door hung open, like I had caught it mid-laugh, like it had read my mind and thought the idea of my mother being here was funny. Maybe Phillip hadn't shut the door all the way, but I'd smelled my mother's perfume. White Gardenia.

Margaret had her hand on Phillip's arm by the time I'd convinced myself that my mother couldn't have been with us. Of course Margaret would have gotten to him first. She'd been closer to him. She shook him. Beneath the thinness of his skin, his eyes roved, almost in circles. The veins in his fist engorged. Veins couldn't burst. I told myself that. The way they swelled told me otherwise.

"Open your eyes," Margaret said. Her hand slipped down the length of his arm to his hand where it rested. I envied her and the blood pumping through his veins. I wanted to be that close. "Open your eyes, Phillip," she said.

Manderley nipped his ear. Phillip's shoulder twitched, an indication that it had hurt him, but he kept his eyes closed. As if someone had turned a dial to dim the sun, the sky darkened, then flashed again with lightning. A breeze curled its way through the trees into my lungs. My own star dimmed. I couldn't let it go out.

"Phillip," I said, as thunder struck. It made it more dramatic, which hadn't been my intention, but it worked.

His eyes flew open, in the same motion that reminded me of curtains being drawn apart. He blinked at us. His expression asked, "How long had I been gone?" But when he spoke, he said, "We should get going." He didn't wait for us to respond. He took off in front with Manderley bouncing on his shoulder.

Margaret lifted her shoulders and followed him. My star sprung back to life as the sun appeared from behind the clouds, both flooding me with warmth. The weightiness of the air faded to nothing, along with all thought of my mother's ghost. It must have been a trick of my mind. Nothing more. I brushed it all away so easily. A trick of my mind and nothing more. One thing did not fade from me.

Phillip's eyes had opened at the sound of my voice. Not Margaret's.

"Hurry up," she called to me.

I ran to meet them.

***

I wish he would have told us how beautiful the lake would be. He whistled as he spread our blanket and food beneath the shade of a tree, a long note which said, "Would you look at that?" From her perch on the tree, Manderley cawed, which in crow speak I imagined meant, "How could we not?"

I stood back to take it all in, unlike Margaret who teetered to the edge. She'd kicked off her shoes as soon as she saw it. The water lapped against her feet, kissing the chipped blue polish on her toenails, like a wet, hungry tongue.

"It's warm," she said, with a smile that mirrored her age, youthful and bright, as crystalline as the lake. She reached down, gliding her fingers over the water in a back and forth motion, which disturbed the lake's natural current. The water swiveled beneath her touch. "I can't believe it," she said.

I couldn't believe it either. It's not like I hadn't seen a lake before. My father took me with him to Graystone Lake all the time where he owned a small motorboat. At the rear, I'd watch the water ripple and surge beneath us. Maybe I'd reach over the edge, close enough to touch but not quite. "Want to lose a finger?" my father would ask, and I'd bring my hand back to my side.

I didn't have the urge to be in the water like I did then. I didn't want to disturb its being, not like Margaret who waded farther in. The water darkened the ends of her rolled up jeans. She plunged her hand down beneath the surface, reaching for something, which must have reached back because she squealed.