Megan's Island (4 page)

“Mom?” Sandy asked, incredulous. “Mom lied? About what?”

“I don't know about what! She said . . .” Megan struggled to remember the exact words. “She said, ‘Maybe it would die down again'—she said
again
—‘so we could get on with our lives,' and Grandpa said, ‘You mean the way it did eight years ago?' and Mom said, ‘We were all right for eight years.' And she said she was scared.”

Sandy was looking scared now, too. “Eight years? What happened eight years ago?”

“I don't know. Nobody said. I can't remember that far back. I was only three years old.”

“And I was only two.” Sandy looked toward the cottage uncertainly. “You think Grandpa knows what it is? Maybe he'll explain.”

“I don't think so. He acted like it was up to her. And it didn't sound to me as if she was going to tell us anything.” Megan heard the quaver in her own voice and tried to steady it. “He said how many times we'd moved and had to change schools, and that it was hard on us. And that she'd probably scared us already, and she said we couldn't be as afraid as she is.”

Sandy licked his lips again. “I didn't think mothers got scared of anything except . . . big, serious things.”

“I didn't either. It scares me, too.”

“What are we going to do, then?”

He meant, what was
Megan
going to do. She was the oldest, it was up to her to make the first move. Only she had no idea of what she could do. “Mom said she'd explain later. I'll ask her again, when we're alone. After she's had some sleep, maybe.”

She didn't really believe that. Oh, she'd ask, but she didn't think her mother was going to tell her. And that was scarier than knowing the terrible secret, whatever it was.

Sandy dug his toes into the beach sand. “Well, if we can't do anything about it anyway, why let it wreck our whole vacation? Come on, let's go out to the island and see what it's like, okay?”

Megan supposed they might as well. Standing here in front of the cottage wasn't going to change anything. Exploring the island was spoiled now, because she couldn't stop thinking about her mother and why they were here. On the other hand, Sandy had a point. And what
could
they do about any of it?

“Grandpa said we're supposed to wear these,” Sandy said, lifting down the bright orange life jackets from where they hung on nails in a tree. “I don't know why; we both know how to swim.”

“It's farther across the lake than across the pool at home,” Megan murmured, slipping her arms through the shoulder straps and fastening the ones across her chest. “We'd better do like he says.”

She bent to take off her own shoes and socks, leaving them sitting on the edge of the beach in the scrubby grass. Then she joined her strength to Sandy's; they shoved the boat until it floated, and they hurriedly climbed in before it could get away. Sandy fitted the oars into the oarlocks and said, “I'll row.”

“You'd better turn around, then,” Megan told him. “You're supposed to sit facing the back of the boat.”

“How'm I going to see where I'm going?” Sandy wanted to know.

“I don't know, but that's how they do it in the movies. You sit in the middle seat, with your back to the bow, and you go like this.” She demonstrated with arm movements.

“Okay, if you say so.” Sandy tried it out, sending the little boat back to nose the shore. “This isn't going to work. How do I turn it around?”

“I think you row with one oar first, and that makes it turn.”

It took a little maneuvering, but finally they were heading toward the island. Megan was glad Sandy was taking the first turn at rowing; after watching him struggle with it, she wouldn't feel quite such a klutz when she did it herself. Halfway across to the island, Sandy paused to rest. “It's harder work than it looks. You want to try it?”

“Sure,” Megan said. They moved carefully to exchange places; the boat rocked, and then Megan gripped the oars and dipped them into the water and pulled.

“Maybe if you don't dip them quite so deep,” her brother suggested, and she tried again, sort of skimming the surface, then experimenting until she began to get the hang of it.

Sandy was right; it
was
harder than it looked, and the island was farther away, too. Finally Sandy called out, “We're there!” and the last pull on the oars nosed them against, not sand, but rock.

“Wait,” Sandy cried, “I'll get out with the rope and tie it to that little tree. There's no beach to pull it up on.”

Since she had rowed the last part of the way, Megan hadn't seen the island up close until she clambered out after her brother. It was made of pinkish-gray rock formed in layers; some of them jutted out more than other layers, forming steps or shallow caves. There were scattered pines and a few birch trees that seemed to grow out of the rock itself, and walking was tricky because mostly the rock wasn't flat but rounded, occasionally dropping off sharply as much as five or six feet to the surrounding water.

Enough time had passed so that the sun was well up now. The lake was a brilliant blue, reflecting the sky overhead, and the water was so clear they could see well down into it; could see the pinkish rocks below the surface and tell where it was deep, and where it was shallow enough for wading.

“Hey, this is neat!” Sandy exclaimed, scrambling up one of the rocky “stairways” to a higher boulder. “See how little the cottage looks from here!”

Megan had been distracted enough so that for a few minutes she'd forgotten the cottage, and her mother, and the terrible secret, whatever it was.

“Come on,” Sandy called, “let's see what the rest of it's like!”

He was off on all fours to the top of the slope, where he vanished down the other side with a whoop of delight.

Megan stared across the water. The cottage no longer looked shabby, because she couldn't see the peeling paint. Nothing moved over there. Her gaze swung down the lake, toward town. There were several more islands, smaller than this one, including one that was no more than a rock the size of their car with a single bush growing out of it. In the other direction, up the lake, a thin column of smoke rose from a log cabin barely visible through the pines. There
were
neighbors, then. She wondered if they had any kids, and then she thought about Annie, and once more tears made her eyes smart.

“Hey, Megan! Look what I've found!” Sandy shouted, and she turned to follow him up the sloping rock, which felt cool and rough beneath her hands and knees. Her brother had crossed to the far side of the island—a distance no greater than moving across an ordinary street at home. He was standing below her in a tiny cove, lined with a narrow strip of sandy beach just wide enough to walk on.

“It'll be a great place to swim!” he called up to her. “The rock goes out so the water's not very deep here; we can bring the boat over on this side to unload supplies!”

“Supplies?” Megan echoed, starting down toward him, carefully so as not to slip and slide all the way into the water before she could stop.

“Sure! We'll bring picnic stuff, and maybe books to read—there's almost a cave, too!”

Megan slid the last few yards on her bottom; the sand was pleasantly warm beneath her bare feet, and very soft and clean. “How can there be
almost
a cave?” she demanded.

“Well, it hasn't got any sides, but see how the rock sticks out enough so we could sit under there if it rained, and not get wet? We could even sleep under there, if we brought sleeping bags.”

“Mom'd never let us,” Megan said automatically, but she, too, felt the magic of the place. If only there weren't some awful thing hanging over their family, she could fall in love with this spot.

“I'll bet Grandpa would think it was okay. He said it was safer up here in the woods than in town, didn't he? We'll ask him first, and he can work on Mom. Let's go see what else there is here. The island isn't very wide, but it's about four times as long. Maybe there's another beach.”

There wasn't, but the island was enchanting. So private, Megan thought, a place to come and dream or think or cry, if she felt like crying.

She would never have had that final thought before last night. Before her good, safe life was disrupted, before her mother had become so frightened of something that she'd run away from it. Before Megan knew that her mother had lied to her about whatever it was. Her mother, who never lied about anything, not even her age, the way some mothers did.

They were halfway back to the mainland when the idea suddenly came to her.

“I know one thing that happened eight years ago, when I was three and you were two,” Megan said slowly, her heart rate accelerating.

“What?” Sandy demanded.

“Eight years ago was when Daddy died.”

Sandy's face was blank. “What could that have to do with anything that's happening now?”

“I don't know,” Megan admitted. Yet she was remembering how her mother always acted, reluctant to talk about their father, as if it still hurt to do so. Could there be a connection between Daddy's death and Mom's fear now?

She fell silent, and pulled awkwardly on the oars, taking them back to Grandpa's cottage.

They must have been gone longer than it had seemed, for when they entered the cottage they could smell something good—lunch was cooking.

Sandy bounded into the kitchen and looked hopefully at the kettle on the stove. “What is it?”

“Homemade vegetable soup,” Grandpa said. “I thought you'd be turning up soon. Wash up, and sit down.”

Megan stood in the doorway, staring at the table, which was set with three bowls and three glasses. “Who isn't eating?” she said, and in her own ears her voice sounded strange, almost frightened, though she wasn't sure why.

“I'm not. I have to go,” Mrs. Collier said.

Megan turned and saw her mother coming out of the little bedroom they were to have shared, pulling on her sweater. She certainly didn't look rested; her eyes were puffy and smiling was an effort, though she hugged Megan and tried to seem normal.

“I have to be gone for a few days. You'll have a good time here. Don't worry about me.”

The fear inside of Megan deepened, grew stronger. “Where are you going?” There was a tremor in her legs, and her mouth was so dry it was an effort to speak.

“I'll tell you about it when I get back, all right? No, honest, Dad, I'm not hungry. I don't want anything to eat.”

Grandpa had ladled out a bowl of soup for Sandy. Now he picked up a plastic bag from the counter. “I made you a sandwich to take with you, anyway. You'll get hungry sooner or later.”

“Oh. Well, okay. Thank you,” Mrs. Collier said, accepting the bag and taking her arm away from Megan. “Give me a kiss, Sandy, and remember, Grandpa's the boss.”

Sandy's freckled face showed concern. “Where are you going, Mom?”

“I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know.” She bent to rest a hand on his shoulder and kiss him on the forehead, then kissed Megan as well. “I'll be in touch.”

“But Mom . . . ,” Megan's protest sounded squeaky.

“You'll be perfectly safe here with Grandpa. Have fun,” she said, and then kissed her father, too, and was gone.

Megan watched woodenly through the kitchen window as the car backed and turned in the side yard, then vanished through the trees. Safe? Wasn't that a peculiar thing for her mother to say, unless for some reason they were in danger?

“Eat up,” Grandpa said, trying to sound cheerful and not quite making it. “Vegetable soup. Got everything in it but the kitchen sink. Keep you going until suppertime. Of course, if you get too bad off in the meantime, there are some oranges and bananas to stave off starvation.”

Megan wanted desperately to ask him to explain what was going on. He certainly knew more than she did. She felt abandoned; it wasn't fair for her mother to go away with no warning, without explaining, without giving Megan a chance to ask questions. Though resentment churned inside her, she couldn't quite put her feelings into words.

Besides, Grandpa probably wouldn't tell her anything anyway, not unless her mother had told him he could.

She took the chair beside Sandy, who was eagerly spooning up chunks of beef and carrots and potatoes and peas. He paused long enough to crumble crackers into the bowl, and then, after he'd eaten everything in front of him, handed up his dish for a refill. “Are there any kids to play with here, Grandpa?” he asked as he accepted seconds.

“Not that I know of. May be some in another couple of weeks, when the tourists start coming up from Minneapolis and Chicago for the summer. There's a string of cabins at the far end of the lake.” Grandpa helped himself to crackers.

“Are we still going to be here a couple of weeks from now?” Sandy asked. His blue eyes were watchful, wary, and Megan went stiff, waiting for the answer.

“Well, your mom didn't say for sure, but I'd guess so. Maybe for the whole summer,” Grandpa said quietly.

“The whole summer?” Sandy considered this, then grinned uncertainly. “I was going to be on a softball team at home. But I guess swimming's okay, too. The water's kind of cold, though. I waded in it.”

“It'll warm up pretty good by July, they tell me. Not too warm, I hope. Bad for the fishing when it's too warm. Want to come along this afternoon, see if we can land ourselves enough bass for supper?”

“Sure,” Sandy agreed with enthusiasm, then glanced at Megan. “You want to come, Megan?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks.” How could he think about just having fun, when something was so obviously and horribly wrong? She realized Grandpa was watching her and added, “I'll find something to do. Read, maybe. I saw some books in the other room.”