Megan's Island (5 page)

“Old, but some good ones. Left by a couple of generations of vacationers, I guess,” Grandpa said. He sounded relieved that she wasn't making a fuss about her mother leaving so unexpectedly, and a part of her resented that, too, though she knew it wasn't his fault. He'd tried to talk his daughter into being honest with them.

It was strange to think of her mother as being
dis
honest. As if she'd suddenly become another person, not the mother Megan had known all her life.

It didn't seem to be bothering Sandy all that much. He finished his soup and crackers, drained his glass, and selected a banana for dessert. “We saw smoke from a log cabin up the lake. Who lives there?” he asked.

“Oh, that's our only neighbor at the moment. Haven't met him but once, when he was walking on the beach at sunset. Not a fisherman, I guess; I've never seen him out on the lake. Name's Nathan Jamison. Seems like a nice fella; writes books, I understand. Came here for the peace and quiet.”

There was only one thing wrong with peace and quiet, Megan reflected after Sandy and Grandpa had departed with their fishing tackle in the rowboat. It gave you too much time to think.

Ordinarily she wouldn't have minded. She enjoyed daydreaming. She could imagine all kinds of exciting adventures with the horse she would have—a palomino, with a flowing blond mane and tail, that could run like the wind. Sometimes she imagined meeting a faceless boy who would have a horse of his own—a black stallion—who would race with her on a broad, sandy beach, a boy who would think she was pretty. It was silly, but it was kind of fun, too.

Only now she felt neither silly nor like having fun. She felt, in fact, like crying. She and her mother had always been so close. Why had Mom shut her out?

Megan looked through the books on the brown painted shelves in one corner of the living room. Grandpa was right; they were sure old. Zane Grey westerns, and a whole shelf by someone named Grace Livingston Hill, which appeared upon investigation to be old-fashioned romances, and some
National Geographic
s with pictures of naked natives in Africa. The magazines were so old that she didn't recognize the name of the country where they lived; no doubt the name had been changed years ago.

She didn't really want to read. She walked onto the porch and stared out over the lake. Grandpa and Sandy were tiny figures in the boat on the water. She felt a moment of envy that they could put aside worry and just enjoy themselves. Why wasn't she like that?

She went slowly down the steps and onto the beach. If they hadn't taken the boat, she'd row back out to the island; it seemed a place of refuge, a place where trouble might not be able to follow her.

What about the canoe?

Megan walked over to it and ran a hand along its bright red surface. Though she'd never paddled a canoe, she'd seen it done in the movies often enough. Maybe if her father had lived, he'd have taught her how . . .

No. She remembered now, Mom had said he wasn't an outdoorsman, so he probably hadn't gone canoeing. Well, it hadn't looked hard. Grandpa had said to be careful, because it tipped over easily, but even if it did, she could swim, couldn't she?

Out on the lake, she could see the spot of bright orange that was Sandy's life jacket. She supposed she'd better wear one, too, just in case.

Tentatively, Megan lifted the edge of the canoe. It wasn't all that heavy; it rolled over, right-side-up, revealing the paddles that had been hidden beneath it. It was certainly easier to move into the water than the rowboat had been; easy enough so that it almost got away from her, and she took a couple of quick steps—wetting the bottoms of her pants legs—to catch it. Put the paddles in first, then shove off into the very shallow water, and get in—carefully, carefully!

Did she need both paddles? Unless there were two people in the canoe, she'd only need one, but she recalled what Grandpa had said about losing one. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have them both, just in case.

The canoe seemed fragile and unstable, compared to the rowboat. However, even though she felt awkward and insecure, she liked the way the slender vessel glided over the surface of the lake, as light as one of the little white butterflies that fluttered along the shore.

If she just remembered not to move suddenly, she didn't think she'd overturn the canoe. At first she moved parallel to the shore, in water where she could see the bottom only a few feet below her, and then she grew braver and turned the bow out toward the island.

Paddling the canoe wasn't quite as simple as she'd supposed. She wasn't sure how those people in the movies dipped into the water on only one side and managed to go straight ahead; when she tried it, she went in circles. And it was hard to lift the paddle out of the water, moving it from side to side, in order to go straighter. There must be some trick to this, she decided.

Nevertheless, she was heading toward the island, which was where she wanted to go. And in one way it was easier in the canoe than in the boat; you sat facing in the direction you were traveling.

She had to learn some new maneuvers to work her way around to the far side of the island, to the little cove with the sandy beach. There, it was easy to grasp the prow and haul the canoe up onto the sand, where it would stay until she was ready to leave.

She explored the entire island again, which didn't take very long because it wasn't very big, and gradually felt a sense of peace overtake her. It was so quiet. The sun was warm on her bare arms and face, and the slight breeze was cool.

It was only when she stood at the highest point on the pinkish-gray rocks and looked toward the cottage on the mainland that she came back to reality.

The cottage sat looking deserted in the afternoon sunshine. There was nothing moving.

Safe, her mother had said. They would be safe here with Grandpa.

It would never have occurred to Megan that they were
not
safe if her mother hadn't said that.

Was that why they'd run away from home late at night and come here? Because they were
not safe at home?

But what was the danger?

Far up the beach, two tiny figures stirred. A man—their neighbor in the log cabin—was walking on the beach with a dog. The man threw a stick into the water, and the dog swam out to retrieve it.

She wished she had a dog. Watching the pair, the man throwing the stick, the dog plunging into the lake after it, made her feel lonely. She wished Annie were here. Annie would help her figure out what was going on. Annie would make her laugh.

She didn't want to watch the man and his dog. Seeing them only made her feel more lonely. Usually she and her brother agreed on things, but Sandy didn't seem to be taking this matter seriously. Not as seriously as
she
did. Look at the way he'd gone off fishing with Grandpa.

An inner sense of fairness murmured that since there was nothing Sandy could do about their situation, there was no reason for him not to go fishing. Megan pushed it away. She didn't want to forgive him for deserting her to worry by herself.

Megan turned, and slipped and slid her way back down to the little cove. There, with the sun gently warming her face, she sat on the soft sand and cried a little.

Wishing Sandy had not gone fishing. Wishing her father had not died so there would be someone else to turn to. Wishing her mother had not gone away and left them here. Wishing that, at the very least, someone would tell her what was wrong.

Why were they safe here, when apparently they had not been at home?

What if her mother were wrong? What if they were not safe at all, from whatever it was that threatened them?

As Grandpa cooked supper—fish, fried potatoes, and salad—Megan set the table. Tentatively, she tried to sound him out on their situation.

“Do you know where Mom went?” she asked, so nervous that she didn't dare look directly at him.

The fish sizzled in the pan, and he adjusted the heat under it. “She didn't tell me,” he replied. “Shall we open a can of peaches for dessert? No fresh ones available yet.”

“Sure,” Megan agreed. “Did she tell you how long she'd be gone?”

“She didn't tell me much of anything, honey. Only that she wanted me to keep you kids here for a while. You like it here, don't you?”

The cast on his foot made a clumping sound as he moved to the sink, and Megan suppressed a spurt of guilt, wondering if his injured foot still hurt. Cooking for three made him stand up longer than cooking for one, but she didn't know how to do much so she could help him.

“I . . . guess so. Except for not having any other kids around. My friend Annie was going to come. . . .” She couldn't help the prickle of tears behind her eyelids.

She swallowed. “Does it hurt to walk?”

“What? Oh, my foot? No, not any more. Hurt like sixty at first. It's just awkward.” He raised his voice so it would carry to the back porch. “Sandy, you got the rest of those bass cleaned yet?”

Sandy came through the door carrying a pan with more fish. “We can't eat all of this tonight, can we? Even if we
are
starved?”

“No. Put what you have in those shallow pans and cover them with water, then stick them in the freezer inside the plastic bags I put out. That way, they'll taste like we just caught them when we get around to eating them.”

Sandy clearly was pleased with himself. Grandpa had caught
more
bass, but Sandy had caught the biggest one. He was grinning until he saw his sister's face and remembered.

She felt another twinge of guilt at the way his pleasure evaporated when he saw her own expression. Yet why should she feel guilty? It wasn't her fault their mother had behaved so strangely, and she couldn't help being afraid.

She was as hungry as the other two, and ate her share of the fish and everything else. Yet she couldn't get her mind off their predicament.

There was no TV. Grandpa said there were too many of those solid granite rocks and hills between them and the TV towers for the waves to get through. So they had to think of something else to do during the evenings.

“There are some old games on the shelf below the books,” Grandpa said. “Checkers and Monopoly. I always listen to the news after supper on the radio. We have a local station, so that comes through all right.”

“I think I'll take a walk before it gets dark,” Megan said. She gave Sandy a look, and he followed her out onto the porch.

“We need to talk,” she told him. “Grandpa's not going to give anything away. I asked him, and he doesn't know where Mom went or when she'll be back, he said.”

“I know it,” Sandy agreed, surprising her. “I tried to pump him, too, while we were fishing. He said it was up to Mom to tell us what she wants us to know. I thought that was lousy. It's not like we were little kids, or irresponsible or anything. But he said she's our mother, and it's her decision.”

So Sandy was more seriously concerned than she'd thought. That ought to have made her feel better; but instead, Megan found it only made her own anxiety worse.

“We've got to figure it out for ourselves, then,” she decided aloud.

“How? What can we do?”

“I don't know yet, but we'll have to try, anyway. What kind of thing would Mom be afraid of? What—or who—would she run away from and hide?”

Sandy's face was sober. “People usually do that when they've done something illegal, like stealing. Mom wouldn't ever steal! Would she?”

“No. If she'd stolen anything—from the office or someplace like that—we'd have something to show for it, wouldn't we? She'd have bought a new car, or new clothes, or even more groceries. Besides, I'll never believe she'd take anything she had no right to. Not after the way she's lectured us all our lives about being honest. There has to be something else.”

What it could be, however, neither of them could figure out. If it wasn't illegal—like stealing—what did that leave?

“She's afraid. She said so,” Megan mused, looking out over the lake, where the water was now smooth as glass, mirroring the dark trees on the far shore, and the pink tint of the sun on the clouds. “That means she's afraid of something, or someone. Who?”

“Not the police,” Sandy said. “At least I don't think the police. Gosh, Megan, do you think she's been running away and hiding from someone for eight years?”

Megan didn't have to consider her answer; she'd already been thinking about it. “Maybe. Remember how many times we've moved? How many times Mom's told us it was because of her job? She never got a new job in the same town. We always went miles away, so we could never see any of our friends again.”

“And she didn't even want us to write to any of them,” Sandy added.

Megan glanced at him sharply. “You're right. She didn't, did she? When I was going to write to Joanie Miller, after we moved the last time, she said maybe it would be better if we just made new friends where we were, instead of staying hung up on the past.” A lump formed in her throat. “I suppose that means I'll never be able to explain to Annie, even if I knew how.”

“Mom's not here now. She wouldn't know if you wrote to Annie.”

Megan's heart began to race. “I owe Annie a letter, at least. Don't I?”

“If my best friend moved away, I'd expect him to say good-bye, anyway,” Sandy agreed.

It didn't solve the problem, of course. They were no nearer to solving the riddle than they'd been in the beginning, but it made Megan feel better to decide that she should write to Annie.

“I'll do it tonight,” she said. “And we'll walk out to the mailbox on the road to mail it, first thing in the morning.”

“Maybe there'll be something for us, from Mom,” Sandy said hopefully.

“Not tomorrow, she only left today. Tomorrow will be too soon. I hope she isn't gone long.”