Swans Landing #1 - Surfacing (2 page)

Her eyes darted back and forth for a moment before stopping on him again. Her forehead creased into confusion. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Let’s go,” Lake said to me, grabbing my arm and steering me away from the woman.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

If this was any indication of what life would be like with Lake, it wasn’t off to a promising start.

“Where’s your car?” I asked. I needed to get out of view and hide in my own private world for a while.

“The blue Jeep,” he said, nodding toward a contraption that was more rust than blue and may have once been a Jeep, but now resembled a mess of wires and duct tape holding the pieces together. “But it’s a nice day and the best place to wait for the ferry is at the fence.”

“I don’t think we have the same definition of ‘nice day.’” I shivered, hugging my arms tight around myself.

We picked our way over rocks and sand, where bits of dry grass hung on, determined to grow under the weak late February sun. The small group waiting at the fence had been laughing and talking with each other, but once we drew close a hush fell over most people. Three men stood away from the rest, arms crossed over their chests and narrowed eyes watching our every movement. A woman darted glances in our direction, holding her baby tighter in her arms and then eventually turning her back on us.

If it hadn’t been for Mom’s sickness, the subtle change in behavior might have passed over my head without notice. But dealing with sneaky glances and uncomfortable silences at my old school for the last few months caused me to pick up on the change at the ferry dock pretty quickly.

No one moved or said anything aimed at us, but the air became thick with tension, as if everyone waited for someone else to make the first move. Lake had been walking casually toward the group, but as the atmosphere shifted he stopped abruptly. He looked at them, as if weighing his options in the unwelcome silence. Others still talked and laughed, seemingly oblivious to what quietly played out only feet from them.

After a moment of consideration, Lake turned and walked a little ways away from everyone else.

“So,” I said, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder and fiddling with the camera that hung around my neck, “good job actually leaving the island for an hour or so. No need to come to the airport or anything.”

My mom always said that I had a need to hurt people who hurt me. My body felt as if it were full of venom when I looked at my father. I wanted to make him feel guilty, to know that my coming here was
not
my idea and we would not become friends.

“I’m not good away from the water,” Lake said. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers getting tangled in the messy strands. “Your flight was okay, right? And you didn’t have to wait long for the bus?”

“It was fine,” I muttered. “Lots of cows.”

Lake’s words were tinged with a strange accent that sounded out of place anywhere in the United States. “Flight” came out sounding more like “floight.” For all I knew, my grandparents could have been from Ireland or Scotland or who knew where. My dad had always been nothing more than a mystery for me.

“Want some water?” Lake pulled two bottles from his pocket, offering me one.

As much as I hated to admit it, I was thirsty so I took it. “Thanks,” I said begrudgingly.

Lake opened his bottle and pulled a small packet of salt from his shirt pocket. He ripped it open, dumping the contents into his water before taking a long swig. My fingers found the little packet of salt in my own pocket. I craved salt constantly, but I didn't want to share that habit with him.

I made myself take a sip of my salt-free water, avoiding Lake’s gaze.

He leaned against the fence and twisted the chain of his necklace around his fingers. “Mara, about your mom—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

And then he let the subject drop, as if it didn’t really matter. Just like he’d let Mom and me drop from his life sixteen years ago.

I turned and followed the fence along the water, walking until the voices behind me faded into white noise. The lens of my camera hooked easily into the chain link and I focused on a few white, long-legged birds wading through the water and dipping their beaks in search of food. That water must have been freezing, but it didn’t bother the birds at all. They continued their search, burying their long orange bills under the surface as my camera clicked.

“Ibises,” said a voice at my side.

I jumped and pulled my eye from my camera. Lake’s approach had been so quiet I hadn’t even noticed him until he spoke. “What?” I snapped.

He nodded toward the birds. “American White Ibises. Listen closely and you can hear them grunt.”

Over the sound of the water lapping on the shoreline, a guttural “croo, croo, croo” drifted toward us.

“Your mom always loved watching them,” he told me.

My green painted fingernails clenched around the camera. “Talking about her doesn’t excuse you from not coming to the funeral.”

Lake opened his mouth, but I turned my back on the birds and started walking again. The crunch of sand and gravel let me know that Lake followed.

“Stop following me,” I grunted.

“The ferry will be here soon,” he said.

“I’m sure I’ll notice a big boat pulling into the dock.”

“You shouldn’t wander too far away. There are things you’re not used to around here.”

I walked faster, my brown boots clunking on the sandy gravel. “I’m not a little kid and you’re not my dad. You’re not
anything
. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to.”

His footsteps behind me stopped suddenly, but I kept going, refusing to look back as tears stung my eyes.

“This is as hard for me as it is for you, Mara,” he called after me.

“Not likely,” I muttered.

I didn’t stop until I was sure a good amount of distance separated us. Then I leaned against the fence, resting my forehead against the cool metal as I fought to calm the tremors making their way through my body. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the reality around me away. If my mom had never gotten sick, I would be with my old friends right now, shopping or going to the movies or talking about all the latest gossip going around school.

But that life had passed.

I looked through my camera again, scanning out across the water. The ferry would take us to barrier islands that lay somewhere out there along the coast, but from here I could only see gray-green water stretching out until it met hazy clouds on the horizon. Nothing but water everywhere, almost as if I stood on the edge of the world and soon I might slip off of it completely.

A chill tickled its way up my spine and the hairs along the back of my neck stood up again. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched, just like on the bus.

When I turned my head slightly, looking back toward the group at the other end of the fence, no one blatantly looked at me. Lake stood several feet away, his back to the water and his head bent. The woman from the bus sat next to the ticket booth, hugging her arms around herself as she rocked back and forth on the wooden bench.

A splash drew my attention back toward the water of the Pamlico Sound. I panned my camera lens closer to the shore in search of more birds.

There is no one watching me,
I told myself. Only gently rolling waves stretched out forever. The long day was getting to me.

Lake still leaned against the fence as I trudged back toward him. “How much longer?” I asked.

“Probably about fifteen minutes or so.” Lake turned toward me, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His breath hung frosty white in the air in front of his face for a moment before disappearing. “I know you don’t remember anything about Swans Landing, but it is your home. You’ve always been welcomed here.”

He could make a thousand excuses now about why he never felt the need to be a real father and pretend that everything was
fine
, but it would never make up for years of silence. I had long ago given up the fantasy of my loving and caring dad coming back for me. He was the one who couldn’t even come to see Mom one last time.
I
had to come to
him
. Like always.

“We’re family, Mara,” he said softly. “And right now, we’re all that we have left.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. I would
not
cry. Not in front of him. He wasn’t allowed to have this kind of effect on me.

“I don’t need you,” I told him, my voice a hoarse whisper over the sound of the gently lapping water on the shore behind us. I didn’t need anyone. I was only staying until I turned eighteen, then I would be gone and he could forget we ever met. I certainly would.

Chapter Two

The tiny village of Swans Landing sat on the northern end of the island, with the rest of the land covered in a maritime forest of short, thick live oak trees. As the ferry approached the island after a three hour ride, a stark white lighthouse with a solid black line around its middle loomed over the homes and shops. I found myself mesmerized by the light blinking steadily. The only lighthouses I’d ever seen before were in books or on TV, and they had always been narrow, towering structures. This lighthouse was shorter than I expected, but very wide, and the white paint contrasted sharply against the slate colored sky.

Lake had informed me, during one of his attempts at conversation throughout the excruciatingly long ferry ride, that there were no roads or bridges across the water to connect the eight mile long island to the mainland, only the ferry that ran a few times each day. Otherwise, the only way on or off the island was by private boat—or else maybe a really long and cold swim, depending on how desperate a girl might be for escape.

It took only a short drive from the ferry landing to Lake’s house on a small residential street off Heron Avenue. There were no other cars driving along the road, only people walking or riding bikes. They didn’t seem to mind the cold afternoon. A few waved as we passed, but most turned away, as if ignoring our presence. A group of elderly ladies scowled at us from an old wooden swing on the front porch of a house we passed.

Lake fiddled with the radio dial as he drove down the street lined with leafless skeletons of trees, but the only stations he could pick up on his decrepit radio were full of static. “There aren’t many of us here year round. It won’t take you long to learn everyone’s names.”

Staying invisible during my time in Swans Landing would probably be impossible. “So I guess a mall is out of the question around here,” I said.

Lake grinned. “Sorry. You’ll have to go back to the mainland for that. Just the Variety Store and a few local shops for all your shopping needs.”

We pulled to a stop in front of a tiny A-frame house, which sat several feet off the ground on wooden pilings like the rest of the houses around it. Dingy, peeling blue paint coated the wooden exterior, and the white stones lining the walkway had been knocked out of place so that a crooked path led to the front door. A wooden boat lay upside down in the front yard and various fishing poles, ropes, and things I didn’t even recognize were stacked against one side of the house.

“It’s not much,” Lake told me as he turned off the ignition.

It really wasn’t much. Inside, it would only take ten steps to walk from one end of the living room to the other end of the tiny kitchen. The furniture was old, worn, and in some cases, bleeding stuffing from various holes and tears. Dishes filled the sink and a long table littered with seashells and bits of colored glass stretched in front of the tall windows along one wall.

No TV. No computer.

“This is the living room and kitchen,” Lake said, nodding around the room. He pointed toward two doors. “The one on the left is the bathroom. The other one is my bedroom. Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

As I took in my sparse surroundings, I noticed a distinct lack of photographs of any kind around the room. What was I hoping for? Some kind of evidence that maybe Lake had once loved my mom? That maybe sometimes he even missed her?

But of course, there was nothing. Looking around Lake’s house, no one would ever guess that he had been married and had a child that he had let go.

We climbed a narrow ladder on the other side of the refrigerator into a loft area over the kitchen/living room. The point of the A-frame allowed us to stand straight only if we were in the center of the loft, otherwise we stood hunched over. A mattress on the floor served as the bed and a small dresser sat in front of the porthole window. And that was basically it, besides a lot of dust.

“You’ve got the best view of the sound,” Lake told me, pointing toward the window.

When I moved closer, I could see a strip of water in the distance between the houses across the street.

“So,” Lake said, moving back toward the ladder, as if he couldn’t wait to get away, “I’m sorry about dropping you off like this, but I have some things I need to do before the sun goes down. I work for myself and I lost a lot of time today, going to the mainland and all—”