Water Steps

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Also by A. LaFaye

 

 

To every kid who faces a fear
and finds a little magic

A
ny old dummy can take a digital photograph. But how many kids can take a real old-fashioned shutter shot of a purple hairstreak butterfly in flight? Not too many. That's how I earned a red ribbon at the Cortland County Fair last year. I could've taken the first place blue if it weren't for Gaylen Parker, the girl with gigabytes for brains.

She had to enter with her digitally muckety-mucked picture of a Pocono Mountains sunset. No way does nature paint with that kind of a brush, but computers sure do. She can swear to fifty thousand judges that she didn't fix-up that photograph, but I'm not going to buy it. Thanks to her cheating,
pixel tweaking pinkies, I lost the blue.

“Too bad you can't get her to spit in water, Kyna,” Pep told me the morning after the fair. He's always coming up with these wacky Irish traditions no one but the leprechauns have heard of.

“What good would that do?” I asked, helping him set the table for breakfast.

He paused, cocked his eyebrows, then said, “Well, some folks say if a liar spits in water it doesn't float.”

“Did you pick that up from one of your fairy friends?” I asked. I needed a real solution to my problem, not fairy dust.

“How many times do I have tell you? Fairies aren't friendly. They're pony-riding, baby-stealing little fiends, those fairies.”

Pep always spoke of the make-believe critters from his Irish homeland as if they were as everyday as the village priest. A running joke he'd played with Mem since the day they adopted me. I tried to tell them I was too old for all their shenanigans, but Pep just told me they'd have to be leprechauns to get up to any, so that was that.

Coming in from the garden with some nasturtium greens for the salad, Mem said, “All that Parker girl would have to do is eat a bit of salt before she spits,
Ronan. You should know the way around that test better than anyone.” Dumping the greens into the bowl next to Pep, she elbowed him, saying, “Mr. ‘
I've got tickets to see the Chieftains in Dublin.'
”

“I had them. Just couldn't use them. A bit damp they were.”

They laughed. I'd heard the story of the soggy concert tickets he found on a rock along the shore a thousand times, how he used the promise of them to get Mem to finally go out with him, then hid them until they'd reached a pretty cove south of Dublin for a moonlit swim. I knew that story word for word, but I still loved the way it made them laugh, then start chattering in Irish, their hands flashing to the rhythm of the memories they told each other.

They'd smile, fall shoulder to shoulder, then finally remember I was still standing there and one of them would say, “Sorry, sweet, little swim down the memory channel, there.”

No matter. I'd taken a little trip down memory lane, myself. I prefer land travel. I went back to the day I finally got my shot of the purple hairstreak. I'd been hanging out in the Garrington Gardens on Clark Street for days. My kind of place. In the center of the town of Perryville, high in the Pocono
Mountains of Pennsylvania, plenty far from the ocean. The park didn't even have a pond. I spent my days there hovering over flowers, my camera focused and ready for just the right bug to fly into view. I had shot after shot of bees and moths, and I almost caught a hummingbird beak-deep in a honeysuckle, but I sneezed, so all I got was a big blur of a photograph and a bruised eye from where I clonked into the camera.

But there's something triple-chocolate-cheesecake good about hanging there with my camera ready, the
I'm-going-to-get-it-today
tension of waiting for just the right shot that can't be beat. Not with skateboarding or tree climbing or any of the other kooky kid things my classmates are always going on about. I'll take a camera and a roost on a good rock any day.

And the
gotcha
moment makes it worth the leg-cramping wait. After two weeks at my flower post, I snapped the shot just as the purple hairstreak opened its wings a flutter above a yellow rose and I knew I'd caught a miracle right by the antennae. You couldn't buy that with a zillion dollars or a truckload of blue ribbons.

And I even got my picture in the paper for all of that hard work. Actually, the whole family is in the
picture. Me in the middle with my picture held up, Mem and Pep on either side, squeezing me for pride's sake. So what if it was only half the size of Gaylen's and on the fourth page of the family section. This year I'd take a picture no silly computer could touch. They'd pin that pretty blue ribbon on there and we'd have a nice big picture on page one.

That was the plan until Mem and Pep came up to my room in the attic, looking all
“we've got something to tell you and you're not going to like it.”
Didn't matter if I had a summer full of plans. Sure, I wanted to get a shot not even Gaylen Parker could beat. But I also had some great ideas for summer upgrades on my tree fort in the backyard and my best friend Hillary and I planned to start our Get With the Land project for Girl Scouts in the state park by mapping all the walking trails complete with nature guide signs along the way. I even saved up my allowance to buy a compass. I had my whole summer set for great adventure, but no, Mem and Pep had other plans that washed all of mine away.

They plopped down at the end of my bed, knee to knee, knuckle to knuckle, as they cranked up the smiles.

“What?” I asked, not wanting to know.

They put on their fake chipper voices, then Mem said, “We have a plan.”

Pep must have seen the
bury me now
look on my face, because he said, “An opportunity, really.”

“We've rented a cabin for the summer.”

No way would they pull me in with their little bait. I'd just wait for the hook. The hard barby piece of the news I couldn't swallow.

“And . . .” Pep couldn't say it. That spelled bad news to me. I gripped the seat of my chair.

Mem leaned forward and whispered, “It's on a lake.”

Pep jumped in with, “A magical lake with silkies in it.”

A lake?! Felt like they'd sucked all of the air out of my lungs with straws. I couldn't live on a lake. I'd rather be chopped up and fed to lions. Live in the middle of the desert in a tin shed. Spend the summer on a frozen tundra ice floe with a parka and a pick. But not near water. Please, no water.

W
ater scared me. Freaked me out so much I couldn't walk through a rain puddle. My bones locked up. My muscles shrank. I turned to stone. The whole world went blue. Water scared me that much and Mem and Pep wanted me to live by a lake for the summer. A magic lake they said. Filled with silkies—the seal folk who take on human form when they leave the water. I didn't care if the lake itself could fly!

I didn't want to live on a lake. I didn't want to live near a lake. I didn't want to even see a picture of a lake.

Moving from the bed to kneel next to me, Pep said, “You don't have to get in the lake, Kyna. You won't
even be able to see the water from the house. It sits high up on the shore. Nice and dry.”

“But I'll know the water's there, Pep. I'll hear it,” I said, diving on the bed to roll up in my quilt.

Kissing me through the quilt, Mem said, “You can't let your fears grow bigger than you, Kyna. They'll swallow you up.”

My fear of water was as big as a lake. And I'd drown in it.

But I knew the rules. Face your fear one step at a time. Speaking through the quilt, I asked, “I don't have to go in the water?”

“Not until you're ready.” Mem rubbed my back.

Pep and Mem always said, “Not until you're ready.”

They got this great slogan from Dr. Clark, the therapist they dragged me to every week. Worked just fine for me when it came to being ready to sleep over at a friend's house or ride my bike downtown, but sometimes Mem and Pep thought I was ready before I really was. Last fall, they wanted me to take a shower. Not a slimy sponge bath in my nice dry bedroom on the third floor, but a shower in the tub that could fill up with water.

I refused and locked myself in my closet, yelling, “If you make me take a shower, I'll never bathe again.”

Speaking through the door, Mem said, “Then you'll smell so bad animals will roll on you for the scent.”

Our cat, Kippers, loved to roll on dirty socks and stick her head in my smelly shoes. I imagined myself walking outside, attracting every cat in the neighborhood. They'd rub all over me until I fell into the grass and disappeared under a pile of purring fur.

But the closet felt too small and dark. I had to open the door.

Pep gave me a hug and a kiss on the forehead.

“We'll be right there with you, Kyna,” he said, already in his swim trunks—the green ones with the dancing sea horses. He has as many swimming trunks as he does pants. But he calls them
togs
.

“Can I bring my snorkle?” I held it up. Some kids have a security blanket. I have a breathing device for anything I have to do with water.

“No.” Mem shook her head. She wore the silver swimsuit that sparkled in the sun like the scales of a fish.

“But the tub could fill up with water.”

“The drain's clear. I checked it just this evening,” Pep said, coming to my other side.

“It could clog up with hair and soap while we're in there.”

“We won't let it.” Mem gave me a big squeeze. “Come on, you'll see.”

They led me into the hall.

I dragged my feet, shouting, “I'm not ready!”

“Yes, you are,” Mem said, as she swept my legs out from under me and carried me down the two flights of stairs to the bathroom. The room I hated most of all. The room I enjoyed having two full stories below me because it had water—everywhere. The sink. The toilet. The tub.

How did she know I was ready? Didn't she hear me gasping for breath? Feel the cold sweat on my palms? The tight grip I had around her neck? As soon as she set me down and I felt the cool tiles under my feet, my body turned as stiff as those tiles.