On Mystic Lake Part 9

That dried-up, hollowed-out old shoot with the squiggly, hairy root was the most beautiful thing Annie had ever seen.

Chapter 9.

Izzy clutched Miss Jemmie under her arm; it was the best she could do without all her fingers. She lagged behind the pretty, short-haired lady.

She was glad to be home, but it wouldn't last long. The pretty lady would take one look at Daddy's mess in the house and that would be that. Grown-up girls didn't like dirty places.

"Come on, Izzy," the lady called out from the porch.

Izzy stared up at the front door. She wished her daddy would suddenly shove through that door and race down the creaky old porch steps like he used to, that he'd sweep Izzy into his big, strong arms and spin her around until she giggled, kissing that one tickly spot on her neck.

It wouldn't happen, though. Izzy knew that because she'd been having the same dream for months and months and it never came true.

She remembered the first time her daddy had brought them out here. That was when his hair was black as a crow's wing and he never came home smelling like the bad place.

That first time had been magic. He had smiled and laughed and held her in his arms. Can't you just see it, Can't you just see it, Kath? We'll plant an orchard over there . . . and fill that Kath? We'll plant an orchard over there . . . and fill that porch with rocking chairs for summer nights . . . and we porch with rocking chairs for summer nights . . . and we can have picnics on the gra.s.s. . . . can have picnics on the gra.s.s. . . . He'd kissed Izzy's cheek then. He'd kissed Izzy's cheek then. Would you like that, Suns.h.i.+ne? A picnic with Would you like that, Suns.h.i.+ne? A picnic with chicken and milkshakes and Jell-O salad? chicken and milkshakes and Jell-O salad?

She'd said, Oh, yes, Daddy, Oh, yes, Daddy, but they'd never had a picnic, not on the lawn or anywhere else. . . . but they'd never had a picnic, not on the lawn or anywhere else. . . .

The front door creaked open, and Izzy remembered that the lady was waiting for her. She trudged reluctantly up the porch steps. The lady-Annie; she had to remember that the lady's name was Annie-clicked on the lamp beside the sofa. Light landed in streaks on Daddy's mess. Bottles, pizza boxes, dirty clothes were lying everywhere.

"As Bette Davis would say, 'What a dump.'Your father certainly doesn't win the Felix Unger award."

Izzy winced. That was it. Back to Lurlene's for chipped beef on toast. . . .

But Annie didn't turn and walk away. Instead, she picked her way through the junk and flung open the curtains in a cloud of dust. Sunlight poured through the two big picture windows. "That's better," she said, glancing around. "I don't suppose you know where the brooms and dustpans are? A bulldozer? How about a blowtorch?"

Izzy's heart started beating rapidly, and something felt funny in her chest.

Annie winked at her. "I'll be right back." She hurried out of the living room and disappeared into the kitchen.

Izzy stood very still, barely breathing, listening to the rapid fluttering of her heart.

Annie came back into the living room carrying a black garbage bag, a broom, and a bucket of soapy water.

That strange feeling in Izzy's chest seemed to grow bigger and bigger, until she almost couldn't breathe. Slowly, she moved toward Annie, waiting for the lady to throw her hands up and say, It's too G.o.dd.a.m.n much work, Nicky, It's too G.o.dd.a.m.n much work, Nicky, like her mommy used to. like her mommy used to.

But Annie didn't say that. Instead, she bent over and picked up the garbage, one piece at a time, shoving it into the black bag.

Cautiously, Izzy moved closer.

Annie didn't look at her. "It's just junk, Izzy. Nothing permanent. There's nothing done here that can't be undone. My daughter's room used to look like this all the time-and she was a perfectly lovely teenager." She kept talking, and with each unanswered sentence, Izzy felt herself relaxing. "Why, I remember this place when I was a little girl. Your mom and daddy and I used to peek in the windows at nighttime, and we'd make up stories about the people who used to live here. I always thought it was a beautiful, wealthy couple from back East, who walked around in tuxedos and evening gowns. Your dad, he thought it was once owned by gamblers who lost everything in a single hand of cards. And your mama-why, I can't recall what she used to think. Probably something romantic, though." She paused long enough to smile at Izzy. "Maybe when the weather warms up, we could have a picnic on the lawn. Would you like that?"

Izzy felt the weirdest urge to cry. She wanted to say, We We could have milkshakes and Jell-O salad, but she didn't. She couldn't have, even if she'd really tried. Besides, it was just one of those things grown-ups promised even when they didn't mean it. could have milkshakes and Jell-O salad, but she didn't. She couldn't have, even if she'd really tried. Besides, it was just one of those things grown-ups promised even when they didn't mean it.

"In fact," Annie said, "we could have a mini-picnic today. When I get the living room cleaned up, we'll have cookies and juice outside-iced raisin cookies and Maui punch. That sounds good, don't you think? 'Yes, Annie, I think that would be terrrrrific.' That's my Tony the Tiger impression. Natalie-that's my daughter; she's almost a grown-up now-she used to love Frosted Flakes. I'll bet you do, too."

Izzy bit back an unexpected smile. She liked the way Annie didn't wait for her to answer. It made Izzy feel like she wasn't so different, like not talking was as okay as talking.

Tiny step by tiny step, she inched sideways. When she reached the sofa, she sat down, ignoring the dust that poofed up around her. Bit by bit, the garbage disappeared, and after a while, it began to look like home.

Annie tapped lightly on Izzy's bedroom door. There was no answer. Finally, she pushed open the door and went inside. The room was small and dark, tucked under an overhang in the roofline. A charming dormer reached outward, capturing the last pink light of day behind pale, worn lace curtains. The walls were done in a beautiful lavender-striped paper, and a matching floral print covered the bed. A Winnie-the-Pooh lamp sat on a white bedside table.

Nick and Kathy had probably planned this room and saved for it, wanting to create the perfect place for their child. Annie could remember the dreams that came with pregnancy, and the endless details of hope. Much of it started with the nursery.

Annie didn't know much about manic-depression, or how it had twisted and changed Kathy, but she knew that Kathy had loved her daughter. Every item in this room had been lovingly chosen, from the Little Mermaid nightlight to the Peter Rabbit bookends.

She crossed the clothes-strewn wooden floor to the bed. Izzy's dainty profile made a beautiful cameo against a faded yellow Big Bird pillowcase. A fuzzy purple blanket was drawn taut across her shoulders and tucked gently beneath her chin. The doll-Miss Jemmie, Lurlene had said-was sprawled on the floor, her black b.u.t.ton eyes staring up at the ceiling. Izzy's tiny, black-gloved hand lay like a stain on the lavender lace bedspread.

Annie hated to wake the sleeping girl, but she was a big believer in routine. Children needed to know where the limits were and what rules governed. She'd put Izzy down for a nap at two-thirty-and was surprised when she actually fell asleep. Now, at four o'clock, it was time to wake up.

She bent down and jostled the little girl's shoulder. "Wake up, sleepyhead."

Izzy made a tiny, mewling sound and snuggled deeper under the covers.

"Oh, no, you don't. Come on, Izzy."

One brown eye popped open. Izzy used two fingers on her right hand to push the covers back. Blinking and yawning, she sat up.

"I thought you'd like to take a bath before your daddy gets home." Annie smiled and held up the bag of treats she'd brought with her. "I got you some new clothes and a few surprises-Lurlene told me what sizes to get. Come on." She helped Izzy out of bed and led her to the bathroom, where she quickly ran some water into the tub.

Then she knelt in front of the child.

Izzy eyed her warily.

Annie looked down at Izzy's gloved hand. "Don't you just hate it when parts of you start disappearing? Now, hands up."

Izzy dutifully raised her right arm. Her left arm hung limply at her side, the black-gloved fingers completely slack.

Annie sat back on her heels. "How, exactly, do we undress the invisible parts? I guess, if I just peel your jammies back . . ." Slowly, she pulled the sleeve along the "invisible" arm. Then she reached for the glove.

Izzy made a choking sound and wrenched away from her.

"Oh, sorry. The glove can't come off?"

Izzy stared intently at a spot somewhere behind Annie's left ear.

"I understand. There is no glove, is there, Izzy?"

Izzy bit down on her lower lip. She still didn't look at Annie.

Annie stood. Carefully taking Izzy by the shoulders, she steered the child toward the bathtub and helped her into the warm water. Izzy hugged the side of the tub, where her left arm hung limply over the edge.

"That's not too hot, is it?" Annie asked. "No, Annie, that's just right. Just exactly the temperature I like."

Izzy stared at her.

Annie grinned. "I can carry on a conversation all by myself. When I was a girl-I was an only child, too-I used to do it all the time."

Annie poured bubble bath into the falling water. Izzy watched, apparently awestruck, as airy white foam bubbled up around her.

Then Annie lighted a trio of votive candles she'd found in the kitchen. The sweet aroma of vanilla rose in the air. "Sometimes a girl needs a romantic bath-just for her.

Okay." She reached into her brown bag. "Look at my goodies. I've got Johnson's baby shampoo, Pocahontas soap, a Hunchback of Notre Dame towel, and a Beauty and the Beast comb. And this darling darling play suit. It's lavender with little yellow flowers-just like your mom's garden will be-and a matching yellow hat." play suit. It's lavender with little yellow flowers-just like your mom's garden will be-and a matching yellow hat."

She kept up a steady stream of dialogue, asking questions and answering them herself as she washed Izzy's long hair and lathered and rinsed her body, and finally helped her out of the tub. She wrapped the tiny girl in a huge towel and began combing her hair. "I remember when my daughter, Natalie, was your age. No bigger than a minute. It used to make my heart ache just to look at her." She wove Izzy's hair into a pair of perfect French braids and finished them off with two yellow satin bows.

"Turn around."

Dutifully, Izzy turned.

Annie dressed her in new white cotton underwear and helped her into the lavender blouse and overalls. When she was finished, she guided Izzy to the full-length mirror in the corner.

The little girl stared at herself for a long, long time. Then, very slowly, she lifted her right hand and touched the satin ribbons with her forefinger. Her rosebud mouth wobbled uncertainly. She bit down hard on her lower lip. A single tear trickled down Izzy's flushed pink cheek. Just one.

Annie understood. It was what she'd been hoping for, at least in part. That Izzy would see herself as she used to be. "I bet you always used to look like this, didn't you, Izzy?"

She placed a tender kiss on Izzy's forehead. The child smelled of baby shampoo and new soap. Like little girls everywhere.

Then, Annie sat back on her heels and looked steadily in Izzy's eyes. "You know how you share your toys with a friend, and you have more fun than if you were playing all by yourself? Sometimes that's true of sadness, too. Sometimes if you share it, it goes away."

Izzy didn't respond.

Annie smiled. "Now, I could use some help in the kitchen. I've started dinner, but I can't find the dishes anywhere anywhere. Maybe you could help me?"

Izzy blinked.

Annie took that as a yes.

Together, they went down to the kitchen. Izzy walked dutifully toward the table and sat down. Her little feet dangled above the floor.

Annie talked the whole time she made dumplings, stirring batter and dropping it into the simmering chicken stew. "Do you know how to set the table?" she asked as she put the lid on the big metal pot.

Izzy didn't answer.

"This isn't going to work, you know, Miss Izzy." Annie picked up a spoon and handed it to the girl. "Here you go-this is for you."

Izzy used her thumb and forefinger to take hold of the spoon. She stared at it, then frowned up at Annie.

"One shake of the spoon is yes. Two shakes is no. That way we can talk . . . sort of in code, without ever having to say something out loud. Now, do you think you could show me where the plates are?"

Izzy stared unblinking at the spoon for a long, long time. Then, very slowly, she shook it once.

"Hey, Nicky, I hear Hank Bourne's daughter is back in town."

Nick glanced up from his drink. There was a headache pounding behind his eyes, and he couldn't quite focus. He'd had it all day, ever since the fiasco at the Weaver place. He'd booked Chuck and thrown him in a cell, but already Sally had been to the station to make sure that no charges were leveled at her husband. Already she'd told the desk sergeant that she'd fallen down the stairs.

Nick thought that if he stopped in at Zoe's for a quick drink-just one to steady his nerves-he'd be okay to face Annie and Izzy at home. But, like always, one drink led to another and another and another . . .

What he'd seen in Sally's eyes opened a wound in his soul, a dark, ugly place that was bubbling with painful memories.

He closed his fingers around the gla.s.s and took another long, soothing pull of the scotch. "Whatever you say, Zoe."

Joel Dermot scooted closer to him. "I remember Annie Bourne. Her and my daughter, Suki, used to be in Girl Scouts together."

Nick closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about those days, long ago, when the three of them had been best friends. When he thought of those days, he remembered how much he used to care about Annie, and then he wound up thinking about the previous night, when she'd been in his arms, naked and wild, fulfilling all the fantasies he'd ever had about her. The memory invariably pushed him down a long and treacherous road, a road that made him question all the choices he'd made along the way. How he'd chosen Kathy because she needed him . . . and how he'd let her down, and how loving her had ruined him. Then he'd find himself having dark, dangerous thoughts- like what would his life have been like if he'd chosen Annie, or what it could could be like if she were the kind of woman who would stay in Mystic. be like if she were the kind of woman who would stay in Mystic.

Another man's wife.

Nick shot unsteadily to his feet, in a hurry to outrun that thought. Tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, he turned and hurried out of the smoky tavern. He jumped into his patrol car and headed for home. By the time he pulled into his driveway, he felt as if he'd driven a thousand miles over a corrugated road. His body ached, his head hurt, and he longed for one more drink to ease the way.

What in the h.e.l.l would he say to Annie now, after what had happened between them?

Slowly, he got out of the car, walked across the gravel walkway and up the sagging porch steps, and went inside.

Annie was stretched out on the sofa. When the door clicked shut behind him, she sat up and gave him a bleary-eyed smile. "Oh," she said. "I guess I fell asleep."

Her beauty left him momentarily speechless. He backed up a step, keeping as much floor as possible between them. He glanced away. "Sorry I'm late. I . . . meant to show up at Lurlene's, but we had an emergency call, and, well . . ."

She threw the blanket back and got up. Her clothes were wrinkled, and there was a network of tiny pink lines across her right cheek. "It's no problem. Izzy and I had a good time today. I think we're going to get along great."

He wanted to say something that would ease his guilt and make her think well of him. He had a ridiculous urge to talk to her about what had happened today, to share with another human being that he was shaken, that something had spilled out of him today, and he didn't know how to retrieve it, or how to put it back where it belonged. But that kind of intimacy was so alien to him that he couldn't imagine how to begin.

She plucked her purse from the coffee table. She was careful not to look at him for too long. "If you want . . . I could make you and Izzy a nice dinner tomorrow night. I think she'd like that."

"That would be great. I'll be home at six o'clock."

She edged past him but stopped at the door, turning back. "From now on . . . if you're going to be late, I'd appreciate a phone call."

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

She gave him a last smile and left the house.

He stood at the window, watching her drive away. When the tiny red dots of her taillights disappeared around the bend in the road, he slowly climbed the stairs and went into the guest bedroom, the one he'd moved into eight months ago and still used when he didn't fall asleep on the couch. Stripping out of his blue uniform, he slipped into a pair of ragged old sweats and tiredly walked down the hallway. Outside Izzy's door, he paused for a moment, gathering his strength.

A tiny nightlight glowed from the wall next to her bed. It was Winnie-the-Pooh's face in vibrant yellow. He picked up her favorite book- Where the Wild Things Are Where the Wild Things Are-and lowered himself slowly to the edge of her bed. As the mattress sagged beneath his weight, he froze. Izzy wiggled in her sleep, but didn't waken.

He opened the book, staring down at the first page. In the old days, when he'd read to her every night before bed, she'd curled her little body so trustingly against his, and c.o.c.ked her smiling face up. Daddy, what're yah gonna Daddy, what're yah gonna read me tonight, Daddy? read me tonight, Daddy?

He squeezed his eyes shut. It had been a long time since he'd remembered her habit of saying Daddy Daddy at the beginning and end of every sentence. He leaned down slowly, slowly, and kissed the softness of her forehead. The little-girl scent enveloped him, made him remember giving her bubble baths. . . . at the beginning and end of every sentence. He leaned down slowly, slowly, and kissed the softness of her forehead. The little-girl scent enveloped him, made him remember giving her bubble baths. . . .

He let out a long, slow breath. Now, all he did was read to her when she was asleep, just a few pages from her favorite book. He hoped the words soaked through her sleeping mind. It was a tiny, stupid way of saying he loved her; he knew that. Still, it was all he seemed to have left.