Read Online The Lake of Dreams by Kim Edwards - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kim Edwards
Ads: Link
inspiration for my moon garden, actually. That, and Virginia Woolf.” She smiled and recited, “Every flower seems to burn by itself, softly, purely in the misty beds; and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses.”
I just nodded. I didn’t want to think too much about my mother’s moon garden, run ragged with neglect. “I wonder who made this. Because it’s hand-woven, I think. A very fine flax, maybe.”
The cloth lifted on the breeze for a second.
“I don’t know. I think of her sometimes, though, all the care she took.”
“Maybe she lived here; maybe she’s the one who collected all these pamphlets.”
“Maybe. Funny that you found these other papers, hidden away all this time.”
“See? You can’t possibly sell the house—not until we know who wrote these.”
My mother didn’t answer, but smiled a faraway smile.
“It was a joke,” I said.
“I know.” She glanced at her watch and sighed. “I really have to get ready for work, much as I don’t want to.”
“What time do you have to be there?”
“In about an hour. Can you take me into town? Would you mind? I’m not supposed to drive with this cast, and I forgot to ask Blake to pick me up.”
“Sure. I’ll take a quick swim first, while you get ready.”
“But it’s so cold, Lucy. June cold, melted-ice cold.”
“Right, I know. I was already in, remember? It’ll wake me up.”
She shook her head, smiling, and carried the coffee pot inside.
I hadn’t thought to bring a bathing suit, but I found an old one of my mother’s in the summer porch where we always used to hang them to dry. I walked across the lawn and out to the end of the dock and dived straight into the water without missing a beat, so the cold shock happened all at once. This was the best way; by the time I surfaced, the water felt warmer than the air. I dived deep one more time, through the layers of water, cold and growing colder, until my foot touched a moss-covered rock on the bottom, and I came back up, shedding memory and desire, seeking nothing but air.
I dressed quickly, collecting the papers in an old file folder and carrying everything upstairs. The cloth was as light as a fragment of mist, as the remnant of a dream. Then I went out to the barn to start the car. The Impala was canary yellow with a white top and chrome trim like arrows along the sides. It had been polished to a gleam and smelled like stale air freshener. I had to pause, getting in, because the front seat was still set for my father’s legs, longer than mine, and I remembered how he’d slide in and turn the ignition with a flourish, and what a treat it had been those rare times I got to ride with him in the front seat, listening to him talk about this or that while we drove into town, meandering, as if we had all the time in the world.
When I finally pulled myself together and adjusted the seat, the Impala started right away, hardly making a sound as I backed out of the barn. My mother came out onto the porch steps, pausing to lock the door behind her. She was dressed in a straight dark blue skirt and a blouse printed with tiny gold flowers, a briefcase in her good hand, her bright green cast in striking contrast to her serious outfit. She was the chief loan officer at the bank, a position she’d worked up to from her initial job as teller.
“This feels strange, doesn’t it,” she said, sliding across the white leather seat.
“It’s like a cruise ship,” I said. “It must get about five miles to the gallon.”
“Probably. No seat belts, either. He just loved tinkering with it, though. It wasn’t ever really about getting from one place to another.”
I drove toward town, passing the miles of depot land, the rolling fields verdant beyond the silver chain-link fence, butterflies and goldfinches darting through the tall grasses. At the curve before the entrance I slowed, half-expecting more protestors, but it was
I just nodded. I didn’t want to think too much about my mother’s moon garden, run ragged with neglect. “I wonder who made this. Because it’s hand-woven, I think. A very fine flax, maybe.”
The cloth lifted on the breeze for a second.
“I don’t know. I think of her sometimes, though, all the care she took.”
“Maybe she lived here; maybe she’s the one who collected all these pamphlets.”
“Maybe. Funny that you found these other papers, hidden away all this time.”
“See? You can’t possibly sell the house—not until we know who wrote these.”
My mother didn’t answer, but smiled a faraway smile.
“It was a joke,” I said.
“I know.” She glanced at her watch and sighed. “I really have to get ready for work, much as I don’t want to.”
“What time do you have to be there?”
“In about an hour. Can you take me into town? Would you mind? I’m not supposed to drive with this cast, and I forgot to ask Blake to pick me up.”
“Sure. I’ll take a quick swim first, while you get ready.”
“But it’s so cold, Lucy. June cold, melted-ice cold.”
“Right, I know. I was already in, remember? It’ll wake me up.”
She shook her head, smiling, and carried the coffee pot inside.
I hadn’t thought to bring a bathing suit, but I found an old one of my mother’s in the summer porch where we always used to hang them to dry. I walked across the lawn and out to the end of the dock and dived straight into the water without missing a beat, so the cold shock happened all at once. This was the best way; by the time I surfaced, the water felt warmer than the air. I dived deep one more time, through the layers of water, cold and growing colder, until my foot touched a moss-covered rock on the bottom, and I came back up, shedding memory and desire, seeking nothing but air.
I dressed quickly, collecting the papers in an old file folder and carrying everything upstairs. The cloth was as light as a fragment of mist, as the remnant of a dream. Then I went out to the barn to start the car. The Impala was canary yellow with a white top and chrome trim like arrows along the sides. It had been polished to a gleam and smelled like stale air freshener. I had to pause, getting in, because the front seat was still set for my father’s legs, longer than mine, and I remembered how he’d slide in and turn the ignition with a flourish, and what a treat it had been those rare times I got to ride with him in the front seat, listening to him talk about this or that while we drove into town, meandering, as if we had all the time in the world.
When I finally pulled myself together and adjusted the seat, the Impala started right away, hardly making a sound as I backed out of the barn. My mother came out onto the porch steps, pausing to lock the door behind her. She was dressed in a straight dark blue skirt and a blouse printed with tiny gold flowers, a briefcase in her good hand, her bright green cast in striking contrast to her serious outfit. She was the chief loan officer at the bank, a position she’d worked up to from her initial job as teller.
“This feels strange, doesn’t it,” she said, sliding across the white leather seat.
“It’s like a cruise ship,” I said. “It must get about five miles to the gallon.”
“Probably. No seat belts, either. He just loved tinkering with it, though. It wasn’t ever really about getting from one place to another.”
I drove toward town, passing the miles of depot land, the rolling fields verdant beyond the silver chain-link fence, butterflies and goldfinches darting through the tall grasses. At the curve before the entrance I slowed, half-expecting more protestors, but it was
Similar Books
