Chapter 13

I took the long way home from Dell’s house, went around the mountain, as my grandmother liked to call it. When we drove home from town during our summer visits, she would sometimes say, “Well, my fine ladies, shall we go the direct way, or shall we go round the mountain?” It was an unusual bit of whimsy for a woman who usually didn’t believe in wasting time or gasoline.

Kate would always pipe up quickly and vote for the most direct route. Sometimes I would, as well. Even at a young age, I knew that the trip around the mountain would give Grandma thirty minutes of uninterrupted time during which she would tell the stories of her Depression-era girlhood. The stories were, of course, intended to point out how spoiled and overindulged we modern children were. It was a lecture Kate and I learned to hate, and one of the things that eventually drove us away from her. We did not feel spoiled and overindulged; we felt ignored and invisible. It hardly seemed like we deserved a lecture for that.

But sometimes, even though I knew Kate would groan and sneer at me, or maybe because I knew it would goad my little sister, I’d say, “Yes, let’s go around the mountain.” Grandma would nod, turn the Oldsmobile off the main road, take a deep breath, and we’d be off—on the journey and on the lecture.

Perhaps it was the artist in me, or just the fact that I could tune out Grandma’s lectures, but I loved those trips around the mountain. The gravel roads were narrow and ancient, curving slowly up mountainsides, plunging deep into shaded valleys, where crystal streams wandered over beds of multicolored river rock, worn smooth over time. Those places had the feel of being old and untouched, magical. Even now, the unlikely network of roads, the distinguishing features of each valley, were ingrained in my memory. I could recall the two places we always stopped. The first was in a valley where an old wooden bridge crossed the river. We climbed from the car, slipped through the rusted barbed wire fence, and picked wildflowers in a valley where a waterfall tumbled over smooth gray shale into a deep pool.

We stayed there long enough to play mermaid princess and hunt for shiny stones, or carve our initials into the chunks of brown sandstone beside the water, where long ago other young people had carved their own childhood marks. When we climbed out to dry, Grandma left us sunning on the rock shelf and wandered upstream to pick wildflowers. On the way home, we stopped at the family graveyard on the back side of our farm, where we placed the flowers on the grave of my grandfather, who was little more than a shadow in the farthest corners of our memories.

My mind swept back in time, clearing away the dust on those memories until the essence of my childhood was so strong that I could feel it all around me. I knew that I would find the old wooden bridge and the mermaid pool in the next valley.

They’re probably gone by now. That was a long time ago. . . . But I found myself hoping, the way we all hope that our childhood places will be eternal, a sort of proof that time can be stopped, after all.

I held my breath as I topped the hill, and the car wound slowly downward, sliding silently beneath the thick canopy of overhanging branches, moving in a rhythm of sunlight and shadow. I stretched to see ahead, a little farther past the trees, around the next bend, until finally I caught a glimpse of something. Something metal and new, glistening in the patchy sunlight. My eyes took in the reality that my heart had refused to frame. The old wooden bridge was gone. Time had moved on and everything had changed. On the far side of the river, someone had cleared the overgrowth of cedars, put in a culvert, a driveway, and a new metal gate. The rusted wire fence that once hung in loose and broken strands, allowing Kate, Grandma, and me to slip easily into our magical spot, had been replaced by a new woven wire fence, silver and clean, unwelcoming like the bridge. A new gate lay beside the fence, not yet placed on its hinges but ready to soon bar trespassers from the place. The wildflowers, at least around the gateway, had succumbed to the bulldozer, as well.

It’s gone, I thought, tasting the salt of raw emotion in my throat. Even though it shouldn’t have mattered that much, I stopped the car on the bridge, gazed down the river toward the bend, and started to cry. I wondered if even the mermaid pool was gone, dozed away like the wildflowers and the old fence. Did I even want to look? If the pool was gone, as well, it would be proof that there was nothing left here but memory.

Things are changing. I didn’t want things to change. I didn’t want my life to change. I didn’t want to lose my job, or face having cancer again, or go back and investigate the reasons why James and I never talked about the baby we lost. I didn’t want to relive the pain of the miscarriage or consider how I had gotten from there to here. I wanted to just go along, day in, day out, in my rut. Busy. Comfortable. Passing time. Mindless of life or its meanings.

Pulling the car to the roadside, I stepped out, moving slowly through the gate, my steps directed by memory and a need I couldn’t put into words. The old paths were no longer visible. The way was always hard to find, but Grandma Rose knew it intuitively. She went through the meadow, into the trees, as if she belonged there. Ahead, I could see her now, disappearing into the undergrowth, passing through a tangle of brambles that seemed impenetrable.

I followed the memory, slipping through the entwined branches. The thorns snagged my suit, but nothing seemed to matter. I followed the path, seeking the way to the water’s edge, drawn by the sound of the river. As I moved, it grew louder—not the soft, quiet whisper of water trickling smoothly among rocks, but the low roar of it tumbling over the rock shelf into the pool below. My hopes leapt up, and I pushed through the last of the underbrush, emerging onto the riverbank, rushing downstream to that old place.

“It’s here. It’s still here,” I heard myself whisper as I stood above the falls, breathing in the scent of water and damp sandstone. Silk suit and pumps forgotten, I picked my way down the uneven tangle of boulders to the pool. Beneath me, the bare, brown legs of a ten-year-old girl traveled easily over the rocks, moving from memory, finding every foothold, every bit of space large enough to anchor a hand.

A sound slipped from my throat as I reached the bottom—something between a laugh and a sob. I stood gazing up at the waterfall, a mist of droplets touching my face. It felt good to be there. Oh, it felt good! A sense of joy lifted my heart, the same joy I felt when I sat at the piano and found music again. This was another part, I realized, another bit of my authentic self. Somewhere inside was the little girl who wasn’t afraid to dream impractical dreams, who believed she could be a mermaid, a princess, an actress, a classical pianist.

I sidestepped along the narrow shelf near the falls, sliding my hands carefully along the rough, damp sandstone, searching for the letters we had carved into the rocks so long ago. One more step and I could see our initials. KEV, Karen Elaine Vongortler. KAV, Kate Allison Vongortler. Above each name was a tiny etching that looked like a crown—a symbol we had learned from the older carvings on the rock. A symbol that Grandma told us was the mark of the mermaid queens.

Taking another step, I felt for the other initials, remembering the day that Kate and I had found them there. We were surprised that others had been to our secret spot before us. Who? we asked Grandma. Who had been there?

She gazed at the rock and then at us, her eyes a mixture of melancholy and contemplation. “The mermaid queens,” she said finally. “But they were gone a long time ago.” Turning away, she walked up the bank to the Queen Anne’s lace. We knew better than to ask any more questions.

I looked at the initials now, running my hands along the tiny crowns we had tried so hard to imitate, then tracing the letters. All at once, I understood the identity of the mermaid queens, and the reason Grandma wouldn’t tell us more about them. BEG, Bernice Ella Gray; SMG, Sadie Marie Gray; AHG, Augustine Hope Gray.

My grandmother and her sisters were the first to come to this place. For reasons we might never know, they left it and they left each other. In her letter to Augustine, Grandma said she had erased this place from her memory, but that wasn’t true. She brought us here because she had not forgotten this place or her sisters. She hadn’t ceased to need it, even though she was too stubborn to admit to that longing.

I thought of Kate and me. I had been drifting away from Kate for years, even these last few years, when she was trying so hard to pull me back. I had been telling myself I didn’t need this place, this family, my sister—that my life was complete as it was. It was a deception I practiced until I had it down perfectly. The truth was that part of me needed all of those things. It was the weakest part, I had always thought. My father had taught me that to need anyone, to not be self-contained and self-sufficient, was weakness. But now I understood that this need was not my weakness; it was my humanity.

I pushed away from the rock, stretching my arms outward as I did when I was a child, embracing sky and sunlight and water, letting myself fall backward—just fall and fall and fall and fall, until the water caught me. I sank into the pool and the cool water surrounded me, washing away . . . everything.

When I came to the surface, I felt new. I felt as if I’d been burning with a fever for thirty years, since that eleven-year-old winter when I let go of my childhood. The fever was finally gone, every thirst suddenly quenched. I lay in the water, gazing upward at the sycamores, listening.

I don’t know how long I lay there, my ears just below the current, enveloped in the silence beneath the surface. An object floated by, touched my cheek, and I brushed it away, then reached for it again, my hands closing over something round and wet. I held it up. A tiny peach, still hard and green. Not yet ripe, but somehow cut loose from the tree. What would it be doing here, out in the woods?

Who planted the peach tree in such an unlikely place, deep in a glen of sycamores where no one would find it? Perhaps the seeds floated down the river from some fine plantation far away. . . .

I remembered the words from Augustine’s letter to Rose. Their secret place had to be nearby. That was why their initials were carved in the rocks. This was where they came to hide from their mother, to hide from the world. Somewhere nearby were the sister trees.

Swimming to the edge of the pool, I stood up unsteadily, stumbling on the loose river stones, dimly aware of my wet clothes and shoes. Letting myself fall into the water in my dress clothes should have seemed foolish and ridiculous, but at that moment it seemed like a bold adventure. I wanted to find my grandmother’s secret place, to add one more piece to the puzzle of my family’s past.

The river led me through a tunnel of overhanging branches and into the clearing beyond, where the banks became less steep, the slopes rising gently into thick stands of primrose and wild huckleberry. A pair of deer startled as I rounded the bend. Raising their heads, they stood frozen in place, fanning their tails and snorting warily. I stopped, enjoying the exhilaration of being so near something wild and beautiful.

Finally, the deer turned slowly and disappeared down a trail through the underbrush. I followed, slipping quietly past the primrose and low-growing huckleberry, just beginning to fill with tiny wild blue-berries.

Beyond the stand of berries, the way began to clear and the trail became more visible, passing through the deep magenta of wild sweet pea and the puffy white of blooming clover. Ahead, the trail led through a grove of twisted trees, some only now surrendering the final blossoms of spring and forming tiny green fruit.

I followed the trail through the peach trees, imagining three little girls there picking sweet amber fruit, inviting one another to imaginary playhouses for tea. I could hear their voices somewhere just beyond view as I continued to the clearing’s edge, where the grove opened into a tiny meadow. The glen was carpeted with new spring grass, shady and serene beneath the thick, far-reaching branches of three ancient sycamores, their limbs rising like castles toward the sky. The sister trees. I stood beneath them, looking into the broad, waving leaves, connected to the past in a way I couldn’t explain.

A dove called somewhere off in the distance, its low, mournful sound making me aware that it was already late afternoon. Kate and James would be wondering where I was. I had no idea how long it had been since I pulled the car off the road and stumbled out. An hour? Maybe longer?

A cool breeze stirred as I made my way back to the road. The air carried the scent of a storm coming, and somewhere far away thunder rumbled. I shivered as I climbed into the car, the seat pressing my wet clothes against my skin. A glance in the rearview mirror brought back reality. My makeup was gone and my hair clung to my face in damp, dark strands. How would I explain this to everyone at the farm?

Worry replaced peace as I drove home. I was suddenly aware of what an irrational act it had been—tromping down to the river in a silk suit and pumps, climbing down the rocks, plunging into the water. It wasn’t like me to do something so careless, so pointless and impulsive.

So free.

That was how I felt when I fell into the water. Free from everything. Lighter than air. Every logical impulse was telling me it was foolish, yet I wanted to turn the car around, go back, and dive in again.

The thought scared me. Maybe I was having a breakdown, some kind of temporary insanity brought on by stress. Where would it end? How far would it go? How far would I go? How long would I keep up this illogical search for myself? Maybe it was time to go back to Boston. Maybe things would be more normal there. I could wrap myself up in the job search and filling out unemployment paperwork. Practical things. Predictable things . . .

Everyone was in the yard when I reached the farm. As I stepped out of the car, they hurried to the fence, then stopped and stared in shock.

James surveyed me from head to toe, his mouth open. “Karen, what the. . . ?”

“What happened?” Kate finished for him, gaping like she was looking at a space alien. “Where have you been? What happened to your clothes?”

Only Ben came closer. He slipped past Kate in the gateway, frantically giving the car and me a once-over. “Are you all right? Did you have a wreck or something?”

My stomach rolled over. They all thought I was a mental case, and it probably seemed that way. “I’m fine.” I tried to look as composed as was possible in a wet suit, muddy pumps, and bedraggled hair. This was very unfamiliar territory for all of us. I never even left the bathroom without makeup on, hair fixed, clothes pressed. “Everyone calm down. I went round the mountain coming home from Dell’s. It . . . took a little longer than I thought, that’s all.”

Joshua squeezed past Kate and stood beside his dad, his little arms stiff at his sides, fists clenched, face turned up toward me. “Aunt Ka-wen, did you go swimmin’?”

I could tell by the body language that what he meant was, Did you go swimming without me? “Yes, I did,” I admitted, and he narrowed his eyes, quickly producing a pout lip. “But I didn’t mean to. I was down by the river, and I slipped.” Not exactly true.

Everyone seemed relieved. Karen was making some measure of sense, which was what we were all accustomed to.

Joshua thought about it as he studied the evidence of my plunge into Mulberry Creek. “You shoulda put on your play clothes and old shoes.” He braced his hands on his hips, shaking his head, doing a fair imitation of his mother. “Them clothes are chu-ch clothes.”

Right then, I could have picked him up and kissed him for stating the obvious in such a perfectly adorable way. Everyone chuckled, and the tension was broken.

“Joshua!” Kate giggled. “Stop bossing Aunt Karen around. And it’s those clothes, not them clothes.”

Joshua screwed his lips to one side, giving us an exasperated look, because, of course, he was serious.

I pointed at him, trying to look like I was having a eureka moment. “You are absolutely right. Next time I will put on my play clothes. But this time I just couldn’t resist. I went looking for an old place your mommy and I used to swim, and do you know what? I found it. I even found the very spot where your mommy and I carved our initials into the rocks.”

Joshua gave me a confused look, but Kate gasped. “Oh, my gosh, I haven’t thought about that place in years. You found the mermaid pool?”

“I did.” All of a sudden, I didn’t care if my clothes were wet or if I looked foolish in front of everyone. The luster in Kate’s eyes was worth all of it. She remembered, and so did I. We felt the bond of common experience, too seldom shared. “And that wasn’t all I found. I found the sister trees. They’re just down the river from where Grandma Rose used to take us swimming. That’s why she went there, and that’s why she’d always walk around the bend without us after we got out to dry. She wasn’t going there to pick special flowers. She was going there to remember her sisters. What she said to Augustine in the letter wasn’t true. She never stopped thinking about them, even all those years later.”

Kate sighed, her eyes misty. “I wish we knew what happened.”

“I don’t know if we ever will,” I admitted.

“Maybe not.”

I nodded, and the strange thing was that I understood exactly what she meant. Just a few days before, I couldn’t imagine why Kate was so determined to dredge up all the old family history—why she cared. Now I wanted to know, too. This was not just her history, it was our history, and with the future so uncertain, the past seemed important.

That evening before we left for church, Kate showed me the Gray family Bible she’d found hidden in the attic. We stood together looking at the page with Sadie’s name scratched out, then we closed the Bible with the sense that Sadie might forever remain a mystery.

After the church service, I ended up in a Sunday school room with Jenilee and several other church ladies, moving tables and rearranging chairs, then laying out mats borrowed from the school gym to produce a practice area for our young dancers.

“Kate said you’re going to stick around and help with the Jumpkids camp tomorrow,” Jenilee said as the two of us labored to drag the heavy foam rubber squares into place and lock the tongue-and-groove joints to form a huge square.

“For a day or two. I wanted to help Dell get started, at least.”

Jenilee shrugged back dampened strands of blond hair while working to secure the joints on one of the mats. It was hard to tell which was more difficult for her—hauling the mats around or carrying on the conversation. “That’s really nice of you.”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to it.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to tell her that.

She glanced over at me with a genuine, affectionate smile, one that said she was glad I wasn’t the grouch Kate sometimes made me out to be. “I think the camp sounds great. The kids are going to have such a good time. Gosh, if I would have gotten to do something like this when I was a kid, I would have . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, pretending to focus on the work. “Well, anyway, when things at home aren’t so great, it means a lot to have something positive to do. It’ll mean a lot to Dell.”

“Thanks,” I said as we finished locking the last joint and sat in the center of the mat. “And by the way, you’re still a kid. Don’t let the pressures of premed and work and everything else take that away from you. Enjoy being twenty-two. You only get to do it once.” I gazed into her brown eyes and remembered my grandmother saying that to me the first time I came to visit from college. I told her I didn’t play the piano anymore because I didn’t have time for it.

Jenilee nodded, seeming to understand. “That’s what Mrs. Jaans told me. You’d like her. I hope she can come over when we all get together for Memorial Day.”

A spark of interest lit somewhere inside me. “I’d like to meet her. When you talk to her, will you be sure and ask her if she knows anything about Sadie and what happened between Grandma and Augustine? E-mail me in Boston if you find out anything.”

“All right.” Jenilee seemed surprised by my interest.

“I guess we’d better get on with the rest of the work.” I climbed to my feet, already feeling stiff and sore. Jenilee followed, and together we helped with the last of the preparations for the Jumpkids camp. When the group was finished, we stood together in the sanctuary and prayed for the success of the camp.

As we finished the prayer and parted ways, Jenilee and Caleb said good-bye and headed off to Brother Baker’s house. James and I waited by the door while Kate and Ben gathered the kids from the nursery. James gave me the same worried look that he’d sent my way several times since I came home wet and dirty in my Sunday suit. I wasn’t acting like myself, and he didn’t know what to think.

“Everything all right?” he said finally, focusing on the heavy arched ceiling timbers.

“Yes.” Just then, I felt all right. It felt good to be tired from actually doing something rather than just from stress and artificial exercise workouts.

Looking at the altar, now transformed into a Jumpkids practice stage, I thought about Brother Baker and his menagerie of rusty pots. Had that only been this morning?

Tonight, I felt like one of those relics—worn-out, cracked, and imperfect. Useful, for the first time in a long time.