The souls of lost lake, p.18
The Souls of Lost Lake, page 18
“Why is my name on Redneck Harriet’s foot?” Wren blurted out the question they’d asked before. “Am I a target? Is someone watching me? Ava Coons wrote our names on your doorstep. The doll shoe! Do people really disappear in these woods? Am I next?”
“Stop. Just stop,” Eddie interjected sternly. His hand ran across her cheek as he pushed back her hair and held her face with his palms. “Listen to me. You need to calm down.”
“Sure. Dead body. Calm. I’m calm.” Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky.
“We need to get the facts. There’s nothing saying someone murdered or harmed Trina, not yet. Maybe she got lost. It is Lost Lake, remember? It was off the map for decades, and even with GPS now it takes effort to get to it.”
“I know, but—”
“And they didn’t find Jasmine. She is still out there, and as far as any of us are concerned, she is still alive.”
“But—”
“As for the doll?” Eddie’s gaze bored into hers. Good ol’ Eddie and his boring brown eyes and plain crooked nose. “We’ll figure it out.”
Well, that was concerning! She wanted him to say something bland, like It’s just a doll, and the name is from Tolkien. Or You’re overreacting. Is it that time of the month? Yes, she’d even take that awful excuse of a male faux pas and then, after she pummeled him for being sexist, they could go get a cherry smoothie at the canteen and—
“Wren.” Eddie snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Back to earth, Wren.”
She blinked.
He stared.
She blinked again.
Suddenly the air between them was thick. In a way she didn’t understand. Wren realized she was holding him. Around the waist, no less, in a death grip. She didn’t want to let go. He was strong. Lithe. She could feel his abdomen through his shirt. She could feel the warmth from his body. But more than all that, Wren sensed his strength oozing into her spirit. As it always had. Since the day they’d first met at the camp’s horse stables.
“Wren?” Eddie’s question snapped her out of her mental fog.
She dropped her arms.
He cocked an eyebrow. “I need to get you home.”
Yes. She nodded. Home. It was a good first place to start.
“Come here.” Patty beckoned weakly from her bed. Today her rose-pink blouse brought out a touch of blush in her cheeks. It was good to see. For Patty, it was a good day.
Wren glanced at Eddie, who tipped his chin up. “Go.” She squeezed his hand gently as she left his side. He knew. He knew Patty was her calming agent, her voice of reason, her . . . God help her when Patty left them forever.
“Sit.” Patty tapped the arm of the chair next to her bed. Her eyes danced with a familiar joy that was unique to Patty. Even through the pain, she carried that element of peace that Wren envied. She sought it too. But prayer and Scripture reading and all the church fellowship in the world hadn’t taught Wren what Patty had learned through trial. Some things couldn’t be captured but through the experience of pain. It was a wicked but essential way to understand the depths of perfection, the depths of God, more intensely. Pain either magnified faith or disabled it. For Patty, it only confirmed her belief that this world was broken, and her Lord was the One who brought beautiful redemption.
Wren breathed in the essence of Patty as she sank into the stuffed chair and pulled her legs up beneath her. Curling up next to Patty felt like curling up next to her mom. The memories of Mom were foggy. Pleasant but distant. Patty was now.
She studied Wren for a long moment and then smiled again. “Eddie texted and said you were, and I quote, ‘an absolute wreck.’”
They both laughed, Patty’s weak and Wren’s watery.
“Your son has such a way with words.” Wren wiped at her eyes again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“What do you mean?” Patty offered another small laugh. “You’ve experienced a lot of heavy stuff this week.”
“Has it only been a week?” Wren curled her lip at what felt like a month.
“Not even.” Patty reached for Wren’s hand.
“I don’t know why I’m internalizing everything,” Wren admitted. “It feels selfish. She’s not my daughter, she’s Meghan’s.”
“Eddie said you had another nightmare?”
“Yes.” Wren nodded. “Last night. And it was . . .” She pulled her hand away from Patty so she could fidget with a thread hanging from the seam on her Sarcasm Is How I Hug T-shirt. “The dream was about me. I was the one missing, and I was in the woods where Jasmine was supposed to be, and it was all so amplified!”
“Eddie told me about the doll you two found at the old Coons cabin.”
“Troy was there too,” Wren said, feeling like she shouldn’t forget about him.
“Yes,” Patty acknowledged. “Eddie said the doll has your name on its foot?”
“Creepy, huh?” Wren lifted her eyes. “And that’s the thing! Why my name? Now they’re pretty sure they found Trina Nesbitt’s remains. I’m scared, Patty. She was just a child!”
Patty’s face furrowed into concern. “Do you feel that maybe this does include you?”
“I do.” Wren hated to admit it. Hated to make all the trauma about herself, but she couldn’t address it if she couldn’t be honest about it. And who better to be honest with than Patty? She would take Wren’s emotional secrets to the grave—literally.
“Why?”
Wren shook her head at Patty’s simple question. “I keep asking myself the same thing. Why? Why me? You want to know what’s really weird?”
Patty nodded.
“I feel like I relate,” Wren admitted, epiphany taking over the urge to cry. “I feel like I relate to Jasmine. Lost and everyone’s looking for me, but no one is finding me. I feel like I relate to Trina. I’m just—out here. Lying here. Alone. Dead.”
“You’re not dead.”
“I know that, but—” Wren squeezed her eyes shut and wrinkled her nose in frustration. “Why do I feel lost?”
A knowing covered Patty’s face. She offered a soft smile. The kind that Wren wanted to somehow bottle up and preserve. “Do you realize the first day Eddie brought you home to play when you both were, what, ten? Eleven? I took one look at you and thought you reminded me of a lost little girl.”
Wren sighed. “My mom hadn’t even died yet.”
“No.” Patty shook her head. “She hadn’t.”
“Did you—did you and Mom ever talk? You know, about me?”
Patty winced as she adjusted her position against her pillows. “All moms talk about their kids. Yours was no different. She went on and on about Pippin, how smart he was. She was so proud of him.”
“Wonder if she still would be, considering he lives in the basement and is almost forty.”
Patty’s laugh was muted but filled with humor. “Well, knowing your mom, she would’ve enjoyed having her boy with her. Being his top girl was always her pride and joy.”
Wren noticed Patty hadn’t mentioned her. “And me?”
Patty’s expression grew soft. “Your mom loved you, Wren, you know that. She treasured you. Having lost a few pregnancies between you and your brother, I think when you finally arrived, you were, for all sakes and purposes, her miracle. At least that’s what she told me.”
“So, my feelings of being misplaced wouldn’t be from her.” Wren’s musing wasn’t meant to criticize her family or shed doubts. But she couldn’t place it. A quality, albeit a tad too Tolkien-obsessed, family unit should not leave a person feeling dysfunctional.
Patty hesitated, but Wren couldn’t tell if it was because of the conversation or the cancer. She waited while Patty closed her eyes for a long moment. Finally they opened, a sadness in them that Wren hadn’t seen before.
“I’m going to be honest with you, honey.”
Those were never the opening words to something good. Wren grabbed the blanket that hung over the back of the chair and covered her lap with it. Like a shield, the blanket made her feel protected against whatever Patty was going to share.
“A few times, when your mom and I were together, she—she alluded to your father in a way that made me wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Dread coiled in Wren’s stomach.
Patty winced, then admitted, “Wonder if he was your biological father.”
The words were out. They’d been spoken, and Wren knew Patty couldn’t take them back if she’d tried.
“You think my mom had an affair?” Wren’s voice shook. She wasn’t angry or hurt, just confused and, frankly, terrified.
Patty pulled her own blanket up so that it covered her chest. “I don’t want to speculate. I never did want to. But you—”
“I don’t fit,” Wren finished for her.
Patty turned her head on her pillow a bit to look more directly at Wren. “You don’t. More so after your mother died. It’s been just Tristan and Pippin and you, and even Gary’s noticed. All these years, you’ve gravitated to us. To our home. I know you and Eddie are remarkably close, but it’s more than that.”
“Well, I missed Mom,” Wren said. “You were the next best thing.” Or better. But she didn’t add that.
Patty’s sigh was an acknowledgment of Wren’s explanation. “But it wasn’t just because of me either. You’re not—bonded with them. With your father. Pippin, I can understand more. He’s your brother, but he’s twelve years older and . . .” Patty hesitated.
“Unique?” Wren inserted.
They shared a laugh.
Patty smiled. “Well, sure. We’ll use that word. But your father? I would have thought after so many miscarriages, you’d be his little princess.”
“He did name me Arwen.” Wren thought of The Lord of the Rings, of the elves. Arwen was a much-loved cinematic character, if not more of a bit character in the novel itself. That had to account for something in her father’s world.
“I might be wrong,” Patty said and waved it off weakly. “I hope I am. I’ve said nothing because I didn’t want to plant ideas in your mind that were simply not true. It’s not a pleasant thing to insinuate that anyone had an affair or that your parentage isn’t what you thought. I don’t mean this to be a reflection on your mother’s faithfulness or—”
“Patty.” Wren leaned forward, resting her palm on Patty’s bone-thin shoulder. “It’s okay. I asked. I need to figure out what is going on and you’re helping me. It’s not your fault to have suspicions, and suspicions aren’t necessarily an accusation of guilt. It just confirms that my questioning isn’t—well, that I’m not isolated in my thinking.”
“You’re not.” Patty shook her head.
“I need to see my birth certificate.”
“Your father probably adopted you—if my theory has any merit,” Patty added quickly.
“I’m sure.” Wren narrowed her eyes as more thoughts grew in her mind. “But I always found it odd that my scholarly dad would want to work at camp instead of a campus. Didn’t you? What if—what if we’re all tied to this place for some reason? To the Lost Lake region. What if the doll with my name on its foot actually does have something to do with me?”
Patty stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry,” she apologized.
“No. You rest now.” Wren pushed herself up from the chair and bent over, dropping a kiss on Patty’s cheek. “Don’t wear yourself out.” Even though that was inevitable. “I need to do some family history digging.”
“Be careful.” Patty’s eyes filled. It was her turn to be weepy. “I love you. I don’t want you hurt.”
“I have Eddie,” Wren said flippantly, meaning to make Patty feel secure at the thought of her son.
Patty’s smile was different this time. It was filled with undefinable meaning, even though it maintained its soft demure ambience. “Yes,” Patty answered. “You have Eddie.”
25
Ava
“Where are we?” Noah’s whisper was more of a hiss, and completely unnecessary.
“In the woods.” Ava’s response was sassy, but she took pride in that she wasn’t whispering. Who was there to hear them? Owls? Coyotes? Maybe a black bear, but then even a footstep would spook that furry beast into a full-on escape from them.
Noah was sure hard to see in the dark, the branches casting shadows over his face. She was certain he was annoyed, but also attempting that preacher-thing he did where he summoned patience from the Lord above. “I meant”—his response was evenly measured, this time in a voice louder than a whisper—“where in the woods are we? We need to find Jipsy’s body and get her back before sunrise.”
Well, that might be a problem. Ava wasn’t sure how to break it to the man that they were utterly lost in the forest. She did not know where that poplar grove was—leastways not in the dark. She had thought she could find it, but now Ava was pretty certain finding Jipsy was going to be more like finding Widower Frisk’s hidden whiskey that everyone knew existed but never saw.
“You don’t know, do you?” Noah pushed a branch out of his way as he walked the few paces back to Ava.
She looked up at him, trying to see his eyes but instead making out just the vague shadows of his face. “I’m sorry.” Ava couldn’t think of anything else to say. But somehow it satisfied him.
“Then where’n heck are we?” Noah’s hands were at his hips, and he twisted, peering into the night as if he had some special ability to see in the dark.
“You didn’t bring a flashlight?” she asked.
“I don’t own one.”
“Even Widower Frisk owns one.”
“Well, I don’t.” It was said with enough emphasis that Ava could take the clue Noah was shutting down the conversation. “Listen.” He leaned close enough that she could see the whites of his eyes. “Do you have any sense of where Jipsy’s body is from here? Any sense at all?”
Ava looked around, eyeing the depths and recesses of the forest. It was haunting here. All the crevices and sheltered places were hiding spots for all that couldn’t be explained. It brought unheralded the fact that the woods resembled her memories. Her life. Filled with places that were unseen and unexplained.
A chill passed through her. She squinted, staring into the blackness. If a spirit could call to her, beckon her, it would be now. A specter weaving among the trees until it drifted into her, merging with her.
Come.
Ava could hear it. Noah dissipated into nothingness, his body becoming a vapor that bled into the trees like a fog.
Come home.
“Jipsy?” Ava called. The night was not a friendly place. The voice was unfamiliar to her. Neither male nor female. Simply a murmur.
Ava moved toward the voice, straining to see, to make out a person, a form, but she saw nothing. The void beyond was unending. It was a maze of twisted trees and branches, bushes and undergrowth. She pushed her way through, ignoring everything but the mystical beckoning that Ava could not disregard.
We’re waiting for you.
Ava moved faster now. Stumbling over roots and rocks underfoot. They were waiting for her. She needed to come. To hurry. More than one voice joined the soloist now. It was a chorus. A chorus of unremembered souls. Those who had perished here. She knew that now. It was the dead. The dead were calling to her. From a place deep in the fathomless recesses of the forest.
Ava tripped, her toe hooking on a vine that ate at her foot and sent her catapulting forward. With a cry, she skidded on the ground, her knees colliding with the earth and her palms scraping on the underbrush. It was a decline. Her body rolled forward, the blanket of wet leaves beneath her adding momentum as she tried to stop.
The woods opened up as she slid to a halt against a rotted fallen log. Bark splintered off, the smell of mold and dead tree assaulting her senses. Ava breathed heavily, grappling to catch her breath, but feeling as if someone had wrapped skeletal fingers around her throat and was squeezing. Blackness invaded the corners of her eyes, then cleared, then formed again.
Ava shook her head. “No. No, please,” she muttered, clawing at her throat to disengage the ghoulish hands from her skin. “Leave me alone.” Her breath caught on a sob. Another sob. “Leave me—alone.”
She lifted her eyes. The sky opened up above her. The trees thinned out and parted as if they were a crowd of onlookers making way for something larger, more powerful, and more intimidating. Ava scraped at her throat. The hands. They wouldn’t loosen. She could feel her eyes widening as she gasped for breath. For air.
There. It was there. Ava saw the lake. It undulated with navy-blue waves that licked the shoreline like a beast tasting its prey. Stars reflected off its water, shimmering spirits of souls long forgotten. Ava twisted onto her hands and knees, crawling toward the shoreline.
Come. Find us.
The voices were louder now. More distinct.
“Ma?” Ava cried, lifting her right hand and reaching for the waters.
Ava?
“Ma!” Her hands submerged in the wet silty bottom of the lake as Ava reached the edge of the water. She crawled into the lake, determined. A fierce protectiveness rose in her. She would fight for them. Their souls lay entombed here. She could feel it. Sense it. The souls of her family. Butchered and left to bleed into the lake, the very essence that made up their lives.
The lake pulled her under. She would go. To find them. For the first time in forever, Ava could see their faces. Ma, Pa, Arnie, and Ricky. Water sucked at her ankles. She opened her eyes in the murky depths and saw the lake weeds waving to her from the bottom. A hand and arm stretched from the depths, fingers wrapping around her ankle. In the silt on the lake bed, a face emerged. Eyes open. Long hair floating and waving like the weeds that beckoned her to come to them.
Ava’s arms cut through the water, directing her body to go downward. To join—
