The tea is hot, the pond is cold, and the oracle knows his shit.
We had planned to take a break during mud season, but by the end of April, our wait list has grown to over two hundred people. Thereis no stemming the flow, so we proceed with our two-guests-a-week schedule.
It’s still cold, but the sun is becoming more assertive, slowly winning its battle against the last vestiges of stubborn snow. A few patches lie here and there, but the ground is softening, and the busy birdcalls indicate that we are on the edge of a new season.
One morning, I awake to hear the pond groaning. The ice is thawing, and as usual, it is protesting as it goes. It feels like a victory to have made it to this side of winter, but if I’m honest, it’s not really spring that I have been waiting for.
My father’s prophecies for our visitors have provided plenty of proof of his abilities—if not to see the future, then at least to offer up significant insight into the present. But despite the influx of visitors that is bringing more variety to our lives, I still find myself anticipating one particular visitor.
My father has not mentioned Seth since the day Nils did his ice plunge, but even so, I am always waiting for his ghost to reappear.
Chapter 33
One morning, as I am brushing my teeth, a spider skitters into the sink. It’s not the first time I’ve seen her. She has been in my bathroom spinning webs for a few weeks. I try not to kill bugs unless it’s absolutely necessary (the black fly, mid-bite). Even back in the city, when I came across a cockroach, I would trap it in a jar and release it out a window or onto the sidewalk. I figure you never know who you’re dealing with, and it’s best to be gracious, lest they return the favor someday. So as I watch this spider flirt with the drain, I decide it’s time to usher her to safety. I grab an empty Q-tip box and encourage the spider into it, closing the paper flap to seal her inside until I can find a suitable place to release her.
When I get to the porch, I find my father sitting in his chair.
“What do you have there?” he asks.
“A spider.”
“For the serpent to eat?”
I cock my head in confusion. “What serpent?”
My father looks around. “He was just here.”
“Who was? You mean asnake?” Alarmed, I start to flip over the cushions of the wicker couch with my free hand, bracing myself for what I might find.
“They’re gone, I suppose,” says my father.
“Who? Who’sthey?”
“The blond kid was here to visit, and he brought a snake. Coconut.”
My fingers clench around the Q-tip box as I realize that my fatherhas once again been visited by Seth, this time in the company of the long-deceased snake, whose name, I’m certain, I never shared with my father. This time, I don’t waste precious seconds by questioning whether what my dad saw was real. I simply ask: “What did you and Seth talk about? What did he say?”
“He was happy to see the loons are back. Coconut is doing splendidly. Something about a cricket…”
“What?” I yell, knowing that means me. “Whatabout a cricket?”
“What?” My father looks confused.
“What did he say about Cricket?” I’m practically shouting at him now.
“About a cricket? What do you mean?” It’s gone. He has lost the train of thought, and Seth has slipped away again. My heart sinks.
We are quiet for a minute and then my father looks toward the box and asks, “What do you have there?”
“A spider,” I repeat. Crestfallen, I lift the flap of the box so the arachnid can make its escape onto the railing of the porch.
I’m frustrated, but with whom? My forgetful father? My ex-boyfriend’s ghost? Whatever conversation they are having, I want to be part of it.
That night, I have the same dream I had on the eve of Nina’s departure last summer.
Again, I cough up my own heart and catch it in my hand. “Can I live without this?” I ask passersby, who shrug. But this time, a familiar face emerges from the crowd. It’s Seth—still floppy-haired, still seventeen. (Always seventeen.)
“Do I still need this?” I ask him with more urgency, shoving my heart toward him.
