As luck would have it, the only vacant table sits next to the family I’ve come to know simply by observing their behavior. In the time it’s taken us to gather Ketchup packets and napkins, their kids have launched a french fry–throwing contest to see who can catch the most in their mouth.
“Going out to eat with kids is always fun, huh?” my mom says to their mother.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are they bothering you?” She shields her forehead with her hand.
“No, not at all! I was just remembering when we took this one”—she points to where I’m sitting, eyes wide as I wonder what she’s about to share—“to a Wingers once, and she spit out a piece of meat on the aisle floor screaming, ‘It’s too hot!’ I think the only thing in that entire restaurant hotter than those wings was the color of my face.” My mom chuckles, shaking her head.
The woman joins in on her laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Yeah, kids can be so fun. You’re lucky you only have one. There’s no one around to fight with.”
My mom gets a soft, glassy look in her eye before she leans over and squeezes me by the shoulders.
“I am lucky. No need for more when you put all your eggs in oneperfect basket,” she says, and I offer the lady a small smile.
It’sa lotof pressure being the only child sometimes. I’d give anything for our family to grow. I’d even be okay sharing their attention, but I’d never tell my mom that. I want them to always believe I’m happy with things just the way they are. After all, it was a miracle they even had me.
The family leaves long before we do. I’m the first to finish my raspberry milkshake, slurping the bottom clean with every pull of my straw. I can see why it’s world famous—it’s creamy and smooth and is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Why don’t we head out and finish this back at the new cabin. I’m anxious to see it,” my dad comments, already packaging up his half-eaten burger.
A short five minutes later, he guides the hatchback down a sloping driveway. It’s patchy in most places, unsure of whether to give way to the lawn’s growth or keep the pebbly terrain. Near the bottom, tire tracks have worn two paths clear down to the dirt, but plush grass grows everywhere else on the property. Then there’s… the lake.
It’s the color of green sea glass and—Wow. The entire surface is glittering like a disco ball. It’ssomuch better than I ever expected.
I scramble for my sketch pad and unbuckle my seat belt.
“Hey, Mom, do you think I could go draw from that dock over there?”
The sun’s just about to go down, and I don’t want to miss it.
She pushes open her door and steps out, leaning her slender frame against the car as she scrutinizes the safety of the situation. When she tucks her head back inside, she says, “Just don’t go in the water, and watch out for snakes, okay?”
Snakes too?
I gulp as she turns away and tiptoes after my dad, crossing the cabin’s threshold. But as I pad out onto the lawn, every concern I might’ve had rushes away like a tidal wave. I don’t know what she thinks she’s going to find in there with a place looking like this.
From where I stand rooted to the spot, a slender three-story tower with a wraparound patio and brick firepit opens up before me. A bunkhouse addition with a sliding glass door juts off to one side. The roof’s made of tin, the siding coated in dark green paint, and at least a half dozen windows stack like dominos across the front, facing the lake. From here, I think it’s safe to say we can throw away those mouse traps. It looks perfect.
Besides our cabin, two additional properties bracket the place. The one situated on the right is framed in construction tape but resembles the makings of a traditional log cabin. With two decks, a private dock ten yards out into the water, and a massive water trampoline floating just beyond that, it’s the most expansive of the three lots.
Maybe they’re almost finished with it, I hope. It might be my best chance at a neighbor friend to play with this summer.Because there’s not much hope with the opposite property.
On a sea of dandelions sits a lone 1979 Prowler camp trailer. It’s rusting near the hitch with brown paint chipped off the sides, and it’s untethered. Curtains drape closed over the windows, but the stairs have been left extended from the front door. A shed half the size of the trailer runs parallel to it. Also humble in size, dated, and latched with a deadbolt. A dinged-up Ford Ranger with blue and white stripes down the sides hugs a red Toyota Camry. The two vehicles are the only clue that anyone might live there.
I notice the sun dipping lower in the sky, and I sprint to the end of a long stretch of wooden planks floating on top of the water to take it in.
When I sit and dangle my feet off the ledge, I let the foam bottoms of my flip flops float on the surface like boats. The horizon shifts from bubblegum hues to gradients of purple until it’s solid black. Crickets chirp all around me, and the moon casts a soft, bouncing shadow across the surface of the water like a white pool ball.
I don’t know how much time has passed when the gradual darkness announces an orange glow coming from the trailer window. A duet of dark shapes crosses the drawn curtains and a single voice escalates, angry and female.
“Theadora, is everything okay?” my mother’s floating head hollers from the doorway.
She’s worried about me.
The only other time she calls me by my full name is when she’s sentimental. I can almost feel the bristles of a round brush tunneling through my hair as she said to me, “Theadora, did you know your name means ‘gift from God’?”
It was five years ago—the night before my first day of kindergarten—and I was prolonging bedtime because I was afraid to leave her the next morning. I knew after she droppedme off at school, we’d spend the whole day apart, and that seemed like a very long time.
Even though the tangles had long since unwound from my hair, she resumed her short, soothing strokes through the silky strands.
