Page 3 of Barefoot Lake

“I’m so proud of you, babe,” Piper gushes. “But you should have sold the ring. Why did you leave it behind?”

“Pipe. I hate that fucking ring. He designed it for himself and was going to put it on the finger of whoever agreed to marry him. It was never mine. It was his.”

“I guess… but a rock that size could have gotten you a lot of new books! Speaking of books — do you need me to go over there and get anything for you?”

“The things I left behind are things I’m willing to lose. Reid can keep his overpriced plates and fancy sheets but thank you.”

“Alice, you are an icon.”

It feels good to let her pull another laugh from me.

“So, did you move up there forever?” Piper asks.

“Just for now. I need to be back in the spring for work. The department only gave me the fall semester off.”

“Well, enjoy it. You can reclaim Boston whenever you want.”

She promises to come visit as soon as she can to get all the details and leaves me to explore my new home.

I push myself up from the table and look around. I glare at the evil side door as I pass it, knowing it’s going to be my nemesis, and spot a shock of bright yellow on the fridge — the first of Mom’s notes. There’s an elegant script J and a phone number. The note doesn’t say anything more about who the number belongs to, but I save it in my phone, nonetheless. Mom thinks they’re important, and that’s enough for me.

When I open the fridge, it’s dark and warm. The only thing inside is another sticky note from Mom with the name and address of a grocery store on it. Closing the door, I spot the plug taped to the backsplash of the adjacent counter and plug the fridge in. I’m relieved when I immediately hear the whir of the compressor kicking on.

The water runs clear from the tap, so I’m counting my wins. It takes a while for the hot side to come out hot, but we eventually get there. As I’m standing at the sink, I get my first glimpse of Barefoot Lake. The trees cocoon my house and Neighbor’s on the sides, but the backs of our homes have a straight shot down a slope to the sparkling water.

I turn off the faucet and move to the back door, feeling like I’m in a daze. The door sticks a little but swings in with a little bit of persuasion. The air is heavy with humidity — it smells like it will rain later today — but I think the start of fall is pushing summer away. It’s still early in September, but I cannot wait to see this place in all its fall and winter glory.

I tear my eyes away from Mom’s boat, shifting lazily in the lake by the dock, and turn back to the house, but I leave the inside door open. Until it starts pouring, I might as well air out the place. I move through the home, opening doors and seeing how Mom left things.

In addition to the kitchen and living rooms, the house had been built with a bedroom on the first floor, which Mom had always used as a library, and a half bathroom. I flick the light switch by the library door and see she set it up with a long wall of bookcases but note they’re almost completely empty. Two of the squashiest-looking chairs I’ve ever seen in my life are at the back of the house by a gigantic window with a great view of the yard and lake.

I turn on the two standing lamps by the chairs and get to work prying open the window. I blame the humidity and not my complete lack of upper arm strength for the struggle I face. Huffing and puffing, but admiring my success, I move to the center of the room and pull the chain to turn on the overhead fan. The motor hums softly before abruptly going silent as the room plunges back into shadow.

Did I already blow a fuse?

Apparently, yes. I turn off all the light switches and go looking for the fuse box. After some searching and another battle with the side door to get out of the house, I find it in the garage. Another of Mom’s sticky notes is stuck to the metal door over the panel of switches.

Be prepared to blow a lot of fuses.

I smile wistfully at experiencing the same struggles she had in this home because here she is, still helping me figure it out. I flip the master switch and look at the carefully labeled diagram inside the box, trying to keep track of which circuits are separate so I can prove Mom wrong.

Comfortable with my level of studying, I close the box and turn on the garage light. My pile of boxes is right where I left it near the door, but I notice others further back in the garage that I must have overlooked when stacking my things last time I was here. Each collection is labeled with more sticky notes: books, clothes, junk, records, and one note with a phone number that says:

Keep what you’d like and call Denise to pick up the rest

I feel a wave of sorrow as I look at the piles, knowing Mom had been planning for me to come back here without her months ago. Still, in the face of her own mortality, she thought about me and how to make things as easy as she could. I feel a sharp pain in my chest and decide I’ll start on her boxes tomorrow.

As I turn to go, I spot a trash can next to what looks like a moderately sized cooler — at least it’s some kind of sealed metal box.

Place to keep bodies immediately pops into my head before I remember this was Mom’s house and not some serial killer’s. Then again, she was a spicy woman…

I shake my head to clear out the nonsense and spot Mom’s next note.

This box is for any foodstuff trash. NEVER FORGET TO SEAL IT SHUT. EVER.

Wow, Mom. Think we’re being a little dramatic?

The note also includes the town dump’s address. It sits beside another note with recycling information. Given the narrow road leading to the house, I guess it makes sense that a garbage truck can’t come by.