“Hey, baby, could you push on that leg of the frame as hard as you can?”
Sadie did as asked, pressing her palms against the inside of the leg and pushing with all her might.
At the same time, Kris cranked the socket wrench back and forth, back and forth, until the wrench would twist no more. She did the same to the bolts on the opposite side, then gave the frame a good shake. It was still a bit crooked, but the connections would hold.
Kris plopped down on the wooden seat. Good. The chains were still strong.
She stood and took a step back from the swing set.
“Give it a try.”
Carefully, Sadie lifted herself up onto the sanded seat. She gripped the rusty orange chains and pumped her legs, slowly at first, then leaning back to stretch her feet out toward the shining waters of the lake. Soon she was swinging in a wide arc as the chains clanked against the metal eyelets twisted into the beam overhead.
A long, satisfied sigh escaped Kris’s lips.
This was progress.
This was something.
She glanced over her shoulder, toward the lake house, and her gaze fell on the weed-filled garden contained within rectangular stacks of railroad ties.
You’re next, Kris thought.
Clumps of dried dirt clung to roots as she yanked the weeds from the outlying edges of the garden. Old plants began to emerge from the overgrowth: stubborn lavender bushes, clumps of mint, a cluster of black-eyed Susans, and a single blueberry bush, devoid of fruit but still alive. All had been planted by her mother over thirty years ago, withered but alive.
Behind her, Kris could hear the squeak of metal chains as Sadie swung herself higher toward the cloudless blue sky.
Sweat trickled down the sides of Kris’s face as she took hold of another thick patch of weeds with gloved hands. Gritting her teeth, she pulled until she felt the roots let loose from the thirsty soil.
She held the plant up to examine her handiwork.
One of the roots moved with unexpected life, stretching out to point at her like an accusatory finger. It twisted in the open air as it attempted to grasp some desired object just out of reach. And then it gave up and pulled its glistening, dirt-specked body back toward the other dangling roots.
Not a root, Kris realized. A worm.
She watched as the earthworm retracted farther, curling back into the cluster of roots and earth dangling beneath the fistful of weeds. Carefully, she pinched the end of the worm’s twisting, mucous-slicked body between two gloved fingers and unwound it from the roots until it dangled from her fingertips.
“Here ya go, bud. Have fun.”
She set the worm down into the crater of earth left by the extracted weeds. It instantly curled into a fleshy pink ball in some sort of pathetic defense mechanism, then stretched its rippling head into the loose, parched ground, trying to dig back into the soil.
Kris brushed her fingers over the dirt at the edges of the crater, sending it cascading down into the shallow pit until the earthworm was completely covered, buried alive in the comfort of its grave.
With the worm successfully extracted, she tossed the handful of weeds into a growing pile just outside the railroad tie border and attacked a new section. She had managed to clear two square feet in less than ten minutes. Soon the garden would be completely free of weeds and ready for new plants. She thought back to the other things her mother planted during their summers together: peonies and snapdragons, tomato vines and strawberry bushes.
Wrapping her gloved fingers around a thick section of thorny weeds, Kris leaned back and yanked, hard. The weeds tried to maintain their hold on the earth, but Kris’s strength proved too much for their pitiful pale roots, and the weeds finally gave up their hold.
The sudden release of the roots sent Kris stumbling backward. She tossed the clump of pulled weeds into the growing pile and was reaching for the next section when she noticed a hint of purple peeking out from the dried brown stalks.
She parted the weeds. There at the center of the garden was a patch of purple flowers. Yellow heads peered out from their rich petals.
She recognized them immediately. She had helped plant them. Violets. Her mother’s favorite.
Kris stared down at the weathered planks. She was afraid to take a closer look at the pilings for fear that they, too, would need to be replaced. But she thought that with a fresh sanding and some sealant, she could give the planks a few more years before they were ripped from their beds.
Because in this town …
She buried the dark thought just as she had the worm and slipped a square of sandpaper from its cardboard package. She secured it to the bottom of the power sander and gave the extension cord a yank, pulling a few more feet away from where it was plugged into an outlet at the back of the house.
She began at the first plank. Crouching down at the edge of the dock, she put her weight onto the sander and switched it on. The tool vibrated beneath her hands. Flakes of white paint and sawdust billowed into the air. It fell upon the surface of the lake like ash. Fresh beads of sweat instantly sprang from her brow and trickled down her forehead to slip into the line of her eyebrows. She paused long enough to wipe the sweat away with her bare forearm, and then she went back to work.
After a few minutes, Kris sat back. Her chest heaved as her lungs sucked in quick breaths of hot summer air. She ran a hand over her work. Not a single splinter snagged the soft leather of her work glove. The wood was nice and smooth.
She was about to move on to the other half of the plank when suddenly she was overcome with the feeling that she was being watched.
Confused, she turned off the sander and glanced down the long wooden dock. Its white boards shone in the sunlight like bleached bone. Beyond the dock, the impossibly clear water of Lost Lake glistened.
“No one’s there,” she said quietly.
Yet she could not shake that feeling.
In her hand, the electric sander was all but forgotten. She quickly scanned the opposite side of the lake, searching its rocky shore and the edge of the forest beyond.
Nothing.
No one.
Letting out an irritated sigh, Kris set the sander facedown onto the plank, her finger on the power switch as she prepared to go back to work.
Just then she saw someone.
Across the lake, past the swaying arms of a weeping willow tree, was another lake house. It was much more rustic than River’s End, a simple rectangle, its walls constructed from stacks of round logs barely cleaned of their branches. The windows were framed in chunky unpainted timber. The roof peaked sharply into a tall, narrow A, its tip disappearing into trees whose leaves were thick with webworm nests. A crumbling redbrick chimney jutted from uneven wooden shingles at a strange angle. It was as if the chimney had plummeted from the sky and buried itself through the cabin’s roof. She searched her mind’s eye, but for whatever reason, the house did not exist in her memories.
A small square deck stretched out from the back of the cabin. Beneath it, deep shadows cloaked the wooden posts supporting it, creating the illusion of a cave under the deck that seemed to stretch into the dark bowels of the earth.
On the deck, just below a porch light that burned inexplicably in the daytime, was the woman Kris and Sadie had glimpsed on their first night. She was too far away to make out any significant details, but Kris could see her long, black hair drifting in the light breeze, she could see the oval of her pale face, she could see the blue denim shirt and blue jeans that hung loosely from the woman’s skeletal body.