On Mystic Lake

She looked at him from across the room, her eyes wide.

“Hey, Izzy,” he said, trying to smile. “You look gorgeous. ”

She blinked and didn’t move.

He wet his dry lips. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

Just then, Annie came bustling out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming pot of coffee and a covered serving dish. At the sight of him, she stopped dead. “Nick! This is wonderful, you can join us for breakfast. ”

The thought of breakfast sent his sour stomach into revolt. “Izzy, go help your daddy into the sunroom. I’ve got breakfast set up in there. I’d better add another place at the table. ”

She apparently had no idea he was about to throw up. She just kept on talking—about what, he had no idea— and fluttering between the kitchen and the sunroom. Her chatter buzzed like gnats around his head.

“Annie, I don’t—”

“Izzy,” she said again. “Go help your daddy. He doesn’t feel well. ” And she was off again, scurrying toward the sunroom.

Izzy looked up at him when they were alone in the room. Her brown eyes were wide with uncertainty.

“I don’t need help, Izzy,” he said. “I’m just fine, really. ” She looked at him a moment longer, then slowly she moved toward him. He thought she was going to walk past him, but at the last second, she stopped and looked up at him.

It killed him to see the fear in her eyes, and that damned black glove almost did him in. Annie was right. He had to be a better father. No more drinking to dull the memories and sugarcoat his failures. He had to take care of his baby. Feeling awkward and unsure, he smiled down

at her. “Come on, Izzy-Bear. Let’s go. ”

Slowly, he covered her one bare hand with his larger, calloused one. Together, they walked toward the sunroom. His steps matched hers perfectly. It was sadly silent between them, the daughter who no longer spoke and the father who had no idea what to say.

Annie was beaming when they walked in. The sunroom looked like a picture from one of those women’s magazines. There was a bright blue tablecloth on the rickety plank table, with a centerpiece of huckleberry and dogwood in a crockery vase. Plates were heaped with scrambled eggs and pancakes. Beside the three empty plates were glasses of milk and orange juice.

“Sit down,” she said to both of them. She helped Izzy into a seat and scooted her close to the table.

Nick slowly sat down, trying to ignore the drums beating inside his head.

“Just coffee for me,” he croaked. “I feel like shi—” He glanced at Izzy. “I feel bad. A headache, is all. ”

Izzy’s eyes told him that she knew all about Daddy’s headaches. Guilt came at him hard, riding on the crest of shame.

He reached for the pitcher of orange juice, but his aim was off. He whacked the vase with his fist, sent it flying. Water sprayed everywhere, evergreen boughs flopped across the eggs, dripping. The vase hit the floor with a loud craaack.

Nick squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit,” he moaned, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.

“Now, don’t you worry a bit about that. Everyone has accidents—don’t they, Izzy?” Annie stood up and dabbed at the puddles with her napkin.

He turned to Annie, ready to tell her that he had to get the hell out of here, but her smile stopped him. She looked so damned . . . hopeful. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat and wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow with a weak hand.

Annie gave him a broad smile and began dishing out food. She served herself a man-size portion of eggs and a stack of pancakes a logger couldn’t finish.

He tried to concentrate on that, her food—anything besides his headache and the tremors that quaked through his limbs. “Are you going to eat all that?”

She laughed. “I’m from California. I haven’t had an egg in fifteen years, and lately I’ve been eating like a pig. I’m hungry all the time. ” Still smiling, she poured syrup over the whole god-awful mess and began eating and talking, eating and talking.

Nick curled both shaking hands around a thick porcelain coffee cup. When he thought he was steady enough, he brought the cup to his lips and took a slow, thankful sip. The hot coffee soothed his jittery nerves and took the shine off his headache. Slowly, slowly, he leaned back in the chair and let himself be carried away by the comforting buzz of Annie’s voice. After a while, he managed to eat a bit of breakfast. Through it all, Annie talked and laughed and carried on as if they were a family who ate breakfast together every morning, instead of a silent, disappearing child and her hungover father. She acted as if it were normal, what Nick and Izzy had become.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Annie. Every time she laughed, the sound moved through Nick in a shiver of longing, until he began at last to wonder how long it had been since he had laughed, since his Izzy had laughed . . . how long since they’d had something to laugh about or a moment together in which to find joy. . . .

“I thought we’d go to the Feed Store today and buy some gardening supplies,” Annie said brightly. “It’s a good day to get that flower garden into shape. Why, if the three of us worked, it would take no time at all. ”

Gardening. Nick recalled how much he used to love working in the yard, planting bulbs, raking leaves, snip-ping dead roses from the thorny bushes. He’d loved the triumph of watching something he’d planted and watered and nurtured actually grow. He had always loved the first buds of spring, but this year they’d come without his even noticing. All he’d noticed was the spindly, bare cherry tree he’d planted after Kathy’s funeral.