Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher 3)

He stares off in the direction where Mitchell went. We can still see him, standing at the tree line, but he’s a good ways away. “Sadly, I don’t get to take any credit for what a good kid he is.” He keeps staring, like he’s afraid his son will disappear if he takes his eyes off him.

When he sees that Mitchell is headed back toward us, he finally turns and looks me in the eye. “I’d like to tell you about what happened,” he says. “If you want to hear it.”

“I want to hear it.” I do. I do want to hear it. I can’t imagine that it’ll be nearly as bad as the bits and pieces I’ve heard from other people.

“Well, hang out, and we’ll talk after he’s asleep.”

“Okay,” I say quietly.

Mitchell and Ethan walk into the woods to go and find some sticks that are appropriate for roasting marshmallows. I watch them together, and it’s a lot like watching a baby take his first steps. The baby desperately wants to walk, but he has to take a few tentative steps first. That’s Ethan. He’s taking his first few tentative steps. And it’s a beautiful thing to see.

We roast marshmallows on the fire, and Ethan tells Mitchell about all the things his family used to do when he was a little boy, here at the lake. Mitchell eats roasted marshmallows until even I want to throw up, and then I see his eyelids get droopy. He starts to sag in the folding camp chair he’s in.

“And he’s asleep,” Ethan says quietly.

“So, how’s your first night been?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He grins. “He’s a great kid. So I think it went well. I don’t think I’ll want to give him back tomorrow night.”

“So don’t,” I reply.

He looks at me, his brow marred with a sudden frown. “What?”

“So don’t give him back. He can catch the bus with Trixie and Alex. It stops at the end of the drive. I see it every morning.” I shrug.

He stares toward where Mitchell is slumped in the chair. “I’ll need to move into one of the cabins. I wouldn’t want him to get picked on for living like a homeless person in a tent most of the time.”

“Didn’t the Jacobsons offer you a cabin?”

He nods. “They did.” He stares at the fire without blinking. “I turned it down.”

“And now, you’ll need one,” I remind him, gesturing toward Mitchell.

He nods again, slowly. “I’ll need one.” He heaves out a sigh. “I don’t want him to be tainted by what happened. What if it seeps into his life too?”

I sit forward, surprised by the question. “You think people aren’t already talking to him about what happened? I feel sure he’s dealing with it in his own way, more frequently than you would think.” Kids can be cruel, and they know how to exploit weaknesses to lift their positions within group dynamics.

“You think so?” He scratches his head.

“I do.”

“I’ll talk to Jake and see about that cabin.”

I know that the Jacobsons, throughout the years, have bought cabins that people can no longer afford. They usually buy them with the intention of waiting while the people get back on their feet, and then letting them buy them back. But I know that occasionally people don’t come back. They don’t want the hassle, or they don’t want to face the memories, or they just don’t want to come to the lake anymore. The Jacobsons rent those cabins out.

And I’ve heard rumors, mainly from Gran, that the Jacobsons have deals with some of the local churches and civic organizations that they let people who are homeless come and stay in the cabins rent-free until they can get back on their feet. So them letting Ethan use a cabin won’t be unheard of or even out of the ordinary.

“Do you think I should put him to bed?” Ethan asks.

With the way he’s sleeping, he’ll wake up with a crick in his neck if not. “He’d probably be more comfortable in the bed.”

Ethan walks over and scoops him up. Mitchell doesn’t move a muscle.

“You must have worn him out,” I say. I touch Mitchell’s leg as Ethan walks past me.

He steps into the tent, and I see him lay his son gently on the air mattress bed, pull his shoes off, and tuck him into the sheets and blanket we bought that morning. Ethan leans down and presses a lingering kiss against his son’s forehead, taking a moment to stare down at him like he’s one of the miracles of the world and he’s never seen anything like him before.

Suddenly, a sneeze rises in my nose. My throat has been tickly all day. I hope I’m not coming down with something.