No, it sounded like chirping or an animal kind of chortle. A dolphin? Was Mem playing another “sounds of the sea” CD to get me used to the sound of waves? I sat up to listen.
Nothing but the twittering of a mockingbird starting off its nightly songs in the tree at the corner of the house. Those waves sure played tricks with sound. I burrowed down into my little nest of blankets and focused on the flames, hoping they could keep my mind off the water.
But fires die. And waves go on forever. They washed into my early morning dreams, spilling over the side of the tub in my mind’s eye . . . The shower is on too high. I sputter for air as I struggle to find the knobs to turn the water off. Waves keep crashing in, spraying me with water, pooling at my feet, then my ankles, then my knees. I fumble with the knobs, my hands wet and slippery. I can’t get a grip to turn them.
When I scream, water fills my mouth, choking me. I can’t run. Water surrounds the tub as if it’s been set adrift in the sea. I can see the water turning black with the memory of the stormy waves that nearly killed me—churning me into the depths, choking the breath out of me.
“Kyna! Kyna!” Pep called to me from above like a voice from the clouds.
Turning my head, I could see him, his face wet, his mouth twisted up in fear.
“You’re safe, sweet. It’s all a dream. Just a dream.”
Feeling his legs along my sides, his arms around my chest, hugging me, I felt safe. “The tub was at sea. The shower wouldn’t turn off. The waves kept coming in!”
Pep nodded, rubbing my back. “It’s all gone now. You’re dry and safe here in the living room.”
“But you’re wet.” I reached up and touched his spiky wet hair.
He sniffled. “Sorry, sweet. We went for a morning swim. Shouldn’t have left you alone.”
I wanted to melt. Mem and Pep loved water more than I loved fire, even more than I loved s’mores. Sometimes, I wondered if they loved it more than me. That’s why they made me take water steps. Made me spend the whole summer by a lake. So they could go swimming any time they wanted. My melting feeling turned to flaming anger.
I spun around to get on all fours. “Is that why we’re here?” I shoved my blankets aside. “So you can swim? No more scaly skin from too much chlorine. No need to pack up and head to the Y. You can just dive on in!”
Pep held his breath for a second, then folded his arms and legs in front of him. “And what if that were so?”
“You know I hate the water. You know I do!” I shook from the inside.
“And your mem and I love it.”
“More than me?” I whispered.
He closed his eyes, then got to his knees in front of me. “Kyna, no man can love a thing as he loves his daughter.” He put his hand over my heart. “I just wish you and I could love the same things.”
“I won’t go swimming with you, Pep. Never.”
“Never’s an ugly word that closes the mind to wonderful things.” He kissed me on the forehead, then stood up. As he headed toward the kitchen, he changed the subject as fast as he switched rooms. “They’ve got a farmer’s market in town. Shall we buy enough vegetables to make the rabbits jealous?”
“And enough fruit to make the monkeys fall from the trees,” I added, knowing what he’d say next. Pep was trying to cheer me up. But I felt stuck. Mem and Pep wanted me to change. Become someone else. Someone who could swim. Wasn’t plain old me enough?
I heard a door open and close on the lake side of the house. Pep headed in that direction as Mem called out, “The air’s full of bees making the flowers spread! Who’s up and ready to admire their handiwork?”
Pep spoke, but I couldn’t hear him. Mem let out a mournful, “Oh.”
I snuck closer to listen in.
FRUIT
Mem and Pep spoke Irish in quick chirpy bursts like birds fighting over the same feeder. I could’ve sat in their mouths and still not understood what they said. Mem and Pep wouldn’t teach me Irish, asking what half-sane parent would give up a secret language? And I’ve never found a library or a bookstore with Irish language tapes. So their language stays a secret, just like their past.
When I ask to hear about her Irish childhood, Mem says, “Weren’t nothing in my childhood but a bunch of swimming and we all know how you love to hear about swimming.” She’ll bug out her eyes and blow out her cheeks to make a fish face. And I laugh. But I still want to know. Did she have brothers and sisters? Live in a little town with cobblestone streets and wandering sheep like you see in the movies?
Once, I asked if they had childhood pictures I could see and Pep said, “Do you like feet? How about sky? Lots of sky? Or maybe you favor bits of mashed up colors? Those are the kinds of pictures my family took. You’d think they’d never touched a camera in their lives.”
Mem sputtered out a laugh, saying, “Our family pictures got dropped in a pond.”
And when I tried to ask who dropped them or who took those sky-feet pictures, Mem and Pep would change the subject like they always did. Just like that day at the lake house, we went from me wondering who they loved better, me or the water, to plans for a trip to the farmer’s market in town.
Mem and Pep did their quick change act, then showed up in shorts and sun hats. “Ready for a trip into town?” Mem asked, setting her hat straight.
A trip to town might not be bad. I could see if they had a good camera store. Might find a new camera bag fit for hiking in the mountains. “How far’s this town from the lake then?”
“Oh, a good few feet.” Pep squinted in thought.
“Even the town’s on the lake?”
“It’s a big lake.”
Mem added, “Governor of Vermont tried to get it declared a Great Lake,” as she herded me out the door.
“Can’t we go to the mountains for the day? A good hike to give our lungs a stretch?”
“After you learn the backstroke.”
I skidded to a stop in the gravel drive. “Never!”
“Just remember, that’s what they said about people learning to fly,” Pep said as he opened the car door.
Why did I always get the feeling my parents had learned a thing or two from the Pied Piper about luring children into doing things they didn’t want to do?
Not only was Plattsburgh on the lake, but Pep said the farmer’s market was only feet from the shore. I waited on the hood of the car and shouted my orders in. “Buy some watermelon! And cherries. Do they have cherries?” Everyone stared at me. But not Mem and Pep. No, they just kept shopping, picking up melons and smelling them like the out-of-towners they were. Who smells fruit?
But I had to admit that the way the lake played with the sun and sent raindrops of light onto the fruit made me wish I could sneak a little closer and take a picture. The drops of light, the bright fruity colors of green, yellow, and red—it’d make a great picture for the fair. Why didn’t they get me a zoom lens for Christmas like I’d asked?
“What, and have you tip over?” Pep had teased. “Those things weigh half as much as you do.”
Pep had what I called the diversion tactic approach to parenting. First he tried to distract me with his sense of humor. Making me laugh so I didn’t realize I’d gotten a knitted jumper (that’s Irish for sweater) for Christmas, again. Then he’d try tricky little trades to make me take another water step. If I’d actually washed my hair in the shower by the first