Breathing Water E-Book

T. Greenwood

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Three years after leaving Lake Gormlaith, Vermont, Effie Greer is coming home to rebuild the life she once had. The unspoiled lake, surrounded by dense woods, is the place where she spent idyllic childhood summers at her grandparents' cottage. And it's where Effie's tempestuous relationship with her college boyfriend, Max, culminated in tragedy. Effie had hoped to save him from his troubled past, and in the process became his victim... Wrenching yet ultimately uplifting, here is a novel of survival, from a writer of extraordinary insight and depth.

Leseprobe

Outstanding Praise for the Novels of T. GreenwoodBreathing Water

“A poignant, clear-eyed first novel . . . filled with careful poetic description . . . the story is woven skillfully.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“A poignant debut . . . Greenwood sensitively and painstakingly unravels her protagonist’s self-loathing and replaces it with a graceful dignity.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A vivid, somberly engaging first book.”

—Larry McMurtry

“With its strong characters, dramatic storytelling, and heartfelt narration, Breathing Water should establish T. Greenwood as an important young novelist who has the great gift of telling a serious and sometimes tragic story in an entertaining and pleasing way.”

—Howard Frank Mosher, author of Walking to Gatlinburg

“An impressive first novel.”

—Booklist

“Breathing Water is startling and fresh . . . Greenwood’s novel is ripe with originality.”

—San Diego Union-Tribune

Grace

“Grace is a poetic, compelling story that glows in its subtle, yet searing examination of how we attempt to fill the potentially devastating fissures in our lives. Each character is masterfully drawn; each struggles in their own way to find peace amid tumultuous circumstance. With her always crisp imagery and fearless language, Greenwood doesn’t back down from the hard issues or the darker sides of the human psyche, managing to create astounding empathy and a balanced view of each player along the way. The story expertly builds to a breathtaking climax, leaving the reader with a clear understanding of how sometimes, only a moment of grace can save us.”

—Amy Hatvany, author of Best Kept Secret

“Grace is at once heartbreaking, thrilling, and painfully beautiful. From the opening page, to the breathless conclusion, T. Greenwood again shows why she is one of our most gifted and lyrical storytellers.”

—Jim Kokoris, author of The Pursuit of Other Interests

“Greenwood has given us a family we are all fearful of becoming—creeping toward scandal, flirting with financial disaster, and hovering on the verge of dissolution. Grace is a masterpiece of small-town realism that is as harrowing as it is heartfelt.”

—Jim Ruland, author of Big Lonesome

“This novel will keep readers rapt until the very end . . . Shocking and honest, you’re likely to never forget this book.”

—RT Book Reviews

Nearer Than the Sky

“Greenwood is an assured guide through this strange territory; she has a lush, evocative style.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“T. Greenwood writes with grace and compassion about loyalty and betrayal, love and redemption in this totally absorbing novel about daughters and mothers.”

—Ursula Hegi, author of Stones from the River

“A lyrical investigation into the unreliability and elusiveness of memory centers Greenwood’s second novel. . . . The kaleidoscopic heart of the story is rich with evocative details about its heroine’s inner life.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Compelling . . . Highly recommended.”

—Library Journal

“Doesn’t disappoint. A complicated story of love and abuse told with a directness and intensity that packs a lightning charge.”

—Booklist

“Nearer Than the Sky is a remarkable portrait of resilience. With clarity and painful precision, T. Greenwood probes the dark history of Indie’s family.”

—René Steinke, author of The Fires and Holy Skirts

“Greenwood’s writing is lyrical and original. There is warmth and even humor and love. Her representation of MSBP is meticulous.”

—San Diego Union-Tribune

“Deft handling of a difficult and painful subject . . . compelling.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Potent . . . Greenwood’s clear-eyed prose takes the stuff of tabloid television and lends it humanity.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“T. Greenwood brings stunning psychological richness and authenticity to Nearer Than the Sky. Hers is the very first work of fiction to accurately address factitious disorders and Munchausen by proxy—the curious, complex, and dramatic phenomena in which people falsify illness to meet their own deep emotional needs.”

—Marc D. Feldman, M.D., author of Patient or Pretender and Playing Sick?: Untangling the Web of Munchausen Syndrome, Munchausen by Proxy, Malingering, and Factitious Disorder, and co-author of Sickened: The Memoir of a Munchausen by Proxy Childhood

This Glittering World

“In This Glittering World, T. Greenwood demonstrates once again that she is a poet and storyteller of unique gifts, not the least of which is a wise and compassionate heart.”

—Drusilla Campbell, author of The Good Sister and Blood Orange

“T. Greenwood’s novel This Glittering World is swift, stark, calamitous. Her characters, their backs against the wall, confront those difficult moments that will define them and Greenwood paints these troubled lives with attention, compassion, and hope. Through it all, we are caught on the dangerous fault lines of a culturally torn northern Arizona, where the small city of Flagstaff butts up against the expansive Navajo Reservation and the divide between the two becomes manifest. As this novel about family, friendship, and allegiance swirls toward its tumultuous climax, This Glittering World asks us how it is that people sometimes choose to turn toward redemption, and sometimes choose its opposite—how it is, finally, that we become the people we become.”

—Jerry Gabriel, author of Drowned Boy and winner of the Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction

“Stark, taut, and superbly written, this dark tale brims with glimpses of the Southwest and scenes of violence, gruesome but not gratuitous. This haunting look at a fractured family is certain to please readers of literary suspense.”

—Library Journal (starred)

“Greenwood’s prose is beautiful. Her writing voice is simple but emotional.”

—Romantic Times Book Reviews

Undressing the Moon

“This beautiful story, eloquently told, demands attention.”

—Library Journal (starred review)

“Greenwood has skillfully managed to create a novel with unforgettable characters, finely honed descriptions, and beautiful imagery.”

—Book Street USA

“A lyrical, delicately affecting tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Rarely has a writer rendered such highly charged topics . . . to so wrenching, yet so beautifully understated, an effect. . . . T. Greenwood takes on risky subject matter, handling her volatile topics with admirable restraint. . . . Ultimately more about life than death, Undressing the Moon beautifully elucidates the human capacity to maintain grace under unrelenting fire.”

—The Los Angeles Times

The Hungry Season

“This compelling study of a family in need of rescue is very effective, owing to Greenwood’s eloquent, exquisite word artistry and her knack for developing subtle, suspenseful scenes . . . Greenwood’s sensitive and gripping examination of a family in crisis is real, complex, and anything but formulaic.”

—Library Journal (starred review)

“A deeply psychological read.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Can there be life after tragedy? How do you live with the loss of a child, let alone the separation emotionally from all your loved ones? T. Greenwood with beautiful prose poses this question while delving into the psyches of a successful man, his wife, and his son. . . . This is a wonderful story, engaging from the beginning that gets better with every chapter.”

—The Washington Times

Two Rivers

“From the moment the train derails in the town of Two Rivers, I was hooked. Who is this mysterious young stranger named Maggie, and what is she running from? In Two Rivers, T. Greenwood weaves a haunting story in which the sins of the past threaten to destroy the fragile equilibrium of the present. Ripe with surprising twists and heartbreakingly real characters, Two Rivers is a remarkable and complex look at race and forgiveness in small-town America.”

—Michelle Richmond, New York Times bestselling author of The Year of Fog and No One You Know

“Two Rivers is a convergence of tales, a reminder that the past never washes away, and yet, in T. Greenwood’s delicate handling of time gone and time to come, love and forgiveness wait on the other side of what life does to us and what we do to it. This novel is a sensitive and suspenseful portrayal of family and the ties that bind.”

—Lee Martin, author of The Bright Forever and River of Heaven

“The premise of Two Rivers is alluring: the very morning a deadly train derailment upsets the balance of a sleepy Vermont town, a mysterious girl shows up on Harper Montgomery’s doorstep, forcing him to dredge up a lifetime of memories—from his blissful, indelible childhood to his lonely, contemporary existence. Most of all, he must look long and hard at that terrible night twelve years ago, when everything he held dear was taken from him, and he, in turn, took back. T. Greenwood’s novel is full of love, betrayal, lost hopes, and a burning question: is it ever too late to find redemption?”

—Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, author of The Effects of Light and the Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize–winning Set Me Free

“Greenwood is a writer of subtle strength, evoking small-town life beautifully while spreading out the map of Harper’s life, finding light in the darkest of stories.”

—Publishers Weekly

“T. Greenwood’s writing shimmers and sings as she braids together past, present, and the events of one desperate day. I ached for Harper in all of his longing, guilt, grief, and vast, abiding love, and I rejoiced at his final, hardwon shot at redemption.”

—Marisa de los Santos, New York Times bestselling author of Belong to Me and Love Walked In

“Two Rivers is a stark, haunting story of redemption and salvation. T. Greenwood portrays a world of beauty and peace that, once disturbed, reverberates with searing pain and inescapable consequences; this is a story of a man who struggles with the deepest, darkest parts of his soul, and is able to fight his way to the surface to breathe again. But also—maybe more so—it is the story of a man who learns the true meaning of family: When I am with you, I am home. A memorable, powerful work.”

—Garth Stein, New York Times bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain

“A complex tale of guilt, remorse, revenge, and forgiveness . . . Convincing . . . Interesting . . .”

—Library Journal

“In the tradition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and To Kill a Mockingbird, T. Greenwood’s Two Rivers is a wonderfully distinctive American novel, abounding with memorable characters, unusual lore and history, dark family secrets, and love of life. Two Rivers is the story that people want to read: the one they have never read before.”

—Howard Frank Mosher, author of Walking to Gatlinburg

“Two Rivers is a dark and lovely elegy, filled with heartbreak that turns itself into hope and forgiveness. I felt so moved by this luminous novel.”

—Luanne Rice, New York Times bestselling author

“Two Rivers is reminiscent of Thornton Wilder, with its quiet New England town shadowed by tragedy, and of Sherwood Anderson, with its sense of desperate loneliness and regret. . . . It’s to Greenwood’s credit that she answers her novel’s mysteries in ways that are believable, that make you feel the sadness that informs her characters’ lives.”

—BookPage

Books by T. Greenwood

Grace

This Glittering World

The Hungry Season

Two Rivers

Undressing the Moon

Nearer Than the Sky

Breathing Water

BREATHING

WATER

T. Greenwood

First published in the United States in 2000 by St. Martin’s Press, New York.

First published in e-book in Great Britain in 2017 by Corvus.

Copyright © T. Greenwood, 1999

The moral right of T. Greenwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 092 6

Printed in Great Britain.

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

With love and gratitude to my grandfathers,one for poetry and the other for music

Acknowledgments

I would first like to thank my agent, Christy Fletcher, and my editor, Joe Veltre, for their enthusiasm about this novel and for their thoughtful insights and suggestions during the revision process. I would also like to thank Erika Fad for her patience and helpfulness.

I am deeply indebted to the following people for their ceaseless encouragement and incredible faith. Without them, this book would neither exist nor matter: Lon deMatties, Warren Doody, Janet Dunphy-Brown, Ann-Britt Malden, Howard Mosher, Nicole Norum, Ron Ross, Samantha Ruckman, Esther Stewart, Beya Stewart, and my many wonderful teachers.

I offer thanks to my grandparents—Don Craig, Eunice Craig, and Clifford Greenwood—for their love and support. To my sister, Ceilidh Greenwood, for her generosity and humor.

To my parents, Paul and Cyndy, for believing.

And to Patrick, for listening.

PROLOGUE

Do not ask me for haunted. Do not ever ask me for haunted, because I will give you haunted and you will never be the same. I will turn a nursery rhyme room into a prison of rhythmic sighs. Of mice screaming and clocks that will not stop their tick-tock, tick-tock. The closed eyes of dolls and animals will not open here, not even if you try to pry them awake with gentle, pleading fingers. I will make the record skip; the arm won’t lift from the only song that has ever made you sad.

I will tear each blade of grass from the green velvet of your memory, leaving only the empty stems of dandelions gone to seed. I will burn the wooden castles of your remembrance, set the forest where all of your remaining dreams reside on fire. The branches you swung from will be nothing more than steaming bones in the cold morning air.

I will hold the baby bird that you brought back to life with an eye dropper of your breath. I will be careful with its wings, of its softly beating chest. I will hold it in the palm of my hand, close my fingers gently around its wings. I will close my fingers so gently you will think that you are safe. But then, quite suddenly, I will squeeze my fist tightly around its quickening heart. Squeeze until beak crumbles, until bones crack. And this will be the one thing that you can’t forgive.

I know now what you will and will not tolerate. I know from watching you, from inflicting pain, that you are capable of great forgiveness. You forgive without waiting for apologies. You forgive tremendous cruelty, each cruelty, until this one. I am certain of this. I will make you trust, and then I will crush the bones of your credulity.

Do not ask me for haunted, do not ever ask me for haunted. Because I will give you haunted and you will never be the same. You may think that exorcism is as easy as words, but it’s far more complicated than that, much more dangerous and ultimately unkind. Do not ask me for haunted, don’t ever ask me to recollect, because the collected remains I will give you will be more real to you than I am.

Lake Gormlaith, VermontAugust 1991

Blue night. I am standing at the edge of the lake, shivering in my summer dress when they pull her body out of the water. I am shivering and tearing at my cuticles when they lay her on the moon-drenched, indigo grass. At the edge of the lake, I tremble with cold as I watch Max’s shadow pulling the boat out of the water and hear the scream of the wooden bottom scraping against the rocks.

A woman who lives in the small cabin nearest to the landing covers the girl’s small, dark body with a blanket the color of morning sky. There are about five of us standing close to her now, closer to her than most of us have dared to go before. But now we circle her with our own bodies, as if to shield her from harm.

Mrs. Forester, her caretaker for the summer, is still standing waist-deep in the water, holding the hem of her white cotton nightgown. I can hear a low moan coming from somewhere deep inside of her. The sound of an animal. The sound of loss and pleading. The moon makes her almost transparent as she stares toward the center of the calm lake. She too is shivering in the cold, her body shaking. She wraps her arms around herself and continues to moan. Mr. Forester ignores this and kneels down next to the dead girl.

As Max ties the boat to a rotten tree stump at the shore, I stare at the strange pink of the girl’s upturned palms. She could be asking for something with this gesture. Answers, perhaps. To be left alone now. I look at the girl’s small face, still full of color, and envy this. I envy the way she seems to sleep, warm and quiet beneath the blanket of light. I envy her, because I am colder than the water, colder than the air. I am colder than the dead girl whose mother thought she was sending her somewhere safe.

No one speaks as Mr. Forester covers her face with the blanket. And when her small face, her strange dark face is covered, I am tempted to pull the blanket back. I am tempted to pull the blanket from her and carry her away from this place. To take her somewhere she belongs. But there is no such place. Not here. And so instead, I find my fingers pulling the satin edge of the blanket further so that her hair, beaded with glistening drops of water, is covered too.

Mr. Forester stands up slowly, his knees creaking. When he sees his wife still standing in the lake, he walks toward her, wading into the lily-laced water. When he reaches her, she seems not to notice that he is there. She is rocking and moaning in her transparent nightgown. He puts his arm across her shoulders and waits patiently until she collapses in his hands.

After the dust from the cars and ambulances has settled, I find Max’s old leather suitcase in the musty closet in the loft. After someone has called her mother in New York, I fold his shirts, gather his shoes. After he has calmly lied to the police, who wanted to know where he found her and why he was in the middle of the lake in the middle of the night, I decide.

I come down the precarious stairs from the loft into the dark living room. I walk through the darkness and into the kitchen, where I set the suitcase by the back door. When I return to the living room, I see him sitting in the corner on the dusty wooden floor. The air still smells of basil and garlic from dinner.

“Go,” I say. It is all I can manage.

He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t speak. Slowly, he begins to bang his head against the wall, each strike leaving the wet imprint of his hair. I look away from him to the window. The moon is full and bright, reflecting and trembling on the dark surface of the lake. All of the voices from this night have faded; even the crickets, usually restless, are quiet. The only sound is the water lapping the rocks at the edge of the lake and the rhythmic banging of bone on wood.

“Please,” I plead.

He stands up slowly, still stumbling and stinking of too much drink. His jeans are damp, his bare feet caked with mud from the lake. He reaches toward me.

I walk to the kitchen and push the screen door open, my arm shaking.

“No more,” I say.

He comes closer then, and my shoulders shrink in remembrance of all the other times. My spine recollects and recoils.

“If you touch me, I’ll kill you,” I say. “I swear to God I will.”

He pulls me toward him. I can feel him both asking and demanding that my body give in to him. When my shoulders remain stiff, when I fail to yield, he shoves me away. I stumble with the force of his push and the screen door slams shut. I put my hands on my hips to steady myself, and I feel quite suddenly like a stubborn child. He veers past me toward the door. He pushes it open and lets it slam behind him. He grabs awkwardly at the suitcase, knocking it over, and then kicks it clumsily into the driveway.

“Stop,” I say, and my eyes feel wide and strange.

He turns toward me and then comes close enough to the door that separates us for me to smell the stink of drink on his breath.

“You know it’s not all my fault,” he says, pointing his thick finger close to my chest. “Weren’t the Foresters supposed to be watching her?”

I feel the fire, warming me, filling me with remarkable heat.

“How was I supposed to know she’d be out there?” he asks, his voice softening in the still night. His chin is quivering. He opens the door.

My heart thuds softly, and I start to feel sick. He seems vulnerable now, incapable of causing harm. His eyes plead and promise. I imagine him pleading with his mother to Stop, stop. I imagine the cigarette burns in the palms of his hands, the stigmata of his mother’s cruelty. And I reach out to touch him; I watch my hand in disbelief. His shoulder trembles under my touch.

“And where the hell were you?” he asks, his voice growing louder and louder. “If you hadn’t decided to run off to your grandmother, Oh save me, Gussy, from my horrible life, then maybe I wouldn’t have been out there in the first place.” The softness of his face and his voice is gone now, and my hand returns to my side. Now I can only think of myself pleading with him to Stop, stop.

“I hate you,” I whisper. “I hate you, hate you.”

“You can’t pretend that I’m the only one at fault. You think that if you send me away that I’ll be gone. You think you can put this, this night, away into a pretty little box, shove it under your bed, and forget what’s inside. But you’re wrong. Because you were there with me, Effie. You were inside my head when I went out there. You were there too. And you won’t get away with this.” He cups my chin in his palm and looks at me with disgust. “You won’t get away.”

He slams the screen door again and walks to the car. When I hear the engine start, roaring with his anger and impatience, I shut the storm door and hook the ridiculous latch. He has already broken it once this summer. I lean all of my weight against the door and listen for the sound of the tires crushing gravel and grass. The radio pierces the quiet night. The motor hums, and I wait.

But suddenly the car door slams again. I hear his heavy footsteps coming back. Closer and closer. I hear him breathing on the other side of the door. I will the lock to hold. I close my eyes.

“I love you, Effie. I’m sorry. It was an accident. You know that.”

I put my hands over my ears, listening to the blood thudding dully at my temples and in my chest. I wait for him to push. I listen and wait. Any moment now, I know he will push and send me flying backward into the sharp corner of the stove or the cupboard. I wait for glass to break, for something, anything, to shatter.

It could be hours that I lean against the door, listening to my heart and his breath through the wood. It could be minutes. But then, suddenly the engine roars again and the headlights sweep through the windows. The yellow beams touch the bookcase, the worn fabric of the love seat, and my clenched hands. And then the light is gone.

I move away from the door; my shoulders are cramped. I walk slowly through the dark kitchen and living room, quietly up the stairs to the loft. I almost slip as I reach the landing, feeling in the darkness for the mattress. I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare out the window at the road that has taken him away, at the road that could bring him back. The sheets still smell of his sweat. I stand up then and tear the pillowcases off the pillows and the sheets off the bed. The hems are strewn with Gussy’s embroidered sunflowers. My chest aches as I stuff them in the cedar chest, and I can’t stop shivering as I lie down on the bare mattress.

I try to rest, to slow the fluttering of my heart. I try to imagine something else: that I am not here. Not now. But every time I close my eyes I see her limp body on the grass. On the back of my eyelids, I see all of the faces white with moon, staring at the girl like a discarded toy underneath the late summer sky. And I see Max walking calmly back to the camp with the policeman, his hands gesturing toward the place in the lake. His false heroism as transparent to me as water, but an answer the police find easier than the truth. I watch them scribble his words onto their pads, ink turning his explanation into indelible history. He has always had the ability to make people believe. No questions. I see his hands steadily pouring coffee. I see hands reaching for me, promising tenderness, and then fingers threatening to tighten and not let go.

And so I keep my eyes open and stare out the window at the lake until the sky fills with light, and I listen for the sounds of his return.

PART ONE

Seattle 1994

I fled. When the sun came up the morning after Max left, I was perched at the edge of the bare mattress. And in the half-light of early morning, I took flight. I ran as far away from the familiar as I could. I brought only the bare essentials and told only a few people where I intended to go. To Gussy, I muttered Arizona, California. To my mother, I said Just away, and I’ll write.

I didn’t know where I was going. I only knew it had to be far from this place. I took trains and buses so that I could be certain I had left that world behind me. Through windows, I watched Vermont disappear in the distance. I didn’t sleep, because I was afraid that while my eyes were closed we might change direction and I would wind up back where I had started. Every night, while the other passengers slept or read under the soft lights above their seats, I looked out the windows to make sure I was still headed away.

I didn’t stop traveling until the sky no longer resembled the one over Gormlaith that night. Only then did I stop moving, did I trust that I had gone far enough. In the mountains of northern Arizona, I was grateful for the closeness of stars. For the brand new shade of night. I stayed there for a month, thought about looking for an apartment, a job. But the sound of the train passing by the hostel where I stayed lured me back. I wasn’t ready to stop.

I arrived in Seattle two months after I left Vermont, drawn by the stories of dew-drenched grass and gray skies. I got off the bus downtown and walked through the throngs of tourists at the Pike Place Market, across Alaskan Way, and out onto one of the long wooden piers. Standing at the edge of the water, it could have been the edge of the world, and I knew I was finally far enough from home. Max thought I was in New York in graduate school as I had planned; he didn’t even know that I had fled.

Even after I had settled in Seattle, I couldn’t stop moving. It had become a habit, I suppose, this fugitive life. Living alone in this city of rain, I feigned anonymity. I came and went from my apartment when I knew that no one in the dusty building would see me. In every new apartment, I became what I hoped was just a curiosity: a newspaper disappearing each morning, the smell of coffee escaping through the cracks in the woodwork, someone softly snoring. As soon as people began to recognize me, I found myself searching the newspapers for a new place to live.

Soon, I imagined, I would disappear altogether. That eventually no one would be able to see me at all. When I first fled, I was careless. I was accustomed to people speaking to me, noticing me, touching me. I talked to the other travelers on the trains. I made up stories about where I was headed and why. But after I stopped moving, I had to learn how to fade. I was becoming more ethereal as each day went by. Diaphanous. I was losing my dimensions. I was becoming small.

It’s easier to live like a fugitive than someone with nothing to fear. Boxes get moved from place to place. After three years, I didn’t even bother unpacking anymore. I dragged the boxes with me to each new apartment without even bothering to undo the packing tape. There could have been books or dime-store dishes, clothes or fragile sentimentals inside. It didn’t matter anymore; I could have been carrying around cobwebs or air for all I knew.

I was living in my third apartment in Seattle when I found out about Max. I had just moved in. At first I thought this might be a place I could stay for a while. It had a deep clawfoot tub and a view of Elliott Bay. A bed pulled out of the wall, and the ceilings were twice my height. I liked the way it smelled. I liked how quiet it was. But when you are a fugitive, you never sign leases. That way there’s nothing to break. I knew moving again would be easy.

It was May, and my mother’s voice at the other end of the line sounded like snow melting. At home, in Vermont, spring was late. I listened to my own voice, raining on her from three thousand miles away.

“I’m coming home,” I said.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I want to live at the lake again. I can help Gussy.”

“You’re coming home?” my mother asked softly, hopefully. “Gussy will be so happy. It’s been so long—”

“Max is dead, Mom. I just found out.”

Her sigh: ashamed relief, the same relief. I have always shared my mother’s breath and shame.

I found out that Max was dead when the university’s alumni newsletter arrived. It was stuck in the narrow metal mailbox like any other flyer for groceries or tune-ups, sweepstakes promises or postcards with blue photos of lost children. It had traveled all over the country to find me: the layers of yellow forwarding address stickers a testament to my flight.

Inside my new apartment, I curled up on the couch and stared at the glossy cover. Shiny blond coeds dissected by cartoon lacrosse sticks, hallowed halls, and impossible trees. It was something that should not have found me at all. In the three years since I’d run away, I’d been able to avoid most reminders like these. Fugitives rarely get mail.

Near the end of the booklet, I found my own name, highlighted as MIA. There were ten of us who couldn’t be found. There were nine others who, for whatever reason, had also disappeared. And between us and the stories of our more successful classmates were the newly dead, alphabetized like books in the musty library where I used to hide. Bingham, Cane, Doyle, Findlay, and then him.

It wasn’t until later that day that I learned the details of his death. Of the needle that was found still stuck into the lean crook of his arm. Of the vomit that stained his chest and linoleum. Of the cats that had multiplied and then starved to death in his studio apartment above the bar where he worked and ate and drank himself to sleep.

It was raining. While the voice of my only old friend, Tess, described with almost morbid glee the supposed color of his skin and stench of his carpet, the decay of his small life, it rained. Incessantly, gently, and I didn’t cry. Instead, I hung up the phone and felt my chest heave and then fall with a vague sense of freedom. The way a child feels when the puppy who messes on the floor more than he bargained for is suddenly struck by a car. Or the way a man feels when his own father who rarely remembers his name stops breathing. Terrible freedom. Freedom tainted by guilt.

I curled my knees to my chest, pressed my face to the watery pane of the window and concentrated on my breath. Below, on the slick dark street a bus stopped for no one and then lurched forward, exhaust rising in a cloud behind it. A girl without an umbrella appeared then, running and just a moment too late, and the driver didn’t see her or didn’t care and left her behind. She slumped down on the bench, and threw her fist at the sky. A ridiculous gesture. Futile and small.

I hadn’t even lived in this apartment for a full week yet. I was still having a hard time remembering which faucet in the kitchen meant hot instead of cold. Sometimes they were backwards; you never knew in the older buildings. And maybe because everything was so new, the newness of his death didn’t create panic or pain. It wasn’t any different than the smell of newly painted cupboards or the new view from the kitchen window.

After I put the newsletter down, I went to the kitchen and washed my hands. I let the water run over my skin until my palms flushed red with the heat. It was almost dusk; the streetlamps had just turned on outside, casting strange shadows on the street below as the backs of my hands burned. I held my hands under the water until tears welled up in my eyes. Wrong tears, but tears no less. It was raining that day.

When he was still alive but no longer in my life, I dreamed that he was making bread in my kitchen. Over and over, in each new apartment, I’d fall asleep to different sounds and smells and have the same dream. I’d open the door and he would be standing there busily making bread, flour on his hands and face. He always found me in my dreams and made himself at home. But that night, as I listened to the rain tremble against the window, I dreamed that I was in the elevator of this new building. I was ascending and then heard the loud snap of the cable above my head. And I was suddenly, sharply, plummeting. It wasn’t as simple as begging him to stop spilling flour on the floor, as taking the hot loaves and throwing them away. In this dream, there was nothing I could do except tear at the walls as I fell.

“Gussy is talking about selling the camp,” my mother said.

“What?” I asked, my throat constricting.

“Since Daddy died, she doesn’t have the energy to keep it up. It’s a lot of work, Effie,” she said. “It’s too much.”

“I’ll help her,” I said, my words struggling past the new growth in my throat. To watch the loons, to tame the dandelions, to keep the break-in kids from staining the floors with strawberry wine.

“It’s just talk, Effie. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”

“Tell her I’m coming. I’ll be there by Monday.”

When you live like a fugitive, you don’t make friends. There’s never the danger of becoming too familiar or attached. Of course, I knew faces. I recognized plenty of faces, but they didn’t recognize mine. It made me pleased, and it made me sad. I had become every face, or no face at all.

Working at a library lends itself to anonymity, especially when you’re not in Circulation. The Circulation girls all wear lipstick and stand in huddled circles outside smoking cigarettes on their breaks. I worked at the oceanography library at the university for an entire year before one of them noticed me. And even then, after the quick hello, there was a moment of uncertainty. There was the flash of fear in the girl’s face that she had mistaken me for someone else.

It was the smallest library on campus, in the basement of an old building. The small windows in the archives where I worked were level with Portage Bay. When it rained, all you could see was water through the glass. I had become attached to this place despite myself. I emptied the drawers of my desk: paper clips, gummy erasers, aspirin.

Estelle said, “Have a safe trip home, Effie.”

“I will.” I smiled.

“It’ll be nice to get out of the rain I suppose,” she said. Her teeth were small, her eyes shifty.

“Um-hum.” I nodded.

I had thought about taking a bus the whole way back to Vermont. But this time, I was going home. I was returning instead of running away. There was no need to watch through windows to make sure I was headed in the right direction. And so I packed my few boxes, mailed them to Gussy, and bought a one-way plane ticket home.

As I waited for the bus to take me to the airport, I grew dizzy with the heady scent of freshly cut flowers in the market, each bundle competing with the next in the endless parade of impossible colors to ward off the gray. It was 10:00 A. M., but it looked like twilight. Cars shined their lights, and the streetlamps glowed eerily in the darkness.

I’ve heard that this rain is enough to drive some people to madness, to their medicine cabinets, or to the tops of the tallest buildings and bridges. That these are the martyrs, the sacrificial lambs, who die so that others may be reminded of the slender distance between pain and rain.

Lake Gormlaith, Vermont Late May 1994

The bus from the airport dropped me off in Quimby. The bus doesn’t go as far as the lake, so I waited in front of the drugstore for an hour for a taxi to take me the rest of the way. Gussy offered to pick me up, but I wanted to get settled in at the camp first. I wanted a little while to be alone before I saw my family.

As we drove away from town, the road turned from pavement to dirt. The foliage became thicker and thicker, but finally through the trees I could see the blue of the lake. And then there was the camp. The paint was peeling, and the grass was overgrown. It looked abandoned.

Gussy has always kept the key to the padlock underneath a large gray rock by the back door. It’s a good hiding place, because moss crawls across the smooth surface of the stone, making it look as though it has never been moved. I found the key, and my fingers remembered the simple trick of a tug and twist before the lock relented. Then, there was the familiar sound of lazy hinges waking.

The scent of the camp when you first open the door to May air is thicker than cigar smoke, sweeter and mustier than the thrill of a bonfire. I was dizzy with the scent of Grampa’s old books and homemade candles and moth-eaten sweaters stuffed into drawers for colder evenings. I breathed the smell of the kitchen, stopping to open the cupboard doors, opening empty tins and running my fingers over the rows of spices, salt, and pepper. Dusty brown bottles of vanilla and molasses. The refrigerator was empty except for a fresh, unopened orange box of baking powder. I found Gussy’s wooden rolling pin and rolled it between both hands. I remembered clothes powdered in flour and sugary wild blueberry pies. I lingered in the kitchen, rifling through drawers, so that I could hold on to the sweet anticipation of the rest of the cabin for a bit longer.

The living room was dark; the wooden shutters were closed. I walked slowly across the floor, careful not to trip over any forgotten piece of furniture. The threshold to the glassed-in porch came more quickly than I expected, and it startled me. This was my favorite room in the camp. I would spend the entire summer here if I could, watching the lake, reading myself to sleep each night.

The wooden floors, faded the rust color of autumn, were worn smooth with time. The metal-framed daybed was up against one wall, the sheets tucked tight. The heavy feather pillows were covered in blue and white ticking and propped up expectantly. The wicker chair, the small table for Chinese checkers or chess, and Grampa’s desk were all there, as if unmoved in so many years. The door from the porch to the front yard was sealed shut; I don’t remember ever using it to come and go from the cabin. It would have disturbed my grandfather as he worked at his desk if I’d been able to run in and out through the front with my muddy feet and constant chattering. By going through the back door, Gussy was always able to keep me in the kitchen long enough to dry off and calm down before I greeted Grampa.

The air in here was warm, the sunlight pressing persistently against the closed blinds. But there was something pacifying about the stagnant air, as if all past summers had been captured there. I felt like a strange puppeteer as I pulled the strings that controlled the sunlight. Dust rose and fell gently. Dead insects lay in piles as if slumbering after an orgy of wings and stingers. I brushed them into my cupped palm and opened the neglected door to the front yard. I walked all the way to the shed and tossed their dead bodies into the bushes.

I didn’t remember the camp looking so run-down, and it was hard to imagine that the paint could have weathered so much in only three years. The grass tickled my shins. I wondered if Gussy had succumbed to a power mower yet. Grampa had always used the old hand mower that looked to me like an iron-toothed monster.

They call summer homes camps here. I suppose it’s because the houses used to be so rustic: no electricity, no running water, each with a wooden outhouse instead of indoor plumbing. Of course, over the years they’ve become less primitive. Even Gussy and Grampa gave in and put a toilet and shower in, had the camp wired and plumbed. I could only vaguely remember the outhouse with the crescent moon carved out of the door, the earthy smell of excrement, and my fear of what might reach up and grab my naked bottom in the middle of the night. Now Gussy’s compost heap stands where the outhouse used to, chicken wire and last summer’s grass clippings and garden skeletons.

I walked across the dirt road to the bank where Gussy kept her wooden boat. The oar locks were rusty; the oars were probably inside the shed. Gormlaith was still today. The blinds in the windows of the other camps around the lake were still drawn. It was too early for there to be children and noisy motorboats; May was too cold, and the black flies of June kept most summer people away until July. I picked a dandelion from the shore and plucked the bright yellow head off. It landed in the water.

I heard a car coming up the winding road that circled the lake and saw Gussy in her old Cadillac. I walked back toward the camp as she drove past me, waving and grinning. She pulled into the driveway, stopping just short of the shed door.

“Effie,” she said. “When did you get here? Are you hungry? Look at how small you are.”

“I’ve always been small, Gussy. Since I was little.” I laughed as she opened up the trunk and struggled with a grocery bag brimming with green leaves.

“I stopped by Hudson’s, because I didn’t know if you had planned supper yet. You haven’t planned supper yet, have you? I figured you would want to get settled before you went shopping,” she said, and I opened the back door for her.

“Well, let me look at you,” she said. “You’re starting to look like your mother, you know.”

I hadn’t seen my mother in three years. Three years can change a person. It had changed Gussy. Her silvery braided bun was finer, her body thinner.

I smiled and kissed her quickly on the cheek. She tasted like baby powder.

“I thought we could make a salad and cook up some of the fish your grandfather caught about a million years ago. It’s just been sitting in the freezer, and I didn’t know what to do with it, so I brought it along. I imagine it’s still good. No freezer burn or anything.”