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I stop. “Beg your pardon?”
“She doesn’t need your brand of trouble,” he tells me. “So I’ll expect you to stay away from her.”
I nod my head. “Yes, sir.”
I can’t put this job in jeopardy by doing anything he doesn’t want me to do. No one else in town would hire me, not after what happened. Jake really did me a favor when he let me come work here.
“I won’t mess it up,” I add.
“See that you don’t.” And then he walks away like he’d never been there.
I stand there for a few more minutes and look at the old Marshall place, silently willing Abigail to both come out and to never come out at the same time. I’m desperate to go say hello to her, and I’m desperate that she not know I’m here at all, all at once.
My life is a mess, and I’d be ashamed if she found out exactly how it got that way. That’s what I know to be true.
So even though Mr. Jacobson has warned me, I make a pledge to myself that I’ll stay away from Abigail used-to-be-Marshall. It’ll be better for everyone that way.
4
Ethan
When it’s almost dark, I grab my shampoo, a cake of soap, and a towel, and I head down to the lake. When I was younger, this was one of the most fun parts of camping. My mom refused to let me go a whole weekend without taking a bath, but she did allow me to take baths in the lake. We’d soap up, swim a while and wash it all off, and then dry off, and we could call ourselves clean.
I’ve been taking a bath in the lake almost every day since I got here, and that was about a month ago. My little duck goes with me, and he paddles around and ducks his head over and over while I get clean. Today is no different, even though I know Abigail is here now. She’s here, and no one else is. The campground looks like a hollowed-out skeleton with all the empty campsites, the closed-up cabins, and no one using the beaches. Occasionally, people come and fish off the dock, but even that is sporadic in the off-season.
I step onto the sand and squish my toes into the fine grains that line the lakebed. Some lakes have bottoms that mush under your toes, but this lake has been used enough that the lake bottom is a fine silt that’s more sand than mud. I squish my toes around in it, and then walk into the lake wearing my bathing suit, carrying my soap and shampoo.
The water is getting cooler, and I can tell that fall is here. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to do this, once it gets too cold to swim. The Jacobsons close the bathhouses once it gets cold enough that the pipes could freeze. By then I’ll have to have a place to stay, somewhere out of the weather, but for now I like the life I have.
I wash my hair, dunking my head to get my hair clean, which is really long right now, longer than it has ever been. It hangs well past my collar and if my mom saw me, she’d give me shit until I cut it. I rub shampoo into the full beard I’ve let grow for years, then I go under the water to wash it all out. The lake is peaceful and calm, and I can’t help but think that this place contributes to my mental health.
My mom was afraid, when I first got here, that I’d have trouble acclimating to the real world. But this place is so far removed from the real world that I’ve had no trouble acclimating at all. It’s only when I go into town to get groceries that I get harsh stares. People know who I am, and they know what I did, and they know where I’ve been and why I was there. That’s when it’s hard, because I know that I’ve already been judged and found guilty.
And guilty is what I am. I know it. They know it. I’m resigned to it.
I finish my bath, swim across the lake and back, and slowly walk out of the water. The night air is cool against my skin, so I dry my hair with my towel and hang it around my shoulders. My duck toddles along behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement on the dock, and I realize that Abigail has walked down to the end of the dock, and she’s standing looking out over the water. Those riotous curls that I’ve always loved so much dance in the wind, and she scoops them up in her hand to keep them away from her face. I stand there and watch her. I know better than to go and talk to her. One, I don’t want to lose my position here, and two, I don’t want her to know who I am. I don’t want her to know what I’ve done. I don’t want her to know about my past, because if she finds out, she’ll look at me the way the other people do. She’ll either hate me or pity me, and I don’t know if I could stand either.
Suddenly, she turns and looks in my direction. She goes completely still and stares, and then she lets her curls go to lift her hand and wave in my direction. She doesn’t smile or call my name, because I’m pretty sure she can’t associate the me I am now with the me I used to be. She just lifts her hand and holds it there for a second. I don’t reciprocate. Instead, I pick up my shampoo and walk back to my tent.
I step into the tent, change into some dry athletic pants and a t-shirt, and hang my wet clothes and towel on the little clothesline I strung up between two trees. The Jacobsons have a laundromat on the premises, one of those coin machine things, so I do my laundry when I need to. But my clothesline works just fine for damp towels and swimsuits and such.
My phone rings as soon as I settle back with a book. I stare at the screen. It’s my mom’s number. I watch it until it has rung so many times that it could go to voicemail any second. At the last instant, I accept the call.
It’s not my mom. It’s him.
It’s actually my mom playing hardball. It’s her pulling out the big guns. It’s her way of getting out the bazooka to kill a fly.
A small voice says, “Dad? Are you there?”
I sit in silence, breathing into the phone, afraid to speak.
“Dad?” the little voice says again. I hear the change in his voice when he holds the phone away from his mouth to talk to my mom. “Nobody’s there,” he says. And he sounds disappointed.
What I’m disappointed in is my mom. She knows I’m not ready to make contact yet. I’ve already told her that I can’t do it. I need to fix a few things first.
“Ethan,” my mom barks into the phone. “I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.”
