I tried to draw myself away from the gaze, our connection pulling like taffy as I broke free, the snap of it practically shaking my core.
Isla. Isla.
When I looked back a third time, Dad touched my shoulder, and whatever amazement had taken over my body dissolved like a white seltzer tablet.
“Isla. Let’s go, sweetie.”
I turned to see his perplexed expression.
“Are you still up for that hike?”
I nodded.
He drove the green-and-brown Jeep to Birch Trading Post, my face pressed against the window, looking for her the entire time. Would she have followed us? Was she running along the lines of emerald pines soldiering the shoreline of the water, a blur whipping between each tree trunk already emblazoned, buried like a mealworm inside me?
Dad took my hand and led me inside the trading post. At the time it was the biggest store in Grand Marais, a hodgepodge of necessities and camping supplies. I passed an abandoned can of Spam perched in a basket of shiny Lake Superior pins set next to a turning rack of generic birthday cards and campy postcards.
“Last trip for the season, Mr. Baek?” the store clerk asked, scanning two cans of Diet Coke and a bottle of red wine.
“Last one,” Dad replied, thumbing a few bills from his wallet.
“Better add some batteries, Patrick. Storm is supposed to be bad.”
Sheriff Vandenberg slapped a pack of AAs on the counter. He had a bald head and a smooth face. Even his eyebrows looked sparse. He smiled at me as he sidestepped toward the register.
“That bad, huh?”
“Rolling in tonight. Predicting it to be one for the ages. Make sure you hunker down with the fam.” He closed both hands into fists as if to flex his arms.
“Taking Isla for one last hike to Covet Falls,” said Dad, pulling the brown grocery bag up to his chest.
“Better make it a quick one, Patrick. Wouldn’t want you two getting stuck there in the storm.”
We ate our packed lunches of tuna on marble rye and peeled grapefruit near the top of the falls. I kicked my legs out and let the mist drop on my face as I ran my tongue against a pink sac of fruit stuck in my teeth. Our cabin was the closest one to Covet Falls, a mere half-hour hike from our yard.
“Did you know, if I dropped this fruit peel into the stream, it would go down that fall and disappear forever?” Dad asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe it would show up someday.”
“Mmmm,” he murmured, throwing the last of his sandwich into his mouth.
“I don’t know if I like that word.”
“What word?”
“Forever.”
We had ventured to that very spot many times before, Dad and me. He would always tell me about the mysteries of Covet Falls while I watched its white churning jets stampede over the rocks, over and over again, relentless. Stories of kayaks getting lost. A boy nearly drowning. A man who never came back once he went over that cliff.
Dad never told me if they were actually true.
On the way home we spotted Mom swimming in the lake, her arms straight, hair spread out like floating seaweed. I called to her, but she didn’t hear me. I helped Dad put some of our hiking gear back in the storage shed. He stuffed a tattered yellow tent and its poles into the garbage bin.
“Why are you throwing that tent out?” I questioned with raised brows.
“It’s old. We’ll need to get a new one.” The metal poles popped back up like pesky squirrels.
“Maybe a red tent? When we get the new one?”
“Sure, Isla.”
I jumped in the lake to join Mom. The shock of cold washed away the heat that clung to my skin like a membrane. For a moment, I forgot what I saw that morning. I floated on my back, tucked my chin into my chest, and could see the long, shimmery dock, a millipede leading to our cabin. The endless plush forest behind it, a blanket of vegetation covering with thick and opaque arms.
We sat down on the floor of the main room for dinner, our knees bumping the bottom of the coffee table. The windows were already getting pummeled with rain. Dad popped open the bottle of red wine he’d bought earlier and poured three glasses. He toasted our time spent this summer at the cabin. His cheeks grew rosy, and Mom pinched one of them playfully. Moni kept spooning more noodles into my bowl. I gladly slurped them, the warmth of each slippery mouthful soothing me as my cold, wet hair still dried.
The meal created a buzz among the four of us as we ate, chirping about the last week, the wonderful swims we had, how the kayak had held up for one more summer, how great this last meal was, if the rain would let up soon. When the last bite was taken, the buzzing ceased, a silence that was met with the increasing roar of the storm. The stronger the booming and clapping of the sky, the tighter my chest felt.
Dad turned on the television. “Severe thunderstorm. Tornado watch until ten thirty. Stella, do you know where I put those extra flashlights?” He scratched the side of his face roughly, as if chiding himself for not preparing.
Moni rose to clear the bowls; the clanking of them made me twitch to alertness.
I thought about her then, the girl from the window. What would she do in this storm? She was out there. At least I thought someone was out there.
I must have conjuring powers, because as soon as I had thought it, I saw her face again in the window, a pleading flash.
I stood up and flung the back door open, drenched within seconds. My mouth gaped open as I sputtered from the water.
