You Make Me Happy
Heartstone Lake remembers
The baby, Claire, in a sunsuit and
yellow hat, sat on her father’s shoulders, the
great wide world spread out before them. Two
egrets flew home to their nest as thunder
rumbled, far off in the distance.
The mother, Cari, lifted Abigail—
You are my sunshine, they sang together,
gently rocking. Cari waded in up to her ankles.
Everyone was smiling then, held close by the
rhythm of the song: You make me happy.
Blue sky, one cloud, an open beach
umbrella shading their red blanket. Did the
raindrops fall from the sun itself? I remember
no cold wind, no whitecaps, just a few small
indentations on my glassy surface,
not enough to make them pack up and
go home. Cari smiled at her husband, Andrew, and at
Baby Claire, who whimpered. I did not know why. Did she
realize, before the others did, what was coming, what it meant?
It seemed to happen all at once: Claire cried out, the sky
grew dark, lightning sent its dazzle through me. Cari
held Abigail tight in her arms for a split second,
then fell, her face in mine.
Ten Years Later
Wishing
Claire
Dad glances in the rearview mirror. Get ready, he says,
to make your wish. We’re about to cross the railroad track.
We’ve turned off the highway onto the gravel road
that circles Heartstone Lake. Abigail smiles back
at Dad, lifts her feet. We always do this, she explains
to Pam, who says, That’s a nice family tradition.
Dad doesn’t even have to think about his wish.
He says what he says every year: Good fishing!
He winks. Abigail and I exchange a look. We love
Dad, but when we’re at the lake, fishing is all
he ever thinks about. Pam has something else
on her mind: I wish we could decide what to call
the baby. She looks at Dad, then out the window.
If she’s thinking up a nature name like Buck,
she doesn’t tell him—or us. Abigail’s distracted,
trying to get a signal on her phone. No luck.
Tell me again how long we’ll be here, Dad? she says.
About a month, he says. We always have the landline.
She tries again, gives up, turns to me. What’s your
wish? she asks. I shrug and peer into the trees, trying
to see the lake. Every year when I was little, I’d lift
my feet and wish for the same thing: To see Mom again.
Last year, I closed my eyes and thought: I wish Dad would
not get married. I knew it was impossible. And mean.
I hated Pam already. Her makeup and nail polish,
all those different-colored shoes and fancy jewelry.
I wished we could keep our cabin for the three of us,
like it had always been—just Dad and Abigail and me.
It halfway worked. Pam didn’t come to the lake
with us last year. So that wish came true. Sort
of—in September, they got married as they’d planned.
And this morning we all got in the car, heading north.
This year, I’ve decided to change my wishing strategy
to something more realistic: I know Pam is here to stay,
but I wish she’d quit trying so hard to be our mom.
The cabin’s small. It won’t be easy to stay out of her way.
I look across the backseat at Abigail. Sun shines
through her brown curls. Whatever she’s wishing
sends color to her cheeks, and her half smile says
she has a secret. I bet her wish is about kissing.
copyright © 2017 Helen Frost