The Lake and the Library by S. M. Beiko Read Free Book Online

There was a small piece of paper stuck inside the rag.
Must have been in his pocket
, I guessed. On it were two letters scratched desperately into the paper:
    LI
    Then the lights started going out, row by row, following a distant roll of thunder. I took this as my cue to go; it was suddenly so cold.
    Behind me, the clock above the Fable Door started ticking.

He calls upon the Earth, and she responds that she feels life and joy. She then proclaims, “And death shall be the last embrace of her/ Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother/ Folding her child, says, ‘Leave me not again.’”
    She closes the worn book against her hand, a flesh bookmark, and she stares out the window. The gravity of the lake hangs just in the distance, saying something she’s been straining to hear for days now, tuning out other sounds the better to listen. She barely notices the doctor amble in, his
tut-tut
preamble about not having left her bedroom in a week pinging in her ears like the dead channels on her radio. These country doctors, remarking on her books, too, like the only one she ought to be reading at this point is a holy one. She humours him with a glance, trying to look demure, but it comes off as vacant. He flashes a light in those eyes and, sure enough,
tuts
again. Then the blood pressure cuff is too big for her arm. She nearly smiles at the doctor’s palpable frustration that she’s lost more weight, that she’s obviously been hiding or just ignoring her food. He thinks the smile is just a tick.
    Ruth, the housekeeper, comes in, hands folded in front of her and patient for the verdict. The doctor takes her out into the hall to discuss “proper care,” which Ruth should be responsible for. She’ll probably just get another tired scolding instead.
You should be watching her more carefully, what she eats and drinks
,
and Ruth, stubborn as steel, will retort,
We’re doing the best we can, but the lady’s gone right off her head since the terrible thing with her son, and right after her husband, too
.
    Once their conversation fades to the other side of the house, she climbs out of her chair and the body groove she’s left behind. She somehow shambles across the gulf from chair to wash basin, which has been filled and untouched since morning. Leaning over the water, her reflection is pockmarked, rippling. She puts her hand right over the surface, floats it over, lets it sink in carefully. She is not surprised at the lack of sensation. She removes her hand and plants both of them firmly on either side of the basin, anchoring herself to the washstand. She bends, her face whispering into the water like they were two parts joined. She counts. She swallows. She stops counting.
    Blackness. Suddenly she’s on her back, choking up water onto the country doctor’s bloated chest. The dead radio channel finds a signal, and a crackling laugh bursts from her lungs with the water gurgling behind it. “I told you she was off her head, I told you!”
Rustling, shouting, and “She can’t be left alone—”
    â€œWhat did you say, ma’am? Calm yourself now, you’re hysterical.”
    â€œEasier,” she repeated, covering her mouth, trying to hide the smile. “It’s easier than I thought.”

I passed through our red door like a ghost, for a second wondering why it was open now, then remembering that it had never been locked; I had only imagined it so. I could hear Mum in the middle of another coughing fit, hacking something up in the upstairs bathroom. I dropped my bag in the hall.
    â€œMum? Are you okay?”
    She poked her head out of the doorway, cigarette in hand as she stared. “You’re soaked! And dirty!”
    â€œNo, really?” I kicked off my shoes and made to shake off like a dog. She mock-shrieked and bustled down the stairs, grabbing me in a hug and muddying herself up in the process. I laughed, trying to drown out the