The Lake of Dreams by Kim Edwards Read Free Book Online

one day she had looked up to see my father silhouetted against the door of the greenhouse where she worked. He was so much taller than she remembered, disconcertingly familiar and strange all at once. He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, but didn’t speak. The scent of earth gathered in her throat. Water dripped in the sink.
    “I’m transplanting zinnias,” she’d finally said. As proof she held up her hands, dirt beneath her nails, her fingertips stained brown.
    My father had smiled. Then he leaned down and kissed her. She kissed him back, pressing her wrists against his shoulders, her earth-stained hands lifted like wings.
    I’d heard this story over and over, growing up, so I didn’t really like it, not one bit, that some man I’d never met was sending my mother flowers. Jet lag traveled through me like a wave and the world suddenly seemed vibrant and strange, as if all the colors might burst from their shapes. I put my hand on the table to steady myself.
    “You okay?” my mother asked.
    “Just a little tired, that’s all.”
    “Of course you are, honey. I’m surprised you lasted this long. I made up the couch on the screened porch for you.”
    “What about my old room, can’t I use that?”
    “Do you really want to?”
    She sounded reluctant, and I remembered she’d told me once that in the silence of my father’s sudden absence, the voices of the house had begun to whisper to her constantly, the trim crying out to be painted, the driveway sputtering about cracks and pits, the faucets leaking a persistent dissatisfaction. Love, said the kitchen cabinets my father had built from quarter-sawn oak. The lights in her sewing room, the slate tiles of the patio, the newly sanded floors, all of these persisted, saying love, love, love, and when the gutters clogged, when the shutters broke loose, when a windowpane cracked, she could not bear to alter the things he had last tended; nor could she stand to listen to the clamoring of the house. That was why she’d closed off the second floor, turning the glass doorknobs, clicking the metal bolts shut.
    “Would you mind? I’ll make the bed and everything.”
    “Of course I don’t mind,” she said, though I sensed that she did.
    I found the key ring hanging inside the kitchen cupboard. The keys made soft metal sounds as I carried them to the second floor, which was warm and stuffy, the doors all closed. When I entered my old room I went from window to window, pushing up the sashes, struggling with the combination storms, letting fresh air pour in. I put a fitted sheet on the narrow bed, unfolded the flat sheet, and tucked it in, fatigue throbbing through me like a pulse.
    It was faintly light still, not quite nine o’clock. I lay down without undressing, punched speed dial, and closed my eyes. Yoshi picked up on the second ring, his voice low and smooth, like river stones.
    “Moshi Moshi.”
    “It’s me. I got here just fine.”
    “Good. I miss you, Lucy.”
    “Me, too. What are you doing?”
    “Walking to catch the train. It’s raining a little.”
    I imagined the lane, the river he’d cross before the station. If I were there I’d be lying in bed watching rain drip from the copper eaves, planning my vocabulary lesson for the day.
    “I haven’t set up the Webcam. Maybe tomorrow. My mother isn’t very high-tech.”
    “How is she?”
    “Okay. Fine, really. But the house is very quiet.”
    “You see. I was right.”
    “I do see. She’s glad you’re coming. She wants to meet you.”
    “Just a few days. I want to meet her, too. How’s your brother?”
    “He’s good. He says hello. He’s having a baby.”
    “What?”
    “It’s true. Top secret, though. I’ll be an aunt in October.”
    “Congratulations. I didn’t know he’d gotten married.”
    “He didn’t. Not yet. I mean, I don’t know if he will. It’s all a surprise.”
    “Well, tell him hello.”
    “I will. Have there been more earthquakes?”
    “A few, not so