Back to Madeline Island by Jay Gilbertson Page A

wooden barrels. Their brass spouts have long ago developed a deep patina green. Farther on, Rocky sits in front of a huge wooden door that opens by pushing it along a metal runner spanning above us. I give the leaf-shaped handle a tug and it squeaks open, sliding to the right of us.
    Rocky steps up the metal stairs and into the odd water-floored room. I snap on more lights and follow him. A wide cement path leads along the left wall to a larger flat area. Most of the room is lake water; it laps lazily against the sides, reflecting the light of the bare bulbs, making it dance and sparkle. There’s a motor suspended in the middle of the wall facing out to the lake. It can slide the doors open, revealing the front of the boathouse and on out to the lake. This is where you would pull your boat into to unload the casks of booze. What a lot of work for a lousy drink!
    Passing by the furnace that heats our factory upstairs, we head up the spiral staircase, push up the trap door, click open the closet door and we’re in the office. We just call this entire building the boathouse, even though it’s really a guesthouse on top of the boathouse. Isn’t life confusing enough?
    I click on the lamp over my desk, thump down into the chair and try to remember where the “on” switch to my laptop is.
    â€œThere.” The screen flashes to life. A laughing Ruby and I are dancing the “cancan” on the hood of the duck. We were in the parade for the Bayfield Apple Festival not long ago and had a blast. I click to my e-mail. Rocky leaps into my lap and settles in.
    Yes—I’m checking to see if Helen wrote. “Hot damn!” She did.
    Dear Eve,
    I had a wonderful time meeting you! I can’t get over your curly red hair, it’s perfect. I’ve been talking Ryan’s ear off ever since and we have to plan a get-together soon. I want to meet this Ruby and your cottage sounds so magical.
    On my drive home, to Duluth, I remembered all sorts of questions I had originally planned to ask you, but to be honest, I was so nervous—I forgot.
    You mentioned that your mom had passed away and I’m very sorry, but you said I could ask anything, and here goes—is my birth father still alive? You didn’t say anything about him, so I wasn’t sure if he had died or that maybe you simply don’t know. What’s become of him, I mean.
    Well, that’s all for now. Thank you again for lunch, the wonderful duck ride and more than anything, for finding me.
    Love,
Helen
    P.S. I’ll be sure and ask my mom more about the yellow sweater.
    I take a deep breath and then think. The chair tilts back, so I rock slowly. Rocky’s low purr vibrates against my heart and is so soothing.
    Stands to reason she wants to know about her roots; who wouldn’t? But I don’t know much about what happened to her dad, my teenage romance . My big mistake—no, no, I can’t say that, not now. And like Ruby said, things are exactly the way they’re supposed to be. Supposed to be—are. Maybe Mary Jo can lend a hand.
    Lifting Rocky to my shoulder, we head into the front room. I click on lights and marvel at the neatly piled aprons, the sewing machines and the silly deer-head-phone thing. Noticing the light on Sam’s sewing machine I go over to turn it off. She’s forever forgetting to.
    I bend down, then see a note lying just so— just so I’d find it! I slide into her chair and wonder how many more notes am I going to be reading tonight? I flip open the paper:
    Eve honey, this is the last note tonight, I promise. No sense ever came from looking over your shoulder. The past is just that. But things aren’t looking too good for the daddy who raised you, so don’t take too long in deciding just what the right thing to do is—just take the plunge, sister! We all are here to cheer you on. Now get to bed.
    Love, Sam
    â€œOh, Sam.” I sigh and snap off her