The Lake of Dreams by Kim Edwards

All the years I was growing up, my parents had star parties whenever there was a minor celestial event—an eclipse of the moon, an alignment of planets, Venus drawing close. The adults brought telescopes and had bonfires on the shore and we children ran until we were so tired we fell asleep on blankets on the grass or curled up in the hammock. I remember being carried inside from those parties, my father’s arms so strong around me, falling into the softness of the bed, sleepy and safe, into clean sheets that smelled like wind. “I forgot about the solstice.”
    “Then you’ve been away too much,” she said.
    “So you say,” I replied. “Every time I come to visit.”
    “Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” she said, and finished her coffee. “Sweetie, I need to go to work today. I wish I didn’t, but I’ve missed so much time with the accident. So here—take these.” She slid a set of keys across the glass-topped table, the bones of her hand moving visibly beneath her skin. “The Impala,” she explained, though I knew. “It’s all tuned up, ready to go. There’s an extra house key, too.”
    “Thanks.” I remembered my father taking us for drives on Sunday afternoons, hours when we’d meander with no particular destination, taking in the bursting forth of spring or the trees with their autumn leaves, golden or orange or fiery red against the deep blue sky. “Blake says you might sell it?”
    She nodded. “Probably. It’s hard to let it go, but it’s time. No one in the family wants it, and it’s silly to have it just sitting out in the barn.” She paused before she spoke again. “I’m thinking of selling the house, too.”
    I didn’t answer right away. “Seriously?”
    “I know—it must be shocking. For a long time I couldn’t think about it. Your dad is so much a part of this place. And what you said yesterday is true, he loved the lake, and the marsh, especially. So it’s hard. But look at this place, honey. I’ve become pretty handy over the years, believe it or not, but I still can’t keep up with it all. I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while, but it was talking about the gardens in the ER—how beautiful they’d once been—that finally made me realize how far gone things really are. You see something every day, and you don’t notice. But when you really look”—she gestured to the tangled jungle of vines and weeds and flowers, the peeling paint on the porch—“I have to admit that it’s beyond what I can handle.”
    “But wouldn’t you miss living here?”
    “Of course I will. But I won’t miss the responsibility. Or the taxes! Anyway, I’m just starting to think about it, honey. No need to panic.” She smiled. “It would probably take a couple of years just to clear the place out.”
    “It might take a couple of decades, actually,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “There’s so much stuff everywhere.”
    “Well, you don’t want it,” she said thoughtfully, and I realized she really was quite serious about selling. “You’re off gallivanting around the world, and Blake can hardly leave his boat for dry land, much less take on the upkeep of this place. Still, it’ll be the end of an era.”
    I didn’t say anything for a few seconds, trying to sort out how I felt. Everything my mother said made sense, and yet I hated the thought of someone else living in these rooms, even though it was true that I didn’t want to live in them myself.
    “The end of several eras,” I mused, thinking of Blake and Avery with a baby on the way, which I could not mention. “Oh, speaking of old stuff, I found something last night that I want to show you.”
    Upstairs, I collected the pile of dusty pamphlets I’d left on the table by the bed. When I came back my mother had been deadheading the flowers, and spent blossoms were piled on the stone wall; she was talking on her cell phone, laughing.
    “They’re beautiful . They’re right here in front of me. Thanks so