Chapter 3

The rope line was a quarter mile east of the shanty row. Derek had run it himself in December, a hundred yards of orange poly with stakes every ten feet. It was supposed to guide tourists back to shore when the fog rolled in. I had watched him set it. I had handed him the stakes. I knew where it started because I knew the lake.

We walked with the wind on our right. My grandmother’s voice was in my head: keep the wind on your cheek, keep the ridge at your back. Poppy’s hand was in mine. Her bare foot was in a sneaker that was too big and already soaked. I stopped and tore the drawstring out of my parka hood. I tied one end around her wrist and the other around mine. It was thin, but it was something.

“Don’t let go,” I said. She nodded. Her lips were blue. We walked. The ice boomed and flexed. Slush channels pulled at my boots. I stepped where the gray was darker, where the ice looked older. Once my foot went through to my ankle and I screamed, but it was only slush over a frozen layer. Poppy didn’t scream. She just held on.

My contractions were eight minutes apart. I counted them because counting was better than thinking. The baby rolled and kicked against my ribs. I talked to it in my head. Not yet. Not here.

“Uncle D says the water is loud,” Poppy said again. She was trying to tell me something. I just didn’t know what. “Does he say other things?” “He says Mama is sick.” “Your mama?” “She’s not sick,” Poppy said. “She has a purple eye.” My stomach turned. “Who gave her the purple eye?” “Kyle.” The name was a slap. I didn’t know any Kyle. Derek didn’t know any Kyle. Or maybe he did. Maybe he knew a lot of things he’d never told me. “Is Kyle your daddy?” “No,” she said. “Kyle is Mama’s friend. He broke the door.” We walked. The wind pushed the snow so hard it came sideways. I couldn’t see ten feet. The rope line was under the drifts. I found a stake with my boot, then another. We followed them like a blind woman following a wall.

“Where are we going?” Poppy asked. “To a phone.” “To call Mama?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know if her mother was alive. I didn’t know if the girl was telling the truth. She was five. She was scared. She could have made up a hundred things. But the sandwich had crusts cut off. The snowsuit cuff was mended with green thread. Someone had been taking care of her. Someone had been keeping her. The shanty was Derek’s. The phone was Derek’s. The photo was Derek’s. I didn’t need a jury. I needed a telephone.

The contractions were six minutes apart when I saw the light. It was a smudge to the west, yellow and weak, like a coin under water. Verne’s Bait & Tackle. The shop sat on high ground at the foot of Macomber Point Road, three hundred yards past the flooded access road. The pay phone was on the entry wall. It had been there since before I was born. It still worked. I knew because Verne kept it for exactly this kind of night.

Behind us, an engine caught.

Not Derek’s truck. His truck was stuck in the slush, and I had heard it coughing. This was a different sound, higher and steadier. A snowmobile? A plow? I turned my head. The wind was so loud I couldn’t tell direction. “Poppy, run.” She tried. Her sneaker came off in the slush. I picked her up. She wrapped her arms around my neck and held on. She was heavier than she looked, and my back screamed, and the baby dropped lower, and I ran anyway.

The shop light grew. The access road was a river of gray water, two feet deep in the washout where the culvert had plugged. I stepped off the ice into it and the cold took my breath. Poppy’s arms tightened. “Mama,” she said. “I want Mama.” “I know.” “Uncle D said Mama gave me away.” “He lied.” I didn’t know that. But I said it anyway. Sometimes you have to lie to keep a child walking. Sometimes you have to lie to keep yourself walking too.

The shop door was twenty feet ahead. The pay phone was inside. The roll of quarters was in the till. Verne was inside. I didn’t know if she would help me. She had raised Derek. She had given him a key. She had looked the other way for a long time. I banged on the door with my bleeding hand. The glass shook. A light came on in the back. Verne’s face appeared, white and old. She saw me. She saw the child. Her mouth opened. Then she locked the door.