1st Five Pages May Workshop - Duperre

Name: Amber Duperre
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Title: The Golden Lake

Every year on the anniversary of Dad’s disappearance, I planted trees in his favorite spot: an abandoned field he bought from a local retired farmer. He was a nature lover, and in his mind, how could you not be? He made it his mission to turn that field into a lush forest, planting trees there every day the weather permitted it. He loved every one of those damn trees. He even watered them with water he formulated especially for them. Now that he was gone, I made it my mission to continue his mission.

Taking a deep breath, my nostrils searched for him: the clean smell of his shampoo, the startling herbaceous aroma of hops he used to brew beer. Nothing. All that was left was the memory of these smells. I sighed, placed my water and shovel on the ground, and laid in the field in complete silence, my worries melting into the fertile soil below. The ground, warm from the beating sun’s rays, swaddled me like a heated blanket. I closed my eyes and felt him lying there next to me. A gust of wind blew by and dried a tear before it fell off my cheek. I imagined it was his finger brushing against my skin, telling me it would be okay, comforting me like only a parent could. This day never got easier, no matter if it was the first anniversary of his disappearance or the third.

Dad’s love for nature rubbed off on me more in the last three years than it did when he was around. The thought brought more tears to my eyes. It was something I didn’t get to share with him.

I laid there for a half hour before getting to work.

I planted a new tree, watered it, and splashed more water around the roots of the ones I planted last year. Then I drove back to Nana’s house. I kicked off my boots and peeled off my dirty gloves before going inside. My bare shoulders thanked me immediately upon finding respite from the sun. I used my arm to wipe sweat off my brow. All the windows and doors were open but that didn’t make a difference. The air was heavy with moisture, hot, and almost suffocating. Nothing out of the ordinary for the middle of summer. When I stepped inside, I heard her.

“Arabella,” Nana yelled from out back. My teeth clenched so hard they could shatter. Nana got on my nerves every day, but especially this one, especially on the anniversary of her only child’s disappearance. His disappearance never seemed to bother her much. And she wasn’t exactly the nurturing type. I’d had to deal with the loss, confusion, and desperate hope, all on my own.

Rolling my eyes, I blocked out the rest of her muffled words. I already knew what she wanted. And she knew where I had been.

I padded over to the kitchen, leaving a trail of dirt through the carpeted living room, my small act of defiance, until I faced the pot with boiled sugar water and the empty glass hummingbird feeder next to the sink. It was a pointless task. Living in upstate New York, you would think there would be plenty of hummingbirds flying by in the summer. But in all the time I remembered her doting over the twenty or so feeders in the yard, Nana never got a single hummingbird to come to the house. She always wound up dumping the sugar water when spots of mold materialized in the feeders.

After filling the feeder and screwing on the lid, I slid on some clean shoes, pushed open the back door, and found Nana standing in the backyard in her favorite brown leather dress that stopped two inches above her knees. I thought of my friends’ grandmas. Some of them knitted, some clipped coupons, and some line danced, but none made and wore short leather dresses. Nana’s spiky gray hair sparkled in the sun’s light. “Nana, I…” I’d wanted to ask what time we were going to visit my mom today.

Before I could finish the question, something buzzed by my head. Like 50 bees at once. My grip loosened on the bird feeder. I quickly supported it with my left hand so it wouldn’t crash to the ground. Nana had her arms outstretched like Frankenstein. Twelve ruby-throated hummingbirds perched on her arms, their green and red feathers shimmering in the sun’s mid-afternoon light. She turned her head to look at me.

I jumped, spilling sugar water onto my shoe. Nana’s eyes, her piercing green eyes that reminded me of the conniving nature of some household cats, were full of joy. She was smiling. That never happened. Nana never showed emotion. “They finally came,” she said, then turned her attention to her bird friends, her back facing me.

Hoping for a better look, I walked around to Nana’s front. Her eyebrows were drawn together and her mouth made an “O” shape. She nodded as if the birds told her something important. Then she looked at me. At me. Had the hummingbirds mentioned me?

“Are they…. Are they talking to you?” I asked, running my hand through my long brown hair over and over again-- my nervous habit.

Her bright eyes stared deep into mine. I didn’t look away like usual. I was too stunned. Ignoring my question, Nana asked, “Are you planning on visiting your mom today?” Then she turned her head back toward the hummingbirds, unable to keep her attention from them for long.

“Yeah,” I answered, exasperated. She already knew that. I visited Mom every weekend, and usually multiple times during the week, too. Nana came with me every time. “But what are they saying to you?” What I really meant was, what’s going on with you? Is Nana losing her mind, too? I can’t handle that.

“Go without me today,” Nana said, seemingly holding two conversations at once. She mumbled something to the hummingbirds.

Stepping backward, away from Nana who may or may not have been in her right mind at the moment, I simply said, “Okay.” I shook the whole scene in front of me off as some weird coincidence. I unscrewed the lid on the feeder I was holding and doused a small cooking fire Nana had built. Skewered over the fire was something small. It looked like a charred squirrel. God, I hoped it wasn’t squirrel.

Other grandmas didn’t do that either.

“You’re gonna miss the anniversary beer,” I said. Then I grumbled, “Probably doesn’t taste good anymore, anyway,” more to myself than to her.

I turned and walked quickly into the house, confused by everything I just witnessed. 

In the spare bedroom I grabbed one of Dad’s homebrewed beers. In our old house he had a small brewery in a spare room. He made 5-gallon batches and pride beamed out his eyeballs every time he made something new. I tried to stay away from him while he was brewing because once he got talking about beer, he never shut up. The guy could talk for hours. Once, he went on a rant about how important water is in the brewing process. ‘Amateurs and regular people just don’t understand how the chemistry of the water can change the whole taste of the batch.’

I wished I could listen to his rants one more time. I missed him so damn much.