Chapter One

It’s only June, but the grass in the pastures and ditches is already sunburnt and dead from the drought. Smoke hangs in the air, a constant reminder of the burning forests in the north, around Loon Lake. The water in this lake, Brightsand Lake, is lower than anyone’s ever seen it. A few yards from where we sit, new rocks break the lake’s surface, like seedlings emerging from the soil. I’ve never seen these rocks before—they’ve always been submerged.

Luke Cherville is leaning back in his lawn chair, his beer growing warm. Luke likes to savour his booze rather than just tip it back. His skin is already turning a deep brown, filling me with a mix of admiration and jealousy. Luke, like his sister Jen, is all high cheekbones and leanly muscled limbs. I could almost throw up. I really shouldn’t complain, though, since I’m dating him.

My own fair skin is burning despite the sunscreen. I dip my floppy straw hat in the cool water and flick my bangs out of my eyes. Time for a cut.

The sun is my enemy. Not only does it roast my skin, but it makes my hair and nails grow like weeds. And it bleaches my black hair red, which is fine until the summer is over and my roots come in black again. Hence the silly grandma hat, which, though unstylish, solves both these problems.

Brightsand Lake is a large oval, and we sit on the northeast shore. A couple feet from where we lounge, cold springs bubble up from the reeds, rusting the sand and chilling the water. My Aunt Bea painted one of these springs. Soft mineral formations like aquatic cities within the springs, the tall grasses standing guard around the pools. The canvas has been hanging in her kitchen since before Mom got sick—more than five years now—but every time I look at it, I notice more details.

North of us is the main beach, a mile of golden sand dotted with people and beach blankets. On the west part of the main beach, sandbars are pushing out of the water like the ribs of a starving whale. People have planted their lawn chairs on the sandbars and lounge with their feet in the water.

I’ve been coming to this park for as long as I can remember. Dad and I used to ride our horses here in the early spring and late fall, when the campers weren’t around. We’d take the short­cut along Crocus Ridge and through Aunt Bea and Uncle Will’s pastures, gallop down the jack pine-lined fairways of the park’s golf course, then follow the winding road deeper into the park, through the black spruce and poplar. When we reached the main beach, we’d stop our horses and watch, silent. Sometimes white-tailed deer would emerge from the forest, edge up to the lake for a drink. Then we’d lope down the beach, the horses’ hooves flinging clumps of wet sand like kids having a food fight. Deer would startle, bound back into the woods.

In the off-season, the park was ours. But after my mom died, we stopped riding our horses here. I can’t tell you why, exactly. I didn’t ask Dad if he wanted to, and he didn’t suggest it.

My life is divided in two. The time before my mom died, and the time after. The time before is set, like a bug stuck in hardened amber. The time after keeps growing, changing. Almost unrecognizable from the life I thought I’d have.

Today, though, I can pretend everything’s as it should be. I can even imagine that Brightsand Lake Park is mine again. At least this rocky strip of beach. I dip my hat in the water again.

“Luke, I’m so hot.” I sigh.

“Well, let’s go out there.” Luke puts his drink down, stands up.

We slide into our sandals and wade out slowly, trying not to slip on the slimy rocks. We are nearly waist deep when Luke pretends to fall. When I reach for him, he pulls me into the icy water. I squeal, come up gasping for air, blinking water out of my eyes. Luke stands back laughing at me.

“YOU SON OF A BASTARD! YOUR ASS IS GRASS, SEABASS!” I tackle him. We’re both laughing as we go under again. In the struggle, I nick my left calf on a jagged rock. Luke is pushing me under, still laughing, while I watch my blood drift through the water, a thin line of rusty smoke. Fascinated, I trace its progress with my eyes. And suddenly I see it.

Floating toward us. Face down. Fishing line trails from the left leg. She’s a boat gone adrift.

Long dark hair drifts like seaweed. Hides her face.

Is it her?

Not her. No. No. No.

The arms hang down. Long thin fingers. Ring finger missing. Something under the nails. Dirt? No. Paint. Dark blue.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

Two days ago. I saw her. Just saw her.

I thrash, arms smashing water.

“What the hell, Darby?” Luke says.

“Oh, God! Bea! Bea!” Run for her. Run. Help. Help her. Water slows me.

He is clutching my arm. His hands, they’re strong. Holding me back. Rage hot as the sun.

“Let go! Let go! Help her! Let me—I need, she needs…”

“Darby, don’t touch her. She’s … it’s too late.”

I’m retching into the lake. Luke’s hands in my hair. Roaring. My throat burning.

Then the strangest thing happens. I’m still screaming, but I start to feel distant from myself, like a part of me is observing everything. Broken in two.

A wisp of wind stirs the cold, glassy surface of the lake. I tip my head back, howling now, like a feral dog. The sun glares down from the cloudless sky.

The heat in my body disappears. I watch the vomit slowly drift apart in the numbing water, see some of it bump against my left hip. Food for the jackfish.