Daughters of the Lake(79)
“The rocking chair should be in here, not in our room,” Addie said to no one, imagining the countless nights she would spend by her child’s crib, rocking her to sleep. The thought of her baby coursed through Addie like a heat wave. She was anxious to feel her child’s warm body, to hold the little bundle that was so close now, so near.
She went into her bedroom and dragged the rocking chair, in fits and spurts, first pushing, then pulling, across the hallway to the baby’s room. She positioned it next to the window, and as she did, she looked out over the lake at the coming storm. Night is falling, she thought. Time to get out of these clothes.
With great difficulty, she waddled across the hall, changed from her dress into her nightgown, and, having expended her last bit of energy, Addie returned to her child’s room, and sat down in the rocking chair, finally, exhausted.
Nesting, that’s what her mother called what Addie had just been doing. It was the unshakeable urge some women have to “ready the nest” for the coming baby. It meant, among the old wives who believed in such things, that the baby was readying itself to come into the world. The movement toward birth signaled the mother to ready the world for the baby. Addie remembered that, as a child, Marie and her friends would talk among themselves about such things as babies and childbirth and old wives’ tales. Now, something inside Addie longed for her mother, wishing she could feel Marie’s soft hand on her forehead, comforting her.
She sat in the chair, rocking back and forth, looking out over the lake. The soft to-and-fro motion, along with the soothing sight of the water, lulled the exhausted Addie into such a relaxed state of mind that she fell into a light sleep. It felt good to let go and drift away from her worries.
She did not see the fog as it rose up from the lake, born on the place where the humidity and heavy air met the cool water. She did not see it take shape and hover over the still, calm surface, breathing like a living thing would, growing and expanding with each exhalation. She did not see the fish, poking their heads out of the water, one after another after another, each hoping to get a taste of the velvety, living fog before it dissipated into the air, taking all the goodness with it.
Addie was rocking back and forth slowly, in a dreamless sleep, as the fog obliterated all the light in the darkening sky. She was sleeping as the fog enveloped the house on Front Street, wrapping its body, all its hundreds of tentacles, around the wooden structure and clinging to it, cradling it. She awoke only when she heard the singing.
It was a strange sound, one that traveled through her ears and around her heart and, finally, deep into her soul to a place that was familiar, though she could not remember how or why. She had heard this sound before, on the day of her birth, but of course she could not recall it. She only knew, as she was pulled from a deep sleep by the delicate sound, that it was calling her name.
Addie opened her eyes in the dusky room, but could see nothing outside the window but a solid wall of white. It startled her so much that she cried out, wondering if the world itself had been obliterated while she slept. Was she dreaming? She shook her head, still groggy from sleep, and realized that it was simply the fog, a consuming fog, that was rapping at her window.
With great difficulty, she pushed herself up from the rocking chair and walked to the window, pressing her face against the pane. There was nothing. She could not see more than an inch beyond the glass. As she pulled back a bit from the window, Addie was surprised to see her own reflection. She turned, faster than she should have, thinking someone was standing behind her in the room. But it was simply her own face reflected in the glass. Nothing menacing was there. Nothing at all.
“I expected rain,” Addie murmured to herself, touching the windowpane, confused by the sight of the fog. Earlier in the day, it had indeed seemed as though rain was coming. The sky in the distance had been a threatening shade of green. Fog didn’t usually appear on days such as this one, but Addie was coming to realize that, in her new home in Wharton, the weather took strange and unusual turns.
Darkness was descending upon the house, and quickly. Addie decided to make her way downstairs, where the fire was still burning in the fireplace. She lit a few candles and sat on the sofa in front of the fire. She was unnerved, looking this way and that, from one whitewashed window to another, wishing Jess was home. Why wasn’t he here? Where was he?
Her thoughts dove into the ocean of her mind, and memories flooded forth, a whole lifetime, lived there, on the sofa in front of the fire. She thought of her childhood in Great Bay, with Jess, Polar, and Lucy. She remembered her father’s warm smile and mother’s gentle touch. She drifted to her wedding—all candlelit and resplendent, everyone singing Christmas carols. Her thoughts swirled from there to a bicycle ride, and then to a kiss on the platform in the train station, steam from the engine rising up and circling around them just as this fog now encircled the house.
The pains began. Erratic at first, and then coming in waves, every few minutes. There was no denying it; the baby was coming. Addie knew she should leave the house to find the doctor. She stumbled to the door, but just as her mother had done on the day Addie was born, she opened her front door to find a punishing wall of white. It terrified her. She knew the way to the doctor’s house, it was just a short walk down the street. Surely she could find it, even in this fog. Surely. The length of one city block to the intersection, a left turn, and then four storefronts would lead her to the doctor. Or at least to someone who could help her get the rest of the way.