Perdition: The Book

Perdition

I shouldn't be here but for that moment's hesitation, the last thing I remember.   Now all I am is now, watching, waiting for years on end, or so it seems.  There is hope, however. A glimmer of possibility and change. For now, I have been tasked with watching her.  She hasn’t seen me yet. I am to decide when to reveal myself, to insinuate myself, to feed into her need for love, for acceptance, for understanding.  Then, they say, and only then, can I move on.  Those around me whisper that beyond is worse, but nothing can be worse that this flat, gray, endless monotony. 

I will do anything to get out of this place.

Chapter One

“I don't know why you aren't more excited, Persis. Cousin Olympics are the best!”  Ellie, brilliant, beautiful Ellie, is clearly full of enough excitement for the both of us.

I turn to Ellie, raise an eyebrow: “Says the girl who always gets a medal.”  It's not one hundred percent true, but Ellie’s name has been stitched onto the Champion's Quilt more than any other cousin's. 

She rolls her eyes and I turn and look back out the window, watching the green, rolling scenery of Abbadon, Georgia fly by.  I have my arm out the window, allowing it to rise and plummet with the wind that's coming in hot and fast.  Even though we're both sweating through our shirts, it's a tradition of ours.  It makes the lake water feel that much better.  This stretch of Jot-Em-Down Road is my favorite.  It's the last bit before we cross the bridge to the Jennings Family Land.  The river roars by at the far edge of the valley, while alongside the road the regular afternoon downpours create an ever-changing series of pools that reflect the green of the reeds, the blue of the sky, the white of the ubiquitous clouds.  I close my eyes, enjoy the tempered, red-warmth of the sun through my lids and the smell of wet earth, the last moment's peace before...

“Hello?! I'm talking here!”

 I turn and take in her profile again.  Long caramel colored hair, piled in a messy heap on her head, tan, perfect skin, a delicate, straight nose, naturally long and curling lashes.  We're so close--and she's so oblivious to it—that I sometimes forget just how pretty she is.  But even though we look similar, my hair is darker and wavy, my nose is slightly crooked from a poorly timed header, I'm shorter, and while I'm also tan I'm so freckled even my blue eyes have spots of brown and green in them. “Sorry Ellie.  What were you saying?”

“Well, I was laying out my attack plan for our team's success.  Now that we're finally on the same team, we have to get our shit together.” 

“You'd better get that unladylike language out of your system or Gram's gonna take the Board of Education to your ass.  And you can plan all you want.  I don't see how it'll account for my shortcomings.” Most notably my lack of enthusiasm, I don’t say.  “Not all of us are four year varsity starters and geniuses.”

“Hey, you made varsity this year.”

“And rode the bench unless it was a blowout. Oh yeah, and I also wasn't valedictorian.”

“You do well enough.”

“You're right.  In any normal family, my grades would be good enough.”

Ellie chuckles knowingly then says, “No kidding.  When Gram finds out you got a B in pre-cal she's gonna flip.”

Then it's my turn to laugh.  “C'mon.  You know I'm her favorite. She won't stay mad long.”

“You're only her favorite because she feels sorry for you, loser.” 

Ellie looks over at me, checking like she always does to make sure that my feelings aren't hurt.  They aren't.  I'd rather have people say stuff like that to my face then behind my back. “Well, there aren't many benefits to being the family freak, so I'll take what I can get.” 

Her sympathy changes back to furrowed focus.  “Anyways, as I was saying, I've been reading Sun Tzu in preparation for this summer--”

“Why?” I interrupt. “Eastern Philosophy isn't even an Enlightenment category.”

Now, Grampa Joe is all about sports. He says it brings out the best and worst in humanity, but his pet event is Enlightenment.  For this part of the Olympics, he devises challenges based on his latest interests.  It's kind of like trivia on steroids. He's a retired philosophy professor with a wide range of interests, so the categories can get pretty out there.  He releases them at Christmas Eve dinner after a too long speech in which he discusses the need “now more than ever” of Renaissance men and women. He then lectures on the vital importance of “digesting not cramming the material,” makes a gross pun about digestion, and then finally gets to the point--the topics. 

This year he has decided upon:  Geography of Sub-Saharan Africa, Native Americans of North Georgia, Literature of the American Renaissance, Practical Implications of Quantum Mechanics, and Baseball in the Era of Kennesaw Mountain Landis.  Wow.  Luckily on Christmas morning the teams are announced, so most teams divide and conquer, giving them ample time to prepare.  The topics are tough but he usually manages to find interesting ways to have us demonstrate our knowledge. It's actually my favorite part of the Olympics mostly because it's my strongest event.  I've even finished first a few times, like the year when two of the categories were “19^th Century Russian Literature” and “The Art of Fishing.”  We had to create a work of art that explored the two topics.  I spent the whole summer fishing and taking notes and then wrote a short story titled “The Hook & The Barb” in which I recounted how a man, who's just trying to feed his family, goes mad after watching fish after fish in its death throes, and eventually drowns himself.  Luckily, this was the summer before everything happened, so I didn't feel like it was some sort of pity handout.  Anyways, I think his plan is to lure us into learning and it's worked. Our oldest cousin Joey is finishing up his dissertation about the Abbadon vernacular after Grampa Joe picked “Dialects of the American South” as a topic. 

“I know it's not a category—it was just for fun.  Will you listen to me?”  I come back to her war talk, roll my eyes at her idea of fun, but nod in assent. “Sun Tzu is famous for saying, amongst other things, that war is deception.  We're always the complete opposite and so aggressive--”

“I'll say! Jake broke Logan's nose last year, Joey needed 30 stitches after the disastrous Ancient Pentathlon year...seriously, Grampa Joe thought javelin throwing was a good idea?!  And--”

Ellie's breaks in,  “I know, I know.  That's my point exactly.  So, here's what we're gonna do: deceive them.”

“Hm.  How?”

“You.  You're our secret weapon.” 

She turns to see the incredulity on my face.  “Ha. Okay...Well, there's just one little problem with your plan.  You seem to have forgotten that I'm usually a bottom three finisher.  The Trips beat me last year. Every one of them.  They were nine.  The only reason I'm not always last is because of the transients.”

She snickers in agreement.  Grampa Joe's Official Jennings Olympics Rules Manual states that all family members between ages of 10 and 30 are expected to participate.  The games used to feature our aunts and uncles more regularly, but the competition has turned into a generally cousins only affair as the older generation has moved into their fifties.  Growing up, our friends thought it was weird. They thought Grampa Joe was some sort of despot.  Mom even hinted at that now and then, but the truth is that we wanted to be there.  It was mostly fun and it was clear it made our grandparents happy.  So we made every effort to participate.  

If you were sick or injured, it had better be serious or you'll never live it down, but of course people have to miss.  Acceptable reasons in the past have included sports camps--although thankfully our weeks fall outside most allowable NCAA practice dates--study abroad, creative writing seminars, Habitat for Humanity or the like.  Not to mention--babies were born, people passed away, work got too hectic--life happened.  Sarah tried to bail out one time to go to the beach with her boyfriend du jour, but even she relented under the pressure and then made the mistake of bringing him with her instead, a more epic mistake than almost not coming in the end.

But when you couldn't make it, Grampa Joe was still firm—a minimum of five teams of four no matter what.  That's where the transients came in.  Sometimes Julie or James, the two youngest of the prior generation, would fill in, or a spouse or partner--three cousins were married and we wished Jose and Michael could be-- would help out. Sometimes it was just a friend.  When Ellie was ten, she convinced her team to stack their roster, with transients moving in and out of events, playing to their strengths, over twenty different participants in all.  Grampa Joe said he admired her strategy, but that it didn't “engender community,” so now you can only ever have seven different people on a team in any given summer.  

Thankfully, there are always at least a couple transients who are only good at a specific Enlightenment category or long-distance running or something. I'm experienced enough to beat them overall, which is good news because although I didn't get the full force of the family genes, I certainly inherited the desire to win when I could.  

“I'm serious Persis,” Ellie says, determined to continue explaining her strategy. “Here's what I'm thinking.  During the first week, you tank it, maybe even worse than usual.”  I huff but she continues. “We'll do our best to keep things in contention, but out of first place. Then, you come out of nowhere and dark horse them in the closing week.”

“Theoretically that would work, if I were capable of coming out of nowhere.”

“That's just it.  This is your year.  Look at the events.  You're actually a good swimmer, which no one ever seems to remember.  Since I can't be there in closing week, they won't even think about you. There's doubles kayaking this year, and you and I can almost read each other’s thoughts.  There are no twins or triplets on the same team for the first time ever.  And...”

“And...you're forgetting volleyball. I'm so bad I can probably make us lose single-handedly. Oh, and clay pigeon shooting and I've never shot a gun.  And corn hole?  I have no idea where Grampa Joe came up with those two.  It's like he's been hanging out at a frat house. What's next, beer pong?”

“I wouldn't rule it out,” Ellie says and then giggles.  “Now, you're totally right about the volleyball.  You're terrible.  But we'll have Herc and Sarah at the net.  Everyone's going to be terrible at shooting.  As far as I know no one's ever done it.  You're one of the only cousins staying here all summer, so you can practice while everyone else is...”

“...out having a life.  Thanks for reminding me.”

“Whatever.  Same thing with corn hole.”

I can tell Ellie is about to launch into the finer points of her strategy or give me a detailed corn hole practice schedule, but I am saved by the end of the pavement. The gravel crunching under the tires makes it too loud for conversation, so we're quiet until we come to the bridge that will take us over the river to my summer home. The boards thump our arrival, drawing dogs and cousins down the stairs that lead from the main house to the circular driveway.

I am filled with both comfort and anxiety.   I've spent every June and July of my life here and plenty of other time to boot.  I'm grateful for my family.  I really am.  They have always stuck by me and defended me when people called me crazy.  I know I'd have no one if not for them.  But just because they'll defend me from outsiders doesn't mean they don't give me my fair share of shit.  Even if it wasn't for my “problems,” I'd still be a prime target because I'm the runt.  Twenty freaking cousins and I end up the shortest.  Did I mention that I'm 5'7”?  Or that I have seven younger cousins? Add to that my pathetic status as an only child and the fact that I'm not a star athlete or valedictorian (we've had six in the family, including Ellie) and I'm basically guaranteed to get harassed constantly. I don't have much time for thought, however, as a mass of people come into relief as we pull up to the front door of the main house. 

Before the dust can settle, Ellie's bounced out of the car and is stomping Godzilla like with a Trip under each arm.  I watch from the safety of the car as the third--Jason?--jumps on her back, bringing her crashing onto the grass.  Jonathan and Jessica stand with Seth and Andy, laughing at Ellie and the Trips' performance.  I start calculating, realizing that Seth and Andy's presence can only mean--

--but before I can react, I'm being dragged by Jake and Herc from the car.  “Here's the wittow wunt,” Jake taunts.  “What should we do with her?  Sit on her?  Tickle her until she pees? Put dirt in her hair?”

Herc looks thoughtful and then a wicked grin spreads on his face.  “I know.  Let's sacrifice her to the Lake Gods!”

“No!” I shriek.  “Let me change!”  I struggle, writhing helplessly as Herc, so nicknamed because at 6'8,” 300 pounds he's the strongest of the family, throws me effortlessly over his shoulder.   I don't really care about my clothes, but I want to enter the lake on my own terms, not at the hands of a giant man-boy.

“Woo boy...she's thrashing around like a caught shark! I think a straight jacket's in order for Psycho Persis. That'd subdue her.”  I kick out at him as they stride down the hill behind the house, the water growing ever nearer. 

“Nah,” Herc says. “We don't want to drown her—we just wanna toughen her up so she doesn't come in last again.” 

We're on the dock, approaching the end, when Ellie and the Trips catch up with us.  “Herc!  Put her down!  She's on your team this summer, you stupid meat-head!”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Forgot.”  He puts me down, pats me on the head. “Sorry cuz.”

Being on the same team means a certain level of protection.  I begin to relax, turning to thank Ellie, when I see Jake's arm extend out of nowhere, shoving me into the mineral green water of Lake Carver's shoreline.  “You're not on my team, runt!”

I flail as I enter the water, plunging deep under with the force of Jake's invitation. I right myself, kick to the surface, and break to the sounds of laughter.  Only Ellie's face shows concern.  I know it's not because she's worried about my team performance for once.  It's because that's how I died. 

If Grampa Joe's best friend, Dr. Turner, hadn't found me and resuscitated me, pumped the water out, forced the air in, I would still be dead.  But I'm not and I've never been nervous around water. Everyone but Ellie seems to take me at my word on that. 

I climb the ladder back onto the dock and furiously launch myself at Jake.  He's only two inches shorter than Herc but is slighter, so I manage to wrap him in a soaking bear hug.  “Oh Cousin Jake, I love you.  I've missed you so much!” I drawl.  I smile sweetly, and then sneak in a kidney punch he hardly seems to feel. 

“Dammit, Persis!  I just changed!”

“You're kidding me right?  You did just throw me in the lake.”

“Good point, cousin.”  He grins and leans over, affectionately squeezing water out of my ponytail. 

We start making our way back towards the house.  Herc pats me on the back.  “I saw that punch.  That's the kind of spunk I like to see.”  Then he trips me just enough to send me reeling.  I scowl my way back up the hill, wringing out my shirt and shaking my head, knowing this is only the beginning.  But a smile creeps in, too. 

Chapter Two

I wake up early the next day.  It's quiet, with only the earliest rising birds chirping their hello to each other and the sun.  I stretch and look up at the ceiling.  Our cabin is the smallest, the simplest.  There's only one bedroom and a loft.  Since my Mom stopped coming to the lake, I have taken over the old bedroom.  The bed is larger and you don't have to climb down a ladder to go to the bathroom.  I still love the loft and its expansive views, but it's not very practical.

I think of last night, of everyone's arrival, of Roscoe's incessant barking as car after car arrived, spilling out family and friends, luggage, more dogs, food, of chaos.  Most of my aunts and uncles looked stressed, but Grampa Joe and Gram couldn't hide their pleasure. 

It wasn't always this busy here.  The main house was originally built, in a smaller form, by my crotchety Great Grandpa William.   I never met him but Grampa Joe said he was an “accomplished introvert.”  He was from Atlanta originally.  Even though it wasn't near like it is today, it was recovering from the war, growing by the day.   Grandpa Will worked his way away from the city, moving from farm to farm, finding work and money where he could, until he arrived in Abbadon, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  He heard some property on a lake eight miles from town was for sale.  No one wanted to live out that far, so he was able to buy up all the property around the lake.  It was all wilderness but he put to taming it.  He cleared land to farm, the land that is mostly now our playing fields. He built a small house.  He tilled the red soil, forcing it to grow pumpkins, okra, corn, pole beans.  He kept some pigs, chickens, and cows.  He reveled in the quiet.  He only left to find a wife and did, a beautiful, shy woman named Rose, who wanted to be alone as much as he did.  The Depression hardly fazed them. They were already living a hand-to-mouth existence.  The only major event of their life was probably the birth of Gramps.

Grampa Joe grew up lonely.   As soon as he could, at the age of twelve, he lit out for Abbadon, and then to the hydro-electric plant outside Toccoa.  Once there, a foreman, who realized how bright he was, took him under his wing, and taught him how to read and to build.   At sixteen, he had learned all he could, so he moved onto Athens and college.  He met Gram, who was still in foster care at the time.  She was fifteen.  He courted her, finished his studies, married her, and when word came to him that his father had died, he found a job at a small college in the area and took a pregnant Gram with him, determined to care for his mother and fill his once lonely childhood home with family.

Over the years, Grandma Rose passed away, and my aunts and uncles grew up and moved away, closer to the bigger suburbs of Atlanta, but as soon as money allowed, they too built a house for their family until the entire south end of the lake was lined with Jennings family cabins.  Someone's here almost every weekend, giving them their fill of company, just as they dreamed, Gramps from his small attic cot, Gram from more places than she could count.  Once, at the end of an especially hectic day, I asked Gram is she ever wished for alone time.  She says she gets it every morning, when she rises at four. In this quiet space, she does her Bible Study, bakes the day's bread, and sips a coffee so slow it goes cold long before she finishes it, often after the sun has started breaking over the ridge opposite their house, as it is right now.

I’m not normally a morning person like Gram, but I decide to get out of bed and onto the lake.  I dress and make my way down the thin path I've worn to my small dock.  I uncover the kayak, swipe out the spiders, wave away their webs, pull out the leaves that have accumulated since my last visit.  I lower myself into the boat, wobbling until I balance out my weight.  The only movement on the water comes from the disturbance of my boat.  I center the paddle and slip one end into the water.  I push off and move away from the shore, out to the left.  The splashing of the oar is the single sound I can hear.  I take it easy to start, loosening up my muscles.  The sun is only just warming up the sky and it casts a golden light on the surface of the water. I think of Grandpa William, understand for a second his love of the desolate outdoors, but once I clear the last family cabin on the left, I pick up the pace and the strain of exercise clears my mind of this thought.  Before I know it, I'm looking out across at where I started, the lake now silver with the already intense Georgia morning sun.  I pull up for a second and drift with my momentum.  The light has come fully over the mountain and the windows reflect the clear, early morning light.  I see movement on the main deck, but I'm not ready to re-enter the fray.  I start again, pushing as fast as I can, sweating in the humid air. 

I'm nearing the final turn before I slow again.  My breath is coming fast and even. I'm in the zone.  I can't help but slow at the inlet approaching on my left, however.  Tucked away back in a small indentation in the shore line a sheer, rock face glistens with wet.  I pull closer to the shoreline, slowing until I hear the sound of a stream falling into the lake, churning and breaking the surface tension into bubbles and foam.  I would love nothing more than to pull up on the red clay beach to its left, drag my kayak onto the land, and hike the length of the creek to the waterfall that feeds this feature. But I promised Gram I would help with breakfast, so I turn wistfully, and instead resolve to follow this last bit of shoreline,  to traverse the mouth of the river fed by the lake, and to return to dock, knowing I'm probably already a little late.  I again lose myself to the rhythm and breeze of the action of paddling.  I lean back in the seat, gaze at the blurring green of pines, kudzu, and oaks.

I'm still hugging the shoreline, when I see the bleached dock of the old Fuller house come into view.  No one's lived there in over a decade and the blazing summer sun has punished the untreated wood.  I know what I'll see, but I still look up the steep stairs that lead up the steep bank to the abandoned timber frame house above.

My heart skips a beat as I see an outline of a person on the deck, shadowed by the risen sun. Gram would have told me about any new neighbors--that would be a huge deal on a lake this small. I realize it can only be a ghost, one of the dead I've been able to see ever since I died and came back to life, the reason why everyone thinks I'm crazy. 

I used to think I was nuts, too.  It started out small, right after my dad died. Shadows moved when I opened my eyes in the dark of my bedroom. When I ran at night I would hear footsteps behind me. I had the constant feeling that I was being watched.  At first, I tried to reason away my fears, tell myself it was just my imagination.  But then, after I came back from the lake and my near-death experience, I started seeing them everywhere.  At school, at the store, at the doctor's office. The worst part was, unless they were noticeably bloody or missing a limb, I couldn't tell whether they were real or not, not until I went to touch them.  I got caught talking to myself so many times that I started to withdraw, afraid to speak to anyone new.

For a while I had my friends, friends I had had since kindergarten, friends that had helped me deal with my dad's unexpected death and the amnesia.  Until the night my best friend Kelly showed up in my room asking for help, drenched in blood.  I woke up my Mom. “It's Kelly!  She needs help! She needs to go to the hospital!” Only no one was there and my mom got angry, telling me to “quit acting out,” that I “wasn't the only one who was still hurting from your father’s death.”

The next day when our group of friends got called into the office, talked through the awful truth by the counselor—that Kelly had died in a car accident last night—I lost it and started questioning myself.  That's also when mom started feeling uncomfortable with me.  How had I known?  I couldn't provide an adequate explanation and she didn't really want the truth.  I withdrew entirely, quit soccer, refused to go to school, wouldn't see my family. 

It wasn't until I overheard my mom on the phone with one of therapists, talking of putting me in an institution, that I created this new version of me.  The one that finally admitted I needed help, that I was depressed, lost, afraid.  I cried all the time.  That wasn’t hard after the year I had.  I pretended to take anti-depressants, said all the right things in therapy, agreed to go back to school, to play soccer again.  I didn't have to pretend with my friends because they were ninth graders and it was all too much for them, but thankfully I had my cousins to talk to at school.  They think I'm crazy too, but they have to love me (“Family First and Forever” is the Jennings motto).   And since people were afraid Herc would beat them up or Ellie would ridicule them, they left me alone.  They weren’t calling me up to hang out, but it could have been much, much worse.

Now, if someone is with me, I pretend like I don’t see a thing and just move on.  But alone, I hesitate.  Most ghosts are pretty boring.  After you get used to them suddenly appearing in mirrors or materializing around corners, it's mostly just a lot of regret, sadness, and moaning.  But some were just lonely and stuck.  They didn't remember much about their lives, but they seemed to like having someone to talk to and I could relate to them, say things I couldn't otherwise. It was usually worth the risk.

Today, since I have promised to help Gram I decide against talking.  At least for now.  Many ghosts are linked to a place, so chances were good it would still be here tomorrow.  I turn my attention from the hill to the water. Another shape moves into my periphery, and I realize, too late, that I'm headed straight for the dock.  I jam the end of the paddle into the water, try to change course, but I overcompensate and send the boat on its side and myself into the water. 

I come to the surface and look up the hill, searching for the dark form.  It's gone.  I tread water, muttering to myself for my double stupidity.  Then:  “Um...hello.  Are you okay?” A male voice, young, asks.

I guess I’ll be talking to this ghost after all, I think.  His face is still back-lit by the sun, but I see that he was tall and slender.

“Yep.  I just feel like a jerk.  Mind if I pull myself up on the dock so I can get back in?”

“Of course not.” 

The boat isn't far.  I look around for the paddle and see that he is kneeling over at the edge of the dock and trying to pull it out of the water.  That's weird. Maybe he's a new ghost and doesn't know he can't touch anything? That would explain his sudden appearance here.

I make my way to the ladder, completing the climb of shame for the second time in 24 hours.  I lean to one side and shake the water out of my ear.  I lean to the other side, shaking again, until I'm stopped by the sight of his face, now clear at this angle.  He's attractive—all angles and depth.  Brown messy hair, a strong jaw, strong nose, full lips.   He looks like he probably did when he was alive.  I wonder how he passed.  I also realize he's shirtless and try to work that into my explanation, only to find myself imaging scenarios Gram wouldn't approve of.  Such thoughts make me abruptly aware that I'm not wearing a shirt either, having gone out in only some shorts and a sports bra—black, thank God.   I laugh to myself.  Why would I care if a ghost were witness to my humiliating performance and now public exposure?  He, however, looks abashed.  I smile.  A shy ghost.

“So, what's your deal?” I ask, anxious to get on with it. Unless they're mute, there's always a deal.  A story they want to tell, a question they have to ask, a wrong they want to right.

He forgets the oar and stands up, using his free hand to shade his light brown eyes from the bright morning sun.  “Huh?  Oh you mean, why am I here?” 

Oh.  He's an existential crisis ghost.  There's nothing I can do to help him with that—I certainly don't have any answers.  All I can do is be polite.  “Sure.  Why are you here?”

“I don't know.  It just seemed like a good idea...”  He trails off uncertainly.

“Well, I don't mean to be rude, but I really don't have time for this.  I have to go help Gram with breakfast.   If there's nothing you need from me, I'd better head back.”

“Okay.”  He looks like he's unsure what to do next.  Then, he looks past me, over my shoulder.  I turn and see Ellie arriving on a kayak.  Great, I think, imagining her view of me in this moment.  It's been a while since I've been seen talking to myself.  As she approaches, I hear her laughter skipping off the water.  She looks at me curiously. 

“What?” I ask in exasperation.

“I was just wondering what you said to get a complete stranger to throw you off a dock this early in the morning.”  She's grinning from ear-to-ear. 

I turn back and see that he has bent down again to get the paddle, is closing his hand around it, drawing it from the water. 

It dawns on me.  This guy isn't a ghost.  He's a real person.  A real, half-naked guy.  And I'm half-naked and have just rammed into his dock.  I go red with embarrassment.  I turn and force my eyes up to his.  He has a bemused look on his face.  I can't make myself speak, so I just look at the paddle.  He follows my eyes. “Oh, sorry.  Here's your oar.” He gives me a sideways smile.

I manage a soft thanks and turn, trying to find the kayak.  I realize it's floated out in the current, but Ellie's towing it towards us.  “You know, technically it's a paddle, not an oar.  An oar generally rests on the edge of the water craft, while a paddle is held in the center” she says in her most confident tone.

He raises his eyebrows.  “Good to know.”

She turns and brings my kayak, pushing it in between her and the dock.  “She's really smart,” I unnecessarily state.

“I can see that.  I'm clearly going to have to brush up on my nautical terminology.”  He smiles wryly at Ellie.  My heart drops.  I would have driven him off eventually, but it would have been nice to have a new friend. Once Ellie's in the picture, however, I'm done for—I can't compete. Guys hardly even notice I'm alive.

“Well, we'd better go.  I'm only here after you because Gram says you promised to mix up the biscuits.   I had to use the binoculars for ten minutes before I found you.”

I turn and back down the ladder, putting my foot into the kayak.  I am half trying to cover myself up and start tipping into the water again.  He has followed me, however, and quickly offers his forearm to provide a counter-balance.  It's been a while since I've touched someone not in my family and if possible, I turn even redder, scarlet with heat. I become annoyed at my own blush, which no doubt makes it even worse. I lower myself into the boat, ashamed at what an idiot I’m being.

“So are you staying here this summer?” Ellie probes.  “I didn't think anyone lived here.” 

I'm desperate to shove off, hoping he's as inept at answering her as he was me, but he's got his act together now.  “My Dad just bought this property as an investment.  It needs a lot of work, and he's too busy to do it himself.  He was just going to pay someone but I wanted to get out of town, so I asked to do it.” 

“A man after Grampa Joe's heart.  You should come over and visit.  He basically hand-built all our cabins and has tons of tools lying around.  Plus, it's sure to get lonely over here by yourself.”  I know Ellie's not flirting, but he surely doesn't.

“I thought you said we had to go,” I shortly state.

“So, we do.  See you later...” she trails off, waiting for his name.  There's a long pause. 

Maybe he isn't real, I think.  Maybe Ellie's finally started to see.  Maybe...

“Luke.  Luke Martin.”

“Luke, nice to meet you.  I'll Ellie and the klutz is Persis.”

She starts to paddle.  She always seems to leave a conversation in control.  She looks back over her shoulder, gives him her genuine, warm smile and yells back, “hope you come visit soon!”

I push off from the dock with my hand.  I can feel him looking at me.  “It was nice meeting you Persis.” 

I manage to look up, stealing one last look at his handsome face.  I manage a “likewise” and a faint smile and follow in Ellie's wake.  The water is no longer glassy like it was when I started.  Small, choppy waves break against the bow until I gain enough speed to cut a path.  I don't look back.

Chapter Three

Hours later--meals in our family are a European affair--Ellie and I are in the kitchen with the Trips while the rest of the family sits at the long farm tables that are out on the deck.  They're supposed to help us with the dishes but are instead busy scooping out handfuls of soap bubbles and giving each other beards and mustaches. 

“Hey squirts!  Get over here and start drying.”  Ellie's burning nervous energy. She's ready to get the day started. 

They respond by coming up behind us while our hands are in the sink and slap bubbles on our face instead. 

“I'm gonna kill you!” Ellie yells, running out of the kitchen after two of the Trips.  One stays. Jaime, I'm assuming.  He's the sweetest of the triplets. 

“I'll help you Persis.” 

“Thanks, kiddo.”

I go to wipe off the bubbles, but he looks at me solemnly.  “I think you ended up with the best goatee; you should leave it.” 

“Oh, really?”  I change my voice in terrible imitation of a Bond villain. I pass him the dish and pretend to stroke my chin.  He laughs and turns to dry and put the dish on the stack.  When he turns back, I'm ready with a handful of soap. 

“You know what?  I think you have the face of a pirate, matey.”  I give him soap mutton chops and a thick mustache.  

“Argh, I do.  I even know a pirate joke. Ready?”  I nod.  This is definitely Jaime.  “What did a pirate pay for his corn?”

“I dunno.” 

“A buccaneer.” 

I respond with my best “mwahhaha” and Jaime launches into a series of ridiculous pirate jokes.  We touch up each other’s faces as we work through the mess. I'm evil laughing so loud, I don't realize that something is going on.   He's the one that stops and breaks character and asks, “Who’s that?”

I look out the sliding door to see a man with his back turned to us.  Grampa Joe is slapping him on the back like a long-lost friend.  He's as tall as Gramps. I try to place him.  Everyone seems to know him.  Ellie comes back in from the front door:  “I lost our help.” 

“That's okay.  Jaime and I have pretty much finished up.”  I nod my head towards the deck.  “Are we expecting someone?  I thought all the transients were here already.”

“I thought so, too.  Unless...is it your boyfriend?”  She pokes me in the side. 

“Who?  That guy from this morning?  He was like three inches shorter.”

Jason and Justin peek around the edge of the island.

“What guy?  Who did you meet?”

“Nobody.  Don't worry about it.”

“Ooh...Persis has a boyfriend.”  The Trips say it unison. 

“Shut up, dorks.”  I look helplessly as they run chanting “Persis has a boyfriend” out onto the dock. 

Grampa Joe turns at the interruption as does the visitor.

“Oh my god.  Do you know who that is?” Ellie asks.

I look but besides realizing that I've now laid eyes on another strange boy, this one blonde and brawny, plain but for piercing indigo blue eyes. I have no idea who he is.  I turn to Ellie and see her face has fallen.  She tries to say something, but it's too late.

“Persis.  Is that you?”  The guy’s voice is friendly, deep. “I mean, I hardly recognized you with your, um, beard? But that has to be you.”

 I reach for a towel and wipe my face.  I am confused.

“Grampa Joe.  When was the last time Jesse was here?” Ellie asks, oddly gentle.

“Well, it must have been...” he looks up, squinting a little.  Then his face falls, too.

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry.  I plumb forgot.”  Grampa Joe goes uncharacteristically quiet.

Realization dawns on me.  It's uncomfortably quiet, so I decide to speak up.  “Jesse?  Is that your name?  You must have last come about three years ago.”

“Well, yea.  We hung out all summer.  I was on your team and everything.  I'm Dr. Turner's grandson.” Now he looks confused.

Ellie tries to break in, but I am determined to own my own issue.  “I don't remember a whole lot from that summer.”

“Really? You don’t remember me?” His face falls with disappointment.

“Actually, I can't remember anything.  I remember when Aunt Janet told me dad had died and the months right after.”  I again feel Ellie tense up next to me.  No one likes to talk about dad's death.  My experience says it’s best to just get it over with, so I continue. “I remember coming here for the summer, but then…nothing…not until your Grandpa saved me.”

I wait for the usual response.  Eyes to the ground.  Or a subject change.  I'm surprised at his immediate response.   “That's too bad.  We were as good of friends as you were a terrible teammate. We'll have to see what we can do to jog that memory.”

I smile and Grampa Joe and Ellie do, too. He's put them back at ease. “Sounds good to me.  I certainly owe the grandson of the man who saved my life.” 

“Shall we?”  Grampa Joe gestures to the deck.  He and Jesse wait until Ellie and I walk through to follow. 

Everyone's looking at us, quiet for once.  It's clear they're all wondering if I remember anything.  I start to tell them when Jesse interrupts them.  “Persis and I just decided we're going to get reacquainted this summer.” The implication is clear but it's still quiet until Herc pipes up.

“Well, if you don't remember him, then who is the boyfriend the Trips were yelling about?”

I glare at him.  I preferred the awkward, amnesia pity gawking to this. “Oh, the boys heard Ellie and me talking.  When I was out on the lake this morning, I passed by Fuller house and someone's living there.”  Everyone's interested now.  With only four non-Jennings houses on the lake a new neighbor is big news.  “He says his dad bought it to flip and he's decided to fix it up,” I continue.

There's a lot of excited chatter.  “How old is he?  What does he look like?”  It's Sarah, of course, louder than anyone.  Blond, Amazonian, boy crazy, Sarah. 

I don't answer so Ellie kicks in.  “He looks about 18 or 19.  He's quite the looker—not that it's relevant to you Sarah.  Where's Austin anyways?”  I'm assuming Austin is her latest boyfriend.  Ellie mentioned that he was one of our transients. 

“Oh, we broke up.”  She's not looking at Ellie but at Jesse, so she doesn't see the anger erupting around her. 

Ellie asserts herself over the outcry.  “Sarah!  We already had the teams evened out!” 

“Would you relax? I found a replacement.”

“Who?”

She smiles brilliantly and points to Jesse.

He smiles back, claps and rubs his massive hands together.  “I'm game.”  Sarah is clearly pleased with herself.  He turns to me.  “Now, Persis and I will have a chance to get to know each other again.  When do we start?” 

“Now!” the Trips yell and take off.   I can't help but enjoy the disbelief on Sarah's face as we all make our way, following them around the side deck and down to the playing field, ready for the ridiculously over the top parade of teams for our opening ceremonies.

Chapter Four

At the end of the day, our team is on the dock, cooling our feet in the water, listening to Sarah interrogate Jesse.   The Trips are up in the tree house, refusing to come down and get ready for bed.  Most of the older cousins are up with the aunts and uncles, catching up, drinking, and taking in the sunset. 

“So where have you been all these years?”

“Living in Colorado, where my Dad's been too busy being a hotshot lawyer to come visit his family.”

“So you came to visit them?  But aren't they gone this summer, to Europe?”

“So I've realized.”

Ellie cuts in.  “What?  You just flew out here, on a whim, without seeing if they'd be here first?

“I drove, actually.  I wanted to take a road trip before I started school.  I kind of went here and there and found myself in Georgia.”  I'm as impressed by his spontaneity as Ellie is befuddled by it.

“Do they even know you're here?”  Sarah asks, determined to get the attention back on her.

“Yep.”

“How?  I thought you just showed up.”  Ellie can't let the details go.

“Well, I got here early this morning and hung around their house, waiting.  After a hot while, I decided to come here.  I remember him and Grampa Joe being great friends.  That's when I saw you all.  He had their number and told me where to find the house key.  When I went home and cleaned up after the match, I got in touch with them.”

“Where are they now?  I just love your grandparents and miss them so much this summer.”  Sarah's trying a new angle. 

“Holland.  Went to the Rijksmuseum today.” 

Sarah looks like she's about to profess her love of Dutch art but Ellie switches gears.  “Let's talk about that match today.” 

I groan.  “We won...what's the big deal?”

“Barely.  Pitiful.  That's what it was.”

Sarah smirks, knowing she's landed on a better topic.  “Persis was pitiful, you mean.”

“Don't worry Sarah,” I sarcastically console her. “It's all part of Ellie's plan.”  Ellie had filled them all in.  Herc and Sarah opposed it, preferring the more straightforward smash and grab approach that's worked well for them in the past, but even they can't put off Ellie. 

I'm annoyed because even though I am not great at volleyball, I was also the shortest person on the court.  Sarah is an outside hitter for USC.  Herc, who just signed to play tight-end for Georgia and Thomas, Jenna's husband who played a few years in the NBA, didn't even have to jump to block at the net.  Jesse's almost as big as Herc and proved himself to be a natural. He was everywhere, making digs and laying down crushing spikes.  Of course I was the worst.

“Thomas spraining his ankle wasn't part of the plan.  Now we're a man down.” 

I know how seriously Ellie takes this, so I try to console her.  “He might be better soon.  He's up there icing it.”

“Maybe.  But what about the triathlon on Friday?  He was one of our cyclists.”

“We'll figure something out.” 

We all fall quiet, taking in the chorus of crickets and cicadas and the bellow of the bullfrog that's taken residence somewhere down the shoreline.

“I'm a little confused about the plan as far as Persis goes.”  It's Jesse.  Ellie's looking at him like he's slow.

“I told you, it's okay.  Persis is supposed to play bad right now.”

He pauses for a second, then.  “Right.  But it seems like it didn't really play out that way.”

Ellie looks at his thoughtfully.  “What do you mean?”

“I'm pretty good with numbers.”

“And?” She asks impatiently.

“I was kind of mentally keeping stats. Persis had the least amount of unforced errors.”

Sarah's shaking her head.  “No way.  She missed that easy short set to me and she went for that one that was clearly going out and...well, she sucked.”  She turns to Ellie and Herc for affirmation, but they're looking up, faces in a frown, clearly replaying the match in their head.   

They eventually look at each other and then Jesse.  “You're right.”

Sarah doesn't like this.  “What about her underhanded granny serves?  They were so weak they were slamming them home first touch.”

Herc, who isn't the most intellectual, but has sports smarts all day, is the one to respond.  “What do you expect?  She doesn't play college volleyball.  Come to think of it, she did her part.  You were the one going for the big kills and hitting them wide.  I hit two easy put-aways into the net.  Ellie's setting was ham-fisted.  Tom was as useful as a tree after the first set.”

“Don't forget--I hit two serves into the net.”  Jesse added, smiling over at me.

Sarah looks poisonously at all of us.  I'm enjoying this shift of blame, but it isn't good for the team, so I speak up, trying to smooth things over.  “Look, it was our first match.  We have four more.  Maybe we can get together and play after breakfast?”  I look to Sarah.  “Maybe you and I can get there early and we can work on an overhead serve?”  I'm bolstered by the possibility that I might not be permanently terrible. 

Sarah's ego recovers.  She's self-centered but she's not totally evil and definitely wants to win.  “Sure, Persis.” 

“Great.  Thanks.  Well, I’m gonna head up to my cabin.  I've got some Hawthorne to read if I'm going to be of any use to y'all at Enlightenment tomorrow night.” 

“Good thinking.” 

“How're you getting home, Jesse?”  It's full dark now and the moon, a sliver of what it will soon be, is starting to crest over the hills.  Sarah's face is full of concern.

He points to the boat that's tied up on the far end of the dock.  She clearly wants to talk more, to linger, but he's already pulling the tie off the cleat and is stepping into the john boat.  “See you on the volleyball court.”  He looks right at me.  I can't help but smile back.

Before I have to deal with Sarah, who's no doubt soured again, I start up the small path that will take me along the lake to my cabin.  Roscoe, my grandparents' border collie, comes trotting down the hill to escort me.  I pat his head.  “Thanks boy.” 

I walk slowly, enjoying the cooling breeze.  When I get onto the porch and open the door, I turn to Roscoe.  “You wanna come in?” 

His stretches and sniffs the air.  I know better.  He's no inside dog. He waits until I close the door and then trots back down the trail, ready to protect the next person he comes across. 

I realize then what a long day it's been.  I want to climb straight in bed, but instead, I climb up into the loft.  I open the window to let in the balmy night air.  I sit a moment and admire the stars that have grown brighter even in the last five minutes.  I switch on the reading light and turn my attentions to the collection of Hawthorne short stories I've been reading. They are strange, magical stories and before long I am somewhere else, in the dark, malevolent forest, filled with dim figures and mists, obscuring the lights that glimmer on the horizon.