Megan's Island Read online

  “Oh, that’s our only neighbor at the moment. Haven’t met him but once, when he was walking on the beach at sunset. Not a fisherman, I guess; I’ve never seen him out on the lake. Name’s Nathan Jamison. Seems like a nice fella; writes books, I understand. Came here for the peace and quiet.”

  There was only one thing wrong with peace and quiet, Megan reflected after Sandy and Grandpa had departed with their fishing tackle in the rowboat. It gave you too much time to think.

  Ordinarily she wouldn’t have minded. She enjoyed daydreaming. She could imagine all kinds of exciting adventures with the horse she would have—a palomino, with a flowing blond mane and tail, that could run like the wind. Sometimes she imagined meeting a faceless boy who would have a horse of his own—a black stallion—who would race with her on a broad, sandy beach, a boy who would think she was pretty. It was silly, but it was kind of fun, too.

  Only now she felt neither silly nor like having fun. She felt, in fact, like crying. She and her mother had always been so close. Why had Mom shut her out?

  Megan looked through the books on the brown painted shelves in one corner of the living room. Grandpa was right; they were sure old. Zane Grey westerns, and a whole shelf by someone named Grace Livingston Hill, which appeared upon investigation to be old-fashioned romances, and some National Geographics with pictures of naked natives in Africa. The magazines were so old that she didn’t recognize the name of the country where they lived; no doubt the name had been changed years ago.

  She didn’t really want to read. She walked onto the porch and stared out over the lake. Grandpa and Sandy were tiny figures in the boat on the water. She felt a moment of envy that they could put aside worry and just enjoy themselves. Why wasn’t she like that?

  She went slowly down the steps and onto the beach. If they hadn’t taken the boat, she’d row back out to the island; it seemed a place of refuge, a place where trouble might not be able to follow her.

  What about the canoe?

  Megan walked over to it and ran a hand along its bright red surface. Though she’d never paddled a canoe, she’d seen it done in the movies often enough. Maybe if her father had lived, he’d have taught her how . . .

  No. She remembered now, Mom had said he wasn’t an outdoorsman, so he probably hadn’t gone canoeing. Well, it hadn’t looked hard. Grandpa had said to be careful, because it tipped over easily, but even if it did, she could swim, couldn’t she?

  Out on the lake, she could see the spot of bright orange that was Sandy’s life jacket. She supposed she’d better wear one, too, just in case.

  Tentatively, Megan lifted the edge of the canoe. It wasn’t all that heavy; it rolled over, right-side-up, revealing the paddles that had been hidden beneath it. It was certainly easier to move into the water than the rowboat had been; easy enough so that it almost got away from her, and she took a couple of quick steps—wetting the bottoms of her pants legs—to catch it. Put the paddles in first, then shove off into the very shallow water, and get in—carefully, carefully!

  Did she need both paddles? Unless there were two people in the canoe, she’d only need one, but she recalled what Grandpa had said about losing one. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have them both, just in case.

  The canoe seemed fragile and unstable, compared to the rowboat. However, even though she felt awkward and insecure, she liked the way the slender vessel glided over the surface of the lake, as light as one of the little white butterflies that fluttered along the shore.

  If she just remembered not to move suddenly, she didn’t think she’d overturn the canoe. At first she moved parallel to the shore, in water where she could see the bottom only a few feet below her, and then she grew braver and turned the bow out toward the island.

  Paddling the canoe wasn’t quite as simple as she’d supposed. She wasn’t sure how those people in the movies dipped into the water on only one side and managed to go straight ahead; when she tried it, she went in circles. And it was hard to lift the paddle out of the water, moving it from side to side, in order to go straighter. There must be some trick to this, she decided.

  Nevertheless, she was heading toward the island, which was where she wanted to go. And in one way it was easier in the canoe than in the boat; you sat facing in the direction you were traveling.

  She had to learn some new maneuvers to work her way around to the far side of the island, to the little cove with the sandy beach. There, it was easy to grasp the prow and haul the canoe up onto the sand, where it would stay until she was ready to leave.

  She explored the entire island again, which didn’t take very long because it wasn’t very big, and gradually felt a sense of peace overtake her. It was so quiet. The sun was warm on her bare arms and face, and the slight breeze was cool.

  It was only when she stood at the highest point on the pinkish-gray rocks and looked toward the cottage on the mainland that she came back to reality.

  The cottage sat looking deserted in the afternoon sunshine. There was nothing moving.

  Safe, her mother had said. They would be safe here with Grandpa.

  It would never have occurred to Megan that they were not safe if her mother hadn’t said that.

  Was that why they’d run away from home late at night and come here? Because they were not safe at home?

  But what was the danger?

  Far up the beach, two tiny figures stirred. A man—their neighbor in the log cabin—was walking on the beach with a dog. The man threw a stick into the water, and the dog swam out to retrieve it.

  She wished she had a dog. Watching the pair, the man throwing the stick, the dog plunging into the lake after it, made her feel lonely. She wished Annie were here. Annie would help her figure out what was going on. Annie would make her laugh.

  She didn’t want to watch the man and his dog. Seeing them only made her feel more lonely. Usually she and her brother agreed on things, but Sandy didn’t seem to be taking this matter seriously. Not as seriously as she did. Look at the way he’d gone off fishing with Grandpa.

  An inner sense of fairness murmured that since there was nothing Sandy could do about their situation, there was no reason for him not to go fishing. Megan pushed it away. She didn’t want to forgive him for deserting her to worry by herself.

  Megan turned, and slipped and slid her way back down to the little cove. There, with the sun gently warming her face, she sat on the soft sand and cried a little.

  Wishing Sandy had not gone fishing. Wishing her father had not died so there would be someone else to turn to. Wishing her mother had not gone away and left them here. Wishing that, at the very least, someone would tell her what was wrong.

  Why were they safe here, when apparently they had not been at home?

  What if her mother were wrong? What if they were not safe at all, from whatever it was that threatened them?

  Chapter Six

  As Grandpa cooked supper—fish, fried potatoes, and salad—Megan set the table. Tentatively, she tried to sound him out on their situation.

  “Do you know where Mom went?” she asked, so nervous that she didn’t dare look directly at him.

  The fish sizzled in the pan, and he adjusted the heat under it. “She didn’t tell me,” he replied. “Shall we open a can of peaches for dessert? No fresh ones available yet.”

  “Sure,” Megan agreed. “Did she tell you how long she’d be gone?”

  “She didn’t tell me much of anything, honey. Only that she wanted me to keep you kids here for a while. You like it here, don’t you?”

  The cast on his foot made a clumping sound as he moved to the sink, and Megan suppressed a spurt of guilt, wondering if his injured foot still hurt. Cooking for three made him stand up longer than cooking for one, but she didn’t know how to do much so she could help him.

  “I . . . guess so. Except for not having any other kids around. My friend Annie was going to come. . . .” She couldn’t help the prickle of tears behind her eyelids.

  She swallowed. “Does it hur
t to walk?”

  “What? Oh, my foot? No, not any more. Hurt like sixty at first. It’s just awkward.” He raised his voice so it would carry to the back porch. “Sandy, you got the rest of those bass cleaned yet?”

  Sandy came through the door carrying a pan with more fish. “We can’t eat all of this tonight, can we? Even if we are starved?”

  “No. Put what you have in those shallow pans and cover them with water, then stick them in the freezer inside the plastic bags I put out. That way, they’ll taste like we just caught them when we get around to eating them.”

  Sandy clearly was pleased with himself. Grandpa had caught more bass, but Sandy had caught the biggest one. He was grinning until he saw his sister’s face and remembered.

  She felt another twinge of guilt at the way his pleasure evaporated when he saw her own expression. Yet why should she feel guilty? It wasn’t her fault their mother had behaved so strangely, and she couldn’t help being afraid.

  She was as hungry as the other two, and ate her share of the fish and everything else. Yet she couldn’t get her mind off their predicament.

  There was no TV. Grandpa said there were too many of those solid granite rocks and hills between them and the TV towers for the waves to get through. So they had to think of something else to do during the evenings.

  “There are some old games on the shelf below the books,” Grandpa said. “Checkers and Monopoly. I always listen to the news after supper on the radio. We have a local station, so that comes through all right.”

  “I think I’ll take a walk before it gets dark,” Megan said. She gave Sandy a look, and he followed her out onto the porch.

  “We need to talk,” she told him. “Grandpa’s not going to give anything away. I asked him, and he doesn’t know where Mom went or when she’ll be back, he said.”

  “I know it,” Sandy agreed, surprising her. “I tried to pump him, too, while we were fishing. He said it was up to Mom to tell us what she wants us to know. I thought that was lousy. It’s not like we were little kids, or irresponsible or anything. But he said she’s our mother, and it’s her decision.”

  So Sandy was more seriously concerned than she’d thought. That ought to have made her feel better; but instead, Megan found it only made her own anxiety worse.

  “We’ve got to figure it out for ourselves, then,” she decided aloud.

  “How? What can we do?”

  “I don’t know yet, but we’ll have to try, anyway. What kind of thing would Mom be afraid of? What—or who—would she run away from and hide?”

  Sandy’s face was sober. “People usually do that when they’ve done something illegal, like stealing. Mom wouldn’t ever steal! Would she?”

  “No. If she’d stolen anything—from the office or someplace like that—we’d have something to show for it, wouldn’t we? She’d have bought a new car, or new clothes, or even more groceries. Besides, I’ll never believe she’d take anything she had no right to. Not after the way she’s lectured us all our lives about being honest. There has to be something else.”

  What it could be, however, neither of them could figure out. If it wasn’t illegal—like stealing—what did that leave?

  “She’s afraid. She said so,” Megan mused, looking out over the lake, where the water was now smooth as glass, mirroring the dark trees on the far shore, and the pink tint of the sun on the clouds. “That means she’s afraid of something, or someone. Who?”

  “Not the police,” Sandy said. “At least I don’t think the police. Gosh, Megan, do you think she’s been running away and hiding from someone for eight years?”

  Megan didn’t have to consider her answer; she’d already been thinking about it. “Maybe. Remember how many times we’ve moved? How many times Mom’s told us it was because of her job? She never got a new job in the same town. We always went miles away, so we could never see any of our friends again.”

  “And she didn’t even want us to write to any of them,” Sandy added.

  Megan glanced at him sharply. “You’re right. She didn’t, did she? When I was going to write to Joanie Miller, after we moved the last time, she said maybe it would be better if we just made new friends where we were, instead of staying hung up on the past.” A lump formed in her throat. “I suppose that means I’ll never be able to explain to Annie, even if I knew how.”

  “Mom’s not here now. She wouldn’t know if you wrote to Annie.”

  Megan’s heart began to race. “I owe Annie a letter, at least. Don’t I?”

  “If my best friend moved away, I’d expect him to say good-bye, anyway,” Sandy agreed.

  It didn’t solve the problem, of course. They were no nearer to solving the riddle than they’d been in the beginning, but it made Megan feel better to decide that she should write to Annie.

  “I’ll do it tonight,” she said. “And we’ll walk out to the mailbox on the road to mail it, first thing in the morning.”

  “Maybe there’ll be something for us, from Mom,” Sandy said hopefully.

  “Not tomorrow, she only left today. Tomorrow will be too soon. I hope she isn’t gone long.”

  “Hey! The news is over. You kids want to play Monopoly?” Grandpa called through the screen door.

  “Sure, why not?” Sandy was already moving in that direction, and Megan followed. She’d write the letter after the game. She couldn’t tell Annie why they had moved, but she could explain that she hadn’t wanted it to happen that way, and that she was sorry Annie hadn’t been able to share their vacation as they’d planned.

  Some vacation, she reflected as Sandy set up the board and began to sort out the game pieces on the kitchen table. Somehow, she had to find out the truth of what was behind this hasty trip to the lake, behind the secrecy. She was eleven, not a baby, and she had a right to know, whatever it was.

  * * *

  The bright morning sun glittered on the lake beyond her window the next morning as Megan licked the flap on the envelope and sealed it. Her letter was brief, no more than enough to assure Annie that she was sorry they’d left in the night and she hoped they’d see one another again some day. She hadn’t really explained the matter, because after several tries she could see that it sounded worse, not knowing, than simply letting it slide by as a peculiarity on the part of her mother.

  She had found stationery and a pen in the folder her mother had left behind, containing everything that hadn’t fit into one suitcase. Now Megan looked through it hoping there would be stamps, too. Probably Grandpa had stamps, but somehow Megan didn’t want to ask him. She wondered uneasily if he, too, would advise against writing to Annie, maybe even forbid her to do it.

  Ah, there were the stamps, mixed in with stuff like Megan’s and Sandy’s vaccination records and the car insurance papers. It looked as if Mom had grabbed everything out of her desk and crammed it into the folder without sorting it. That in itself showed how urgent the need had been to leave quickly, because ordinarily Mrs. Collier was neat and well organized.

  Megan stuck on the stamp, then put the letter in the pocket of her sweatshirt, hoping Grandpa wouldn’t ask where she was going.

  Grandpa, however, wasn’t in the living room when she left her tiny bedroom.

  “He’s going fishing again,” Sandy announced. “I told him I didn’t want to go today; I figured we’d go back out to the island and see what it would take to build us a clubhouse or something. We’ll have to take the canoe; he’s got the rowboat.”

  “Okay. After we mail the letter to Annie,” Megan said, relieved.

  It took about ten minutes to reach the mailbox. They put the letter in and put up the flag so the rural carrier would pick it up. By the time they got back to the cottage, it was warm enough for them to get rid of their sweatshirts before they put on their life jackets.

  “This is trickier than the boat,” Megan warned. “You get in and sit down with one paddle, and I’ll shove us off. You paddle on the left, and I’ll paddle on the right, and we should go straight.”


  It wasn’t quite that easy, because Sandy dipped his paddle more deeply and firmly than she did hers, so they tended to swing to the left, but they decided it was simply a matter of practice.

  Sandy stood up as they nosed into the tiny cove on the far side of the island, and the next thing they knew, they were spluttering and coming up for air, their hair plastered to their heads, soaking wet.

  “I guess that isn’t the way you’re supposed to do it,” Sandy gasped. “Wow, the water’s cold! I thought these life jackets were supposed to keep you from going under!”

  Megan grabbed the canoe, which was easing away from shore, and began to push it out onto the sand. She, too, was gasping from the shock of the icy water. “I don’t think that applies when you go in head first. You came back up, didn’t you? Come on, give me a hand getting the canoe up on the beach.”

  Sandy came over to help, still shivering in spite of the warm sun. “I told you, Megan. We should build a shelter and keep supplies over here for emergencies like this.”

  “A change of clothes?” she asked, satisfied that the canoe was safe, and wringing water out of her long hair.

  “Why not? And food. So we wouldn’t have to go home just because we get hungry.” Sandy peeled off the life jacket, then turned and scrambled up the rock, leaving a wet trail on its pinkish-gray surface.

  Home, Megan thought. The cottage wasn’t home. Even Grandpa would only be there until his foot healed so he could go back to work. There wasn’t any home now, anywhere.

  Was that what Mom was doing, finding a new job and a new place to live in another strange town? For a moment anger replaced the fear she had been living with for the past couple of days. Anger toward her mother, who had somehow put them in this bleak position—again. Megan was sure that it was again, that this was part of a pattern she and Sandy simply hadn’t been aware of before. Running and hiding; when was it going to end?