“And we don’t want to hurt the trees,” Rainie says, as though proud of herself for making that leap in understanding, and I just want to hug her to pieces, but I keep my hands at my sides as I help her to her feet.
“Well, it would be really hard to hurt the tree because it’s very, very sturdy,” I say, “but it could hurt us if we trip over the root, as you just found out. So we need to walk instead of run. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go find the lake, Mama!” She reaches for my hand and we begin walking again.
I’ve always considered myself more of a beach girl than the woodsy type, and now I remember why. Woods are spooky. The trees are on our right, our left, ahead of us, above us, and when I turn to look behind us, they are there as well. Without this narrow trail—a trail that will soon be swallowed up if I do nothing to maintain it—we would be quickly lost out here, just yards from our new house. I feel a weird chill, a draft of cold air slipping over my shoulders. I look up at the sun-stealing canopy of green above us and sigh to myself.
“Mama, I see water!” Rainie points ahead of us and I see what’s caught her attention: the dark murk of a lake through the trees. I sense her energy. She wants to dart ahead of me and find a way to that water, but she knows better than to run now. We can’t get to the lake, anyway. The trail we’re on is about ten yards from the lake and the brush is so thick it would take a person—or at least it would take me—half an hour to work my way through it, assuming I didn’t get bitten by a snake along the way.
“How do we get to the ducks?” Rainie asks, her shoulders drooping in disappointment.
The oval-shaped lake is about twice the width of our new house and three times as long. A few skinny trees grow straight out of the water, which is an impenetrable dark brown. Whether the color is from silt or muck or simply the lack of sunlight reflecting off it, I can’t tell. It’s not an inviting body of water, that’s for sure. There is something truly creepy about it. I hold on to Rainie’s shoulder as though the lake might somehow pull her in. At the very least, it’s most certainly a breeding ground for mosquitoes and I feel more sure than ever that there are snakes close to our ankles, waiting to chomp on us. I’m also certain there are no ducks. I doubt a duck has ever gotten within half a mile of this nasty body of water.
“Oh, honey,” I say. “This is very disappointing, I know, but there are no ducks at this lake. We can’t even get to it.”
I’m afraid she’s going to cry, but instead she gives a heavy sigh and says, “Very disappointing,” and I laugh and lean over to hug her. What would I do without you? I think, holding her so tightly that she squirms. I straighten up, glad she doesn’t look up at me and see the tears in my eyes.
“Let’s keep going,” I say, taking her hand again, anxious to leave the lake behind us. I wonder if we’ve reached the halfway point of the trail yet. I look back over my shoulder at the lake and the tangle of vines between it and the trail. Do I really need to worry about putting a fence back here? It would cost a mint to fence in our entire property all the way back to this lake. The window coverings are going to take a big chunk of my savings, and I can’t picture Rainie—I can’t picture anyone—working their way back that far. Still, I like the idea of cutting my property off from that nasty body of water.
We keep going, watching for tree roots and—now that they’re on my mind—snakes. Then, suddenly, we come to a large opening in the woods. It’s almost a perfect circle, about the size, if not the shape, of our great room. It’s the strangest space. It looks as though nothing has ever grown here. The ground is mostly a carpet of brown pine needles. Nature didn’t make this circle, I think, and I feel that cool chill around my shoulders again despite the sticky heat of the day. I look up at the mix of pine trees and massive oaks, one of them almost certainly that huge oak I can see from our deck. I catch my breath when I see a tree house nestled between its enormous branches.
“Look, Rainie,” I say, pointing up. She follows my finger.
“A little house!” she says. “Can we go in it?”
We walk around the massive trunk of the oak to find a zigzagged series of steps and a railing made of fresh, clean wood, built, no doubt, by my husband. The house is high in the tree, at least twice my height.
“Okay,” I say. “You go ahead of me and just be really careful. Hold on to the railing Daddy made. I’ll be right behind you.”