“I’m doing okay, all things considered. And it’s fine. I’d really appreciate an update tomorrow.”

I ended the call as I crept up to the edge of the pool, got down on my knees on the damp stone, and reached to grab the paper boat. It was made from lined notebook paper with three holes along the edge—there were words visible through the damp page. I carefully unfolded it and saw the message scribbled in green crayon in what appeared to be my sister’s handwriting: Why didn’t you pick up the phone?

I dropped the paper, watched it flutter back down into the pool. And just at that moment, I was dead sure I caught a glimpse of something in the water—a shifting shadow, a trick of light—and for a half a second, I expected Lexie to come bursting out of the water, gasping for breath, saying she still hadn’t touched bottom.

chapter eight

June 19, 1929

Lanesborough, New Hampshire

It doesn’t seem real,” I admitted, picking at my cuticle until it bled.

Myrtle had gotten very quiet as I spoke and was now poking at the strawberry tart on her plate, spreading the jam around with her fork.

Will and I had been back at home since Sunday evening, and I was having a difficult time getting back into the rhythm of real life. Our trip felt like something I’d imagined or dreamed. Since our return, I’d done my best to get back into my usual routines, but nothing feels quite right. I’ve cleaned the windows until I can see my own reflection as well as in a mirror. I sewed a new button on Will’s good shirt. I helped him go over the books for his practice. I attended a luncheon with ladies from the Auxiliary to plan our fall foliage festival—I was appointed chairwoman! Yet still, I feel like a sleepwalker. As if I’m under a spell. The world seems off. Colors are dim and pale. The grass and trees don’t seem as green, the sky isn’t as blue. The beautiful silver dress I wore to dinner at the hotel that seemed to sparkle now looks faded and sad on its hanger. Tucked away in the back corner of our closet, in an old hat box, are the two jars of spring water Eliza sent me home with. Will does not know I snuck them into our suitcase.

“You know,” Myrtle said at last, “I’ve been there.”

This caught me by surprise. “What? To the hotel?”

“No, no. This was years ago, long before they built the hotel. When it was just the springs.” She abandoned her half-eaten tart, the smeared jam looking like coagulated blood.

“My Felix, he returned from the war in a wheelchair. Did you know that?”

I thought of her husband, who ran the feed and tack shop in town. I’d seen him lifting great bales of hay, sacks of grain. He’d once been in a wheelchair?

“He was shot on the battlefield in France. Took two bullets in his hip, one right in his spine that the doctors weren’t able to remove. They said he’d never walk again. We were resigned to it. And then, one of Felix’s friends told him about the springs. Encouraged us to go.”

Myrtle is one of the most matter-of-fact people I know. She doesn’t seem the sort to believe in water with healing powers.

“We thought it was silly, of course.” She chuffed out a meek laugh. “My husband had a bullet lodged in his spine. How was sitting in spring water going to help him? But… after bathing in the waters, Felix was able to feel his legs again.” She shuffled her feet against the painted floorboards. Sunlight filtered in through the kitchen window, lit up the dust in the air around us, making it sparkle.

“So it worked!” I said. Her face was full of awe, but underneath, I detected a hint of fear.

“Yes, he walked out of that water on his own.” She paused, rubbed her face. “And now, he dances with me on Saturday nights.” She smiled, then the smile faded, her lips pursing together tightly. “I had no idea they’d built a hotel there,” she said. She looked out the window, then back at me. “Did you drink the water? Bathe in the springs?” She sounded worried.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we? Your Felix was able to walk again—”

“The water gives miracles, yes, but I think it takes, too.” Myrtle looked pale. “Whatever’s in that water, maybe it should be left alone.”

“Did something happen to you after you went? Something bad?” I have been sipping at the water Eliza gave me, a little each day, tasting the rusted metal and blood, and focusing all of my energy on the wish I made down at the pool.

We heard the front door open, Will calling, “Hello! I’m home!”

“Myrtle?” I whispered urgently. “Tell me.”

Myrtle straightened up in her chair, looked in my direction—not at me, but through me, as though I weren’t really there. Then she smiled a thin, nervous smile and reached for her tea, called out, “Hello, William! We’re in the kitchen with Ethel’s famous tarts!”

* * *

Later that night, tucked under the covers, safe and warm in our bedroom with its clean white plaster walls, Will’s arms around me, there’s a moment between waking and sleeping when I found myself back at the springs. I was on my hands and knees, whispering my secret, watching my reflection, and feeling with deep certainty that there was something down in that water. Something listening, waiting, watching.

Something I’m sure I caught a glimpse of.

Something that I’m also sure caught a glimpse of me.

chapter nine

June 17, 2019

Just after lunch, Aunt Diane arrived in jeans and a T-shirt with two professional housecleaners. I gave her a tight hug.

“How’d you sleep last night?” she asked, studying my face with concern.

“Fine,” I lied. “But it was a little difficult finding my way around in the dark. The light bulbs are all either missing or broken.”

Diane frowned. “Well, that’s odd. We’ll do a grocery store run later, pick some up.”

She donned a pair of pink rubber gloves. “Let’s dive in,” she said.

We opened all the windows to fill the place with fresh air. While the four of us worked inside, a landscaping crew came and cut the grass, trimmed the bushes. Terrified by the invasion, Pig took off into the hills behind the house.

Slowly, we made progress. We threw away six trash bags full of garbage, scrubbed spills and stains, rehung art and photos, dumped all the cups of water from the antique sideboard. We gathered the clothing scattered all over the house—swimming suits, running shorts, underwear, T-shirts. Threw out fossilized food and countless spent joints. I caught Diane lighting up one that still had a few good puffs left. “Really?” I asked.