Charley went back outside and sat on a tree stump that had been there since she was a little girl. She pulled out her phone and began making a list in the notes section. The afternoon was sunny but not warm; April in Minnesota, especially on the lake, was chilly. The lake was so calm and quiet. The gentle lapping of the waves at the shore was soothing. She closed her eyes.

Then she began to hear it—the laughter of children. Someone’s mother yelling from the porch, You better not be in the lake without an adult! She could smell hot dogs and ribs on the grill, smell the campfire, toasted marshmallows; she saw seven sunfish lying on the dock to be cleaned—the largest of the catch. Someone whistling for his dog. A happy squeal and splash. Women laughing. The horn of a speedboat and the whistles of men. The pounding of little feet across the porch, across the dock. Whispers and giggles from the screened-in porch at night; laughter from the moms inside the house. Music from the radio mingled with the laughter. Voices and shouting of a late-night party somewhere on the lake. She recalled it so vividly she could hear it—the sounds of summer.

Maybe Meg was right. Maybe summer at the lake would bring her comfort. It could heal her, Charley thought hopefully. Or give her peace in her last days?

When Meg was going into the hospital for the bone marrow transplant she had said, “This may not work, Charley. But there’s one thing I need you to know. It’s important that you know. I’m not afraid. Either way, I’m not afraid.”

That’s when Charley decided. Whatever Megan wanted, if it was within her power, she’d make sure she had it. And, Charley thought, it wouldn’t hurt me to make peace with the past.

Copyright © 2017 by Robyn Carr