Where the Fireflies Dance

By the time I cross into New York from Pennsylvania, my mind is made up that I won’t tell anyone. Fluffy clouds cast sprawling shadows across the sea of pine trees as the Greyhound bus winds through the empty highway. I press my head against the window, watching the dark trees blur together, and drinking in their tangy-sweet smell. When the bus reaches the crest of a hill, we turn onto a dusty dirt road that dips down to the edge of a vast, crystal-clear lake. A weathered sign reads, Welcome to Cedar Lake Lodge.

The bus rolls to a stop, and the doors creak open.

“Alright, hop out, kiddo,” the driver says with a yawn.

I grab my bag and shuffle to the front. I step off, dragging my suitcase behind me. The bus makes a wide 3-point turn and rattles back up the hill.

My eyes smart, but I set my jaw and look around. In the sky above, a turkey vulture makes slow, lazy circles above the clearing, his sharp call echoing across the mountains. I shiver with delight. It’s as if the fairies that I know I’m too old to still believe in respond in small, tinny voices. Surrounded by this rugged, beautiful wilderness, the pain and the achiness disappear.

Then, I notice her. Beneath a patch of slender firs, a tall and slender woman stands, waiting. A waterfall of gold tumbles down to her waist, and big, black eyes glimmer in the mid-afternoon light.

When our eyes meet, I decide that she is the queen of this lake.

She hurries over; arms outstretched. “Rosemary, is that you?” She catches me up into a bear hug before I can even respond.

Dad said Aunt Clarisse is always like this— hugging people.

Then she backs away, holding me out at arm’s length to get a good look. “My, I haven’t seen you in eleven years; you were just a baby then, but I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“Everyone thinks I look like Dad,” I say.

She gives my hand another squeeze. “You do; you’re all eyes and legs.”

She leads the way farther down the road, which has thinned into more of a pathway. After taking a turn, we come across an old-fashioned cottage tucked inside a secluded bay.

The front half of the house sits on a wide, flat stone while the back hangs right over the water’s edge, supported only by three stilts sunk deep into the lakebed. Purplish moss clings to the wooden shingles, and flowerpots bursting with early blooms cover every inch of the front porch. Inside, the kitchen takes up half of the space, consisting of a wood-burning stove, a table with three chairs, and a shelf filled with all sorts of herbs and homemade preserves. Photos line the walls, and gingham curtains dance in and out of the open windows.

“The bedrooms are upstairs.” Aunt Clarisse pauses at the front door, glancing my way nervously. “It isn’t much, but it’s home.”

“It’s perfect.” I murmur.

She beams. “Well, I’m glad you’re not as much of a city snob as I feared. Now, how about I get some dinner while you unpack? Your room’s on the right.”

I carry my heavy bag up the staircase and into my new bedroom. It’s smaller than Mom’s office at home, but neat and clean. I drop onto the bed with a sigh. A framed piece of embroidery hangs above the door. The bright red thread spells out, ‘Home is the nicest word there is.’

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I promised myself that it wasn’t real.

It isn’t true, and it isn’t happening. I tell myself firmly, throwing open my suitcase.

At 5 o’clock, Aunt Clarisse calls me downstairs. A hot meat pie steams on the table, and a fresh vase of purple and blue hydrangeas blooms on the table.

She turns from the table with a wink, “I hope you’re hungry after your ride.”

I sniff the air appreciatively and sit down. “Famished.”

The pie is delicious. Afterward, Aunt Clarisse brings out two dishes heaped with wild blueberries and whipped cream and sets the kettle on to boil. The sun has just begun to sink behind the Adirondacks, bathing the shoreline in liquid gold, so we take our dessert outside.

Aunt Clarisse is easy to talk to. She never judges and understands the whimsical, like me. I find this out the hard way. Our chamomile teas have just reached the perfect temperature, nighttime has fully descended, and cheery fireflies begin to flicker in and out of view. I watch them, especially a big one that lands right on my thumb. He seems to be watching the others play in the darkness, winking to each other in their odd language, and wishes he could join in.

My words come out before I can stop them: “It’s like they’re dancing.”

Immediately, I recognize my slip-up. I could bite my own tongue out. Talking like that has always made adults uncomfortable, especially Mom, and now I’ve gone and said something so silly again. Apprehensively, my eyes flick to Aunt Clarisse.

She leans back in her rocking chair, sipping contemplatively at her tea. “They dance to make their sisters laugh, I bet.”

My eyes pop open. In barely a whisper, I ask, “Who are their sisters?”

“The stars, of course,” she says, a smile playing across her lips. “They must get lonely up there, so far from Earth.”

I hadn’t realized that I was holding in my breath this entire time. It whooshes out of my squeezed lungs, escaping into the cool, still night. She’s just like me…

“I’m glad I’m spending the summer with you,” I say slowly, distinctly.

A cloud passes over Aunt Clarisse’s face, but she brushes it away in an instant and smiles warmly. “Me too, Rosemary.”

We sit quietly, watching them until the mosquitoes come out, then she picks up her guitar and plays me through the door, up the stairs, and straight into bed. Maybe it's because I’m exhausted from the six-hour bus ride from Philadelphia, maybe it's her ethereal lullaby, but either way, I’m too sleepy to even think about why I’m here.

* * *

The next day Aunt Clarisse takes me to see Ranger Tom. After breakfast, we cut our way through the forest, following a path that only she seems to be able to see. I follow quietly behind, taking in the magical sights and sounds. The hike takes up the whole morning, and when we finally reach the ranger station, my feet are aching. A stout old man with a wild shock of hair, Ranger Tom meets us at the door with a wide, easy smile. His burnt, weathered face reminds me of Mom’s leather purse.

“Halloo, Miss Donovan,” he says, tipping his hat. “This must be your brother’s Rosemary?” I shake his hand, and his whiskery corners curl mischievously. “I’ve got a special treat for you, but you must be quiet, respectful, and keep your hands to yourself, understand?”

I nod my head, and wonder, as he leads us around back to a tool shed, what in the world he thinks I would find interesting about rusty power drills and car parts. Ranger Tom opens the door, and we peek inside.

A gasp escapes my throat.

There, curled up beneath a warming lamp, lies a baby fawn, its speckled coat rising and falling with each sleepy breath. It hears us and rises, untangling its long, spidery legs.

“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“It’s a he.” Aunt Clarisse says into my ear.

“Oh. What’s his name?”

“Clarisse and I’ve just been calling him ‘Baby’ so far, and he seems to like it just fine.”

I inch a little closer, and Baby takes a few tentative steps forward. “How did you find him?”

“On one of my rounds I found him, just east of here. He’d tucked himself up in a tiny cave. Bleating his poor head off, calling for his mama, he just got me instead. I managed to haul him out and carry him home— half-starved and frightened as he was. Next day I searched everywhere for the doe but only found coyote tracks by that very cave. He’d managed to find the only place a coyote couldn’t reach, the little spitfire.” he looks at Baby fondly. “That was three weeks ago, and he’s been getting the best out of life since."

While he was talking, Baby had gathered up enough courage to come close enough to touch. Now I’m running my fingers through his fresh, downy fur. He leans against me, sweeping his long lashes in contentment. Already, he’s burrowed his way into a special place in my heart, like a hot water bottle pressed against cold hands. We stay with Ranger Tom and Baby for another hour before heading back home. Ranger Tom says I can visit Baby every day if I’m up for the walk. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem quite so far.

The whole next two weeks are filled with glorious days like that. Aunt Clarisse shows me her favorite spots for picnics. We pick twinflowers and dandelions, hunt up blackberries, swim in Cedar Lake, and once even spend a night on one of the islands. I help Ranger Tom collect honey from his beehives, and he lets me bottle-feed Baby almost every morning. It’s wonderful, beautiful, magical, out here. It makes me never want to leave. Trapped in this delightful haze of summery bliss, I forget the mundane drill of concrete-walled classrooms, forget the endless onslaught of Mom’s ‘busy-night’ casserole, and the sleepless nights spent listening to angry voices hurl nasty words across the house.

Mom and Dad call me every Sunday. They tell me how much they miss me and how dull the house is now that I’m gone. Eventually the phone calls get shorter and shorter until they stop altogether.

Then, on Tuesday, the phone rings.

I’ve just come back from swimming with Baby. I pretended to be Baby’s fairy godmother. I kept him out of the deep water and made sure that the stones weren’t too slippery for his feet. The two of us are thick as thieves, as Ranger Tom says.

Snatching up the kitchen phone, I call out a cheerful, “Hello?”

“Rosemary, how are you doing?” It’s Dad, but he seems surprised to hear my voice, like he isn’t prepared to hear it.

“Great, actually. Baby and I were at the shore today, and—”

“Um, Rosemary, is your Aunt Clarisse there?” His voice is low and gruff, and my shoulders instinctively droop; I know that tone.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” I ask, my grin evaporating.

“Nothing, honey, I just want to talk to her.”

“Alright, I’ll go get her.”

“I love you,”

Something raw and nasty churns in my stomach, but I say, “Love you too, Dad.” anyway.

Leaving the phone hanging on the line, I run out to the garden. Aunt Clarisse is bent over, picking cucumber bugs off the tender yellow blossoms. She waves at me, but when she notices my ever-betraying face, her smile dims.

“What’s wrong?” She asks.

“Dad’s on the phone; he wants to talk to you.”

She puts her hands on my shoulders, pain deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. Wordlessly, she slips through the garden gate and into the cottage. My throat squeezes shut, making it hard to breathe. Without another thought, I turn and run through the forest, my bare feet pounding against the dry earth.

Ranger Tom isn’t at the station, so I fly down the driveway and right up to the tool shed door. I burst inside, lock the door, and slump into the straw.

Baby lifts his head, blinking up at me with calm amber eyes. His tail flickers as he snuffles around my pockets. Then, sliding his legs out from under him, Baby nuzzles down onto my lap and rests his head on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around his slender neck, red-hot tears springing to my eyes.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I promised myself that it isn’t true.

But it is true, and I’m already crying. Squeezing my eyes shut as the pain of a heart breaking leaves me gasping for air, I let the truth crush me.

It all happened only two months ago, in early May. The air around Mom and Dad had been stiff and stormy lately. Finally, one Friday night, it let loose. They fought and screamed and slammed doors well into the night while I lay in bed, shaking like a leaf. At last, a wary silence fell. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I had gotten, so I tiptoed downstairs into the kitchen for a glass of water.

They talked so quietly, I didn’t notice that Mom and Dad were just in the living room, looking at each other with red, puffy eyes. I ducked back into the kitchen, clutching the cold glass, my heart hammering in my chest.

Dad’s voice was raw when he said, “What about Rosemary?”

Mom covered her face with her hands. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But she can’t stay here.”

Thoughts flashed across my mind’s eye. What are they talking about?

“My sister still has that place up in New York,” Dad said slowly. “She could stay with her until… all of this is over. But, after that, she’ll come back and find out. This will break her.”

When Mom spoke up again, her voice had hardened. “It’s already broken me. I don’t want any part of this anymore, you know that.”

“But, Jane, you’re her mother—”

“That’s not the point; I’ve spent our whole marriage doing things for you and for her and for other people. Now I finally have the means to do something for me for a change. I’m calling the lawyer tomorrow morning. It’s done.”

My eyes widened in shock, and the glass slipped out of my hand. It fell to the floor with a crash and shattered into a million little pieces. I scurried back up the stairs before they had time to see me, before they could realize that I overheard their conversation.

No sleep came that night, or the next. All I could think about was Mom’s words and that glass.

I’m a lot like that glass now— broken. Unlovable.

Why else would it be so easy for Mom to give me up like this? At least Dad wondered how I’d take it. I wasn’t enough for either of them, and I never will be.

If only I could stay here forever. I don’t want to go home to a house divided, have to listen to Mom’s excuses for abandoning me, or have to hear Dad write her off. Out here I have Baby and Cedar Lake, Aunt Clarisse and Ranger Tom, the sun, the sky, the loon songs in the evening, and the shady pine trees.

I’ve always hated goodbyes.

Squeezing Baby harder, I feel his heart thrum strong and warm against me. The hours tick by as I cry and scream and kick. Baby stays by my side the whole time, offering a calm pillow for me to rest on. When the sky turns rusty and bright, yellow light shines through the cracks of the roof, someone knocks softly at the door.

“Rosemary, are you in there?” It’s Aunt Clarisse. Her voice is low and sweet, like a mourning dove’s call.

I don’t respond.

“Can I come in?”

Shimmying out of the way, I unlatch the door. Aunt Clarisse comes in, quiet as a breeze and sits down next to me. For a few minutes neither of us says anything as I wipe my eyes clear.

“I already know.” I mutter at last.

Aunt Clarisse wraps her arm over my shoulders. “I’m so sorry,”

Only after sunset turns to twilight does Aunt Clarisse make a move to leave. She stands up, brushes off her strawberry-print skirt, and takes my hand. We say goodnight to Baby and walk home together through the still half-light in complete silence. But this isn’t the type of silence I’m used to. Instead of being strained and uncomfortable, this is almost restful. At the cottage, she boils a whole kettleful of hot chocolate and heaps mine with marshmallows and cream.

I try to put on a brave face for her sake, but my bottom lip trembles, betraying my foolish heart.

“I still love them.” I say.

A small smile forms across her cracked lips. “Of course you do; that's why it hurts.” She pauses, then, hesitantly, “Your dad said that you could stay here for the rest of the summer, if you liked. Said it was in case you wanted more time to process, heal.”

I shake my head. “Aunt Clarisse, I don’t ever want to go back. I want to stay here with you.”

Her eyes grow big and wide, the dark irises reflecting the stars. “Really? Oh, Rosemary—” She stretches out her sunburned arms, and I fall into them. She hugs me tight, her tears dampening my hair. “I’d love to have you here; you’ve made my lonely little life so bright.” She sniffs, pulling away and wiping her eyes. “I’ll call your dad tomorrow, but don’t give up on your parents just yet.”

I can hardly believe my ears; I can stay!

What once seemed like a too-good-to-be-true dream is now a fact, a reality.

Smiling through her tears, Aunt Clarisse plays me an extra-special lullaby, the first song she learned to play. It’s an old Irish tune, filled with wavering dips and highs. Fireflies dance around us, igniting the shadowy forest like fairies’ torches lighting the way to a royal ball. Leaning on the splintery porch railing, I sway to the music, my heart beating in time with the waves lapping at the pebbly shore.

Closing my eyes, I let go of my old life and, with an open and vulnerable heart, embrace one as bright and wondrous as the sky above.