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Chapter 8: Finding Home

"A house is built with bricks and beams,
but home is made with love and dreams."
-Unknown

October 28th, 1987

Interstate 75 stretched north through Flint and Saginaw and onward to Grayling and Indian River. The cities dwindled into small, unincorporated burgs consisting of a dozen houses huddled around an intersection with a four-way stop or flashing yellow. Traffic was spotty, distractions few, and by the time Enos reached Mackinaw City, the last stop below the bridge, the coffee wasn't working anymore. Flipping on the radio, he punched through the radio stations.

Polka...Polka...Static...National Weather Service (here he stopped briefly to hear the weather report of 1-2" of light snow)...Polka...Commercial...Rerun of the 'Ice Bowl'...Deer Report. With a groan, he flipped it off.

At last, the first tower of the Mackinaw Suspension Bridge rose in front of him. The sun glittered brilliant off the waves, seagulls swooped and glided beyond the reef, looking for fish caught amongst the rocks, and the weight of his troubles slipped from his shoulders as he left downstate Michigan behind.

North of St. Ignace, the first flakes of snow began to fall. They were light, no more than a dusting - not even snow according to most of the locals. It remained that way over the next hour, until he crossed over the southern edge of Whitefish County and the mouth of the Tahquamenon River. Near the ghost town of Emerson, the snow grew heavier; large, wet clusters that smashed against the windshield.

The ground was white by the time he pulled into his spot at the sheriff's station and the sky a dark, nickel gray. He climbed out of the truck and stomped the pins and needles out of his legs. The sidewalk in front had already been shoveled and ruts of snow lay to either side. He kicked his boots against the door frame before he went in.

Doc Fletcher lounged behind the dented, metal desk that served as the booking station and unofficial depository of unfiled paperwork. "Holy Wah!" he beamed. "Wouldja look at what the cat dragged in? Enos, you look like you're about to fall down. Didn't sleep good, downstate, didja boy? You've got Yooper in your blood, now, eh!"

Adjusting to life in the U.P. had amounted to biggest challenge of Enos' life, but after two years, he was getting used to it. Yoopers, as people in the U.P. called themselves, had turned out to be diamonds in the rough with hearts of gold. The citizens of Tamarack had welcomed him in with open arms, even though he was a "troll" from "below the bridge".

"Hey Doc!" Enos dumped himself into the chair next to the desk. "They keep you busy while I was gone? Thanks again for covering for me."

Doc waived his thanks aside. "The wife was happy to have me outta her hair for a couple of days, doncha know. I expect she's got a honey-do list waiting on me for tomorrow. Not much happened to speak about, otherwise. Oh, before I forget, Charlie Knutson wanted to know if you've got any walleye left in your freezer, says he'll do a bag of pheasant jerky for it."

"Sounds good, I'll hunt him down after I've slept awhile."

"And Melinda brought over a hot dish." Doc continued. "It's in back. Go eat it, or I'll have to take it home."

Enos ignored the gleam in the man's eyes. "I'll take it home and eat it later," he told him. "How much snow are we supposed to get?"

"Not enough," he replied, disheartened, "but it's early, yet. Next Wednesday they're saying we might get a foot, though. Tom said if there's enough, we might be able to get the trails groomed, and make some early money for the county."

Enos laughed and shook his head. He still wasn't used to the idea of snow being a good thing, but snowmobile trails and cross-country skiing were vital to the Northwoods' economy. "I'm gonna go home and go to bed, but I'll be here in the morning."

Doc stood and rubbed the back of his neck, a tell which Enos had come to recognize meant trouble. "Yah, about that. The Weather Service issued a squall warning for late morning tomorrow," he said, his voice now serious. "Don't know how bad, yet. Just a small craft advisory for now."

Whitefish Point was known as the 'Graveyard of the Great Lakes', for good reason. Storms on the lake could capsize even the largest of freighters, and the county's lighthouse stood as the lone sentinel over the narrow channel leading to safety in the bay and the Soo Locks to the south.

In Tamarack, the lives stolen by Superior were never far from anyone's mind. The ghosts were visceral and real here, and they walked the streets amongst the living.

Their eyes met. "I'll be here early in the morning," Enos amended.

The sky was as beautiful a blue as any she had known as Daisy watched the scenery from the window of Uncle Jesse's truck, daydreaming of home...and of her memories coming back. Familiar things were bound to jog it, and she'd had quite enough of feeling like a fish out of water.

They drove higher into the foothills; the angled layers of rock rising up on either side of the road. It was warm for late October, the musty scent of drying corn hanging thick in the air. She could smell it wafting through the air vents in the dash.

Thinking about corn made her heartsick. Being moonshiners, harvest time had always been important to the Duke family. Now, all that was gone. And not just the harvest, but everything that came with it. No more late nights sitting with Aunt Lavinia, reading by the living room lamp and waiting for Uncle Jesse to come home from a bootlegging run.

It left an emptiness which she didn't know how to fill.

She rested her head against the window and closed her eyes, pondering on it and counting the bumps in the dirt road. It wasn't until they slowed that she looked up to find they had turned down a familiar rock driveway.

The tears took her by surprise, but she couldn't help the flood of emotions that swept over her. Uncle Jesse reached over and patted her hand, and she rolled her eyes at him. "Sorry, Uncle Jesse. I'm not meaning to get weepy."

"You've come through a lot the last week, Daisy," he reminded her.

The house wasn't fancy - it never had been. The root cellar was always flooded and the roof leaked in one spot of the living room, but most of the time it was cozy and she had never gone hungry. There was a porch now, a nice sturdy one with actual stairs instead of rocks, and the house seemed whiter and fresher. The barn stood in stark contrast, timeless, its red paint faded and peeling.

They parked in front, next to an orange car with a flag on top. Her hand was sweaty on the door latch as she climbed out, taking care not to knock her cast as her cousins came out of the house and into the yard.

Bo was the first to reach her grabbing her in a bear hug. "I'm guessing you've had enough of all that hospital food. Me and Luke made Uncle Jesse's crawdad bisque, special just for you."

"It's good to have you home, Daisy," said Luke. He gave her back an awkward pat, knowing she still hadn't quite warmed up to him.

"Sounds great, fellas!" she said, giving them the smile that they expected.

Nervous anticipation filled her as she followed them back up the porch and stepped over the threshold into the kitchen. Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, she stood in the midst of the kitchen and waited for her memories to return.

None came.

Nothing.

The loss was so profound that it made her feel sick to her stomach.

A warm hand reached out to steady her. "You feeling okay, Daisy?" asked Luke. His blue eyes searched her face, and she saw that they were the same shade as Uncle Jesse's.

She nodded, quickly. "I'm fine, Luke, just tired, is all. I think I'll go lay down till supper's ready." Brushing past him, she ran to her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

The room was sterile and clean; stripped of everything she remembered. Her trophies for the spelling bee and Honor Roll from 1st grade, which should have sat on her dresser were missing, along with the myriad of papers and knick-knacks which had so recently littered every surface. Aunt Lavinia had told her to clean up the mess. Now it was all gone, and she felt like a stranger. Only the furniture and bedspread were the same. She lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling until Uncle Jesse called her for supper.

The crawdad bisque cheered her more than she expected, and she found herself relaxing to the sound of Bo and Luke grumbling at each other over some girl they had met at the Boar's Nest. If she didn't think too hard about it, she could pretend that empty seat was because her aunt was visiting her sister down in Covington and not because-

She opened her mouth and said the first thing that came to mind. "Say fellas, Doctor Haglen said it would be good to visit familiar places, even if I don't remember them."

"Sounds like a plan," said Bo, agreeably. "You got somewhere you wanna go?"

She hesitated. With all the other changes, she didn't know if she could deal with anymore. "They haven't drained Hazzard Pond, have they?"

Luke grinned at her. "It's right where it's always been," he said. "There's still plenty of daylight, yet, and me and Bo don't mind taking you. Do we?" He looked over at Bo who was all smiles.

Bo slapped his knee. "Shoot no, Daisy! We don't mind at all."

"Well," Uncle Jesse studied the three of them. "I reckon that'd be fine. I'll take care of the dishes. Daisy, you mind your cast, though, and don't go doing too much, just yet until you get your strength back."

"I'll just sit up on the dock, Uncle Jesse," she assured him. "Scout's honor."

Uncle Jesse gave her a funny look before he picked up her plate and took it to the sink.

"Just let me get the rods and tackle box out of the closet, Daisy," said Luke, as she headed towards the door, "and I'll be right behind you and Bo."

Assuming the orange car was the General Lee which Bo had droned on and on about to her in the hospital, she walked over to the passenger side door to open it. It was stuck.

"It's a race car, silly," laughed Bo, coming up beside her. "We welded the doors shut." She gasped as he picked her up without warning and stuck her feet into the open window. After several hard knocks and bumps that she knew would hurt later, she finally made it into the car. Bo ran around and climbed through the driver's side just as Luke came out out of the house with the fishing gear.

"I don't remember us ever driving to the pond," she griped, as Luke dropped down into the passenger seat, sandwiching her between himself and Bo. "It's right down the road. We could've just walked."

"Two miles gets a lot longer after you turn thirty," said Luke. "You're the one who always liked to walk, not me."

She mulled over his words until they pulled over on the gravel road beside the pond. On the rocky bank, she knelt down and scooped up a handful of pebbles before catching up to her cousins. She handed half of the pebbles to Luke who stared at them.

"What're these?"

"Rocks."

"Well, I can see that," he said, still holding his hand out. "What for?"

"To throw in the water, of course." They always tossed rocks into the pond, didn't they? You aimed at where the first person threw one and tried to get yours in the same place. "It's a game we used to play."

"Oh. I guess it's been so long, I've forgotten." He put the rocks into his pocket, then gathered up his fishing tackle and followed Bo.

"Games take two people," she muttered at his back, but he was too far away to hear.

The water was deep blue and little, white-capped waves rolled across from the opposite side, stirred by the breeze. The familiar creaks and groans of the boards on the dock made her heart sing with happiness, and she sat down on the end, swinging her legs over the side.

How many times had she sat here - right here on this very spot? Countless times that she could remember, and doubtless a hundred more that she could not.

The afternoon sun warmed her bones as she tossed a rock into the water and watched as the rings floated out from it, then threw in another, further, and another until they were all gone. She wiped her hand off on her jeans and sighed, wishing one of her cousins had stayed to keep her company. The fishing was better at the deeper end of the pond, though, and she watched as Bo reeled his line in and tossed it back out.

She never remembered feeling so lonely.

A/N: Tamarack is fictional, but in my head it looks a lot like Bayfield, Wisconsin.