Chapter 7; Now - Something Happens In The Water

I leap out of my sleep, adrenaline and fear coursing through my veins. I try to catch my breath, struggling to make out where I am. I’m disoriented, my hands tightly clenching the bed sheets as I realize I’m drenched in sweat. Another fucking nightmare.

“It wasn’t real,” I whisper to myself repeatedly. As real as the sensation of my body being overtaken and the coolness of the lake’s water kissing my feet felt, it wasn’t real.

I gasp for air, trying to piece together where I am. I’m at the inn—Casa del Sol. I arrived yesterday by car. This place used to be a church. This is my new room, in the staff quarters. I glance around, taking in my new surroundings. The room might seem small to some, but it’s the perfect size for me. The walls are barren and dark gray, likely painted decades ago, yet they retain so much character. The wooden floor feels warm beneath my feet. The bed is full-sized with a metal, almost antique frame, featuring a headboard adorned with metal rods. For once in my life, I’m lying on a good mattress. My body sinks back into the comforting curves of the mattress, reassuring me that I’m okay. The sheets are excessive but pleasant—a neutral cream, almost tan color, something a girl might describe as “grayish-nude.” As I lay down, I try to control my breathing, pressing my hands against my mouth to ensure it’s still there. I attempt to remember my arrival here: Luz and her wild hair, Adina and her floral dress, Mathilda and her dementia. Adam…

FUCK!

Adam!

I jolt out of bed, forgetting that I’m only wearing boxers and a t-shirt. I make my way to the mustard-colored curtain drawn across the window. It looks like morning.

Where the fuck is Adam? How did I fall asleep? Did I sleep through an entire day and night? I fling open the wooden, arched door and sprint into the hallway. It’s eerily quiet. As I dash through a dim corridor that must be the staff quarters, the long carpet runner beneath my feet shifts, betraying my hurried steps. Just as I spot an entryway, my feet slip, sending me stumbling. I land hard on my left arm, no time to brace for impact. Shaking off the pain, I stumble into what looks like a prep kitchen. Workers are cooking, seemingly unfazed by my sudden appearance.

 

“Where’s Adam!” I shout, my fear more palpable than I expected.

One of the older women working in the kitchen smiles at me and, in broken English, says, “Good morning.” Her goodsounds more like “gud.”

“Where is my brother!” I yell, my frustration mounting.

She smiles again and responds, “Yes, good morning.”

For fuck’s sake! She doesn’t know English!

“Adina?” I speak. “Luz? Breakfast room?”

The oblivious worker points toward another curved door.

I rush into the breakfast room to find Adina sitting at a table, embroiled in an argument with a man.

The guy sitting in the breakfast room is tall and very slender, his head crowned with tight black curls that frame his face with an effortless elegance. His skin is a rich, warm brown, like the color of raw sugar, and his eyes are mysterious, lined with what looks like messily applied eyeliner that accentuates their intensity. He’s wearing makeup, a subtle but striking touch that complements his bold look. Draped in a satin robe the color of browning pink roses, he sits with his legs crossed, exuding a casual yet provocative confidence. The robe is open at the chest and parts at the knees, revealing a hairless body covered in intricate tattoos that weave across his skin like stories waiting to be told.

In each ear, he wears a cascade of gold earrings—five on each side, catching the light and drawing attention to his sharp, angular features. Although he’s facing my direction, he’s leaned back in his chair, deeply engaged in a hushed but heated argument with Adina. His age is hard to pinpoint—he can’t be much older than thirty, but his looks are so striking, so meticulously crafted, that they seem to distract from who he really is. The conversation between him and Adina is intense, their voices low and muffled, but the tension in the air is palpable. Adina’s profile is visible from where I stand, and the look on her face—tense, almost guarded—is a stark contrast to the person I met just hours ago.

When the guy starts pointing his finger in Adina’s face, the gesture laced with a subtle threat, I feel a surge of protectiveness rise in me. I step forward into the breakfast room, clearing my throat deeply to announce my presence.

“Excuse me, Adina,” I say, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the man in the robe. “Where’s Adam?”

The sound of my voice seems to jolt Adina out of the tense exchange. She quickly stands up, turning to face me with a smile that’s too bright, too forced, to be genuine.

 

“Daniel! Good morning!” she exclaims, her voice filled with a nervous energy that betrays her calm facade. The unspoken question hangs in the air: How long have you been standing there?

“Adam,” I repeat, my tone more demanding this time, “where is he?”

“Of course, he’s in his room. I ran a bath for him to start his day. He mentioned he doesn’t like showers, so I thought a cozy bath would be just right. I added a sachet of flowers and herbs—rosemary for clarity, eucalyptus, some cedarwood chunks for grounding, along with dried chamomile and hibiscus flowers. I laid out some clothes for him too. I hope that’s okay,” she finishes, her words tumbling out in a rush as if trying to appease me.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, a wave of guilt washing over me for snapping at Adina and the kitchen staff earlier.

“Well, well,” the guy in the robe stirs in his seat, his voice dripping with amusement as he shifts, causing the robe to slip further, exposing more of his tattoo-covered thighs. “Luz sure knows how to pick them, I see.”

He eyes me up and down, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl.

“I’m sure innocent Adina here must have also had a say in the newbie,” he adds with a crude jest, his words making Adina’s face flush a rosy shade that almost matches the floral dress she’s wearing.

“My only question is, Adam,” he continues, his grin widening as he locks eyes with me, “do we get a free show every day, or is this reception just for me?”

It’s only then that I realize I’m standing in the middle of the breakfast room dressed in just my t-shirt, boxers, and socks.

Ignoring him, I turn back to Adina, “Take me to Adam’s room.”

 

 

“The ground level has the staff quarters and breakfast room,” Adina says aloud as she leads me up a grand staircase with a beautifully detailed railing. The wood underfoot creaks softly, worn smooth by years of use. “It also has the formal dining room, the library that doubles as a study, the enclosed patio, a small living room for lounging—which you saw Mathilda enjoying yesterday—as well as a formal living room for hosting, and Miss Luz’s room, which stays locked.”

 

The stairway is lined with more newspaper clippings, each framed in varying sizes, creating a collage of the inn’s strange and storied past. One article catches my eye: METAIRIE WOMAN CURED OF BREAST CANCER AFTER SWIMMING IN MYSTICAL TEXAS LAKE. Another reads: VICTORIA WOMAN CLAIMS HUSBAND WAS HEALED OF HOMOSEXUALITY AFTER BEING THE LUCKY VISITOR TO SUNNY SIDE LAKE IN BETHESDA. The headlines are sensational, almost unbelievable, but the seriousness of the framing makes it clear that these stories are part of the lakes history and the inn’s mystique.

When we reach the landing on the second floor, a set of beautiful windows greets us, framing a picturesque view of the lake, the dock, the trees, and the surrounding grasslands. The scene outside looks almost too perfect, like something out of a painting. The landing splits left and right, the upstairs hallway wrapping around the void of the staircase in a rectangle. Doors line the hallway, each leading to guest rooms, their presence adding to the sense of history and secrets held within these walls.

We make our way to a door that is hand-painted with intricate gold and ruby details, a sign of the care and craftsmanship that went into this place. Adina knocks lightly before turning the doorknob.

“Adam,” she calls out in a singsong voice, her tone gentle and reassuring.

The room we enter is old but fancy as hell, a blend of antique charm and understated luxury. The walls are lined with rich, dark wood paneling, and the furniture is a mix of vintage elegance and modern comfort. We walk towards the restroom, and there I find Adam, soaking in a porcelain tub that gleams under the soft light.

“The water is red, but I promise I didn’t pee,” he says, raising his hand as if he’s being sworn in. “My pee is yellow, right, Daniel?”

Adina chuckles softly and explains that the hibiscus flowers have colored the warm water, giving it that deep, rich hue.

I kneel by the tub and wrap my arms around Adam, not caring if my shirt gets soaked. All is okay, I think to myself, the tension in my chest finally easing.

“You can’t just leave me like that,” I tell him firmly, but with a softness in my voice. “I freaked out. I didn’t know where you were or if you were okay.”

Adam lowers his head, the flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. I can see that he’s uncomfortable with me getting after him in front of his new friend, and I feel a pang of guilt. The restroom is huge, almost absurdly so, and it takes me a moment to take it all in. There’s a small window above the bathtub, letting in a sliver of natural light that dances on the water’s surface. The toilet is spotless, pristine in a way that makes it look almost unused. The shower is something else entirely—made of marble, but not the polished kind you’d find in a showroom. This marble has wild, dark veins that twist and turn in every direction, giving it a chaotic, almost organic feel.

In the corner of the restroom, there’s a chair—a fucking chair in the restroom—paired with a tiny side table stacked with books. A single candle sits on top, its flame flickering gently. Draped over the chair is a white bathrobe, the kind of luxury item I know Adam has only seen on TV or in movies.

“He’s okay,” Adina says softly, and when I turn to face her, she repeats those words, offering me a hopeful smile that feels like a lifeline.

She tells Adam he has ten more minutes to soak but makes him promise to lather up with soap. Despite being only fourteen, there’s something about her that feels so natural, so nurturing. It’s like watching a big sister who’s thrilled to have a new little brother to care for. I know that feeling all too well.

As we walk out of the restroom and close the door behind us, I notice the clothes neatly folded on the bed.

“These aren’t his clothes,” I say, confused.

“They are now,” Adina replies, more direct than I would have expected from her. She explains that Luz had one of the workers go into town to get Adam some new clothes after seeing his shirts were torn at the neck and hems.

“How long have you known he’s on the spectrum?” she asks, her voice flat, almost clinical.

My heart sinks. It feels like a gut punch, and I swear I hear a faint ringing in my ears. I look away from her, my eyes landing on the neatly folded clothes on the bed, trying to gather my thoughts.

That’s when Adina gently grabs my arm, her touch light but filled with meaning.

“He’s a good kid, and you’ve done a great job with him all by yourself,” she says, her voice filled with a wisdom and compassion well beyond her years. “But he’s on the spectrum. You’ve known that, right?”

The silence between us is deafening, stretching on as I grapple with what she’s said.

“It’s okay,” she continues softly. “That doesn’t make him any less—it just means he’s a cool kid who needs a little extra love here and there.”

I feel a mix of embarrassment and protectiveness rising in me. “Our parents called him stupid,” I say, my voice tinged with bitterness. “They said he was slow, a runt. I never knew why he was so different, but it never mattered to me, I guess. He bites his shirts,” I say as I pick up the new shirt she’s laid out for him. “I don’t know why he does it, and I don’t think I’ve ever asked him, but I guess it’s some sort of soothing thing for him. I try not to get him clothes with buttons because I know he’ll chew them right off. The parents would tell him to stop, but of course, he never did. When they reprimanded him over the chewing, he’d just cry. And when they got fed up with buying new clothes, they spanked him—hit him, really. And then he just cried more. So, I figured why not let him do his thing. He’s happier that way.”

Adina’s hand remains on my arm, a gentle presence that grounds me. She rubs my bicep lightly and says, “It’s called stimming. Kids like Adam struggle with processing change sometimes, so they find comfort in little things—the chewing, being barefoot, doodling. Last night, he stared out the window, watching the lake, for a couple of hours. You should’ve seen him afterward—like the idle time helped recharge him. I noticed it when I first met you both in the breakfast room. Sometimes, it affects speech, like in his case, and I figured that’s why he’s iffy about being touched. But hey,” she says, her tone shifting to one of encouragement, “if you didn’t know what it was before, now you do. We do. And we can help him find comfort that’s perfect for him. I’m thinking about taking him outside today—got some coloring books he’d love, and we can pick out flowers. I love flowers.” She giggles, lightening the mood.

“Adam says he wants to write your parents a letter, tell them about Casa del Sol and the lake…”

“No,” I say sharply, my heart seizing in my chest.

This is what I feared—one of the moments I’ve prepared for. I tell Adina that he can’t write to our parents. You can’t write to the dead. They’re dead to me. And even though they’re probably sitting at home right this very moment, having their fucking breakfast and calling around to see if they can get their hands on a new, unfortunate foster kid, I can’t let Adam—or anyone else, for that matter—entertain the idea of reaching out to them. I recite the line I’ve practiced so many times with Mr. Showerhead. They went on a trip. They left us alone at home to fend for ourselves—that part is true. But I tell her that on that trip, as they drove well into the night, they were hit by a truck driven by someone who’d worked too many hours. I manage to muster up some rehearsed emotion and tell her that the only consolation in this tragedy is that they died on impact, meaning they didn’t suffer.

She listens, taking it all in, and I see the belief settle in her eyes. It’s a story woven together so tightly, so carefully, that it leaves no room for further questions, only sympathy. I can’t take all the credit, though—Mr. Showerhead came up with the last part. That fucker was a genius.

I quickly change the subject. “I’ll pay for the clothes,” I offer, trying to shift the focus away from the lie.

“Hey,” she says, sitting on the bed and straightening the apron that cascades over her floral dress, “Miss Luz has a big heart. She’s very generous, as you can probably already tell. She said you’d probably offer to pay for the clothes and has already told the entire staff not to take your money. She’s a good person—a little stern at times, but she’s that way with all of us, even the guests here. I know she said she wants me to help watch him while you work, but honestly, the pleasure is mine. I could use some company around here, and I’ve been thinking about activities we can…” Adina trails off, her voice fading as she loses herself in thought.

Generous. First, the job offer with room and board. Then, Adam getting his own, sick-ass room. The food—oh my god, the food! This is all too much, and I don’t know how to process it other than feeling undeserving. But in that very moment, a contradictory thought takes hold. I may be undeserving, but Adam? He deserves this and so much more.

Reader's Aid:

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y8BmTt__hw8?si=VrB1KqtSuLgq4bfE" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" referrerpolicy="strict-origin-when-cross-origin" allowfullscreen></iframe>