18. 14 Years Ago
Chapter eighteen
“It’s too expensive,” I told Matt. “I don’t want you blowing your whole paycheck.” I wasn’t concerned about what people would think. We were old news; nobody would talk.
It was really just the money. But he insisted that he didn’t care. “I want you to have a real night off; a night that’s just us where there’s literally no stress at all.”
In truth, it did sound nice. I could take a bubble bath.
My God, when was the last time I even saw the inside of a bathtub?
The shower stalls at Sound Hollow were like vertical coffins, making it very hard to shave my legs comfortably.
My mother used to love soaking in a hot bubble bath.
She always told me that it was one of life’s cheapest luxuries, provided the water bill had been paid.
We fought about it, but I didn’t know how to fight hard anymore.
The past year had changed me—broken me and hardened me in ways I never could have imagined.
So Matt won. He booked a room at The Lavender Inn and Suites, a boutique hotel in the center of town.
It included a complimentary breakfast, he told me, and we could wear fluffy robes and order room service and watch movies on HBO.
It was too decadent; I didn’t need all that.
We could just go to the beach and sleep out under the stars, I’d argued.
“You need a break,” he insisted.
I sighed, relenting.
Junior year of high school is an emotionally fraught time to begin with, but between the SATs and finals week, my mom was hit by a car crossing Queens Boulevard on a rainy Sunday morning in May right outside my apartment building.
My mother, my rock, had been reduced to another statistic marked by a huge, yellow metal sign that hung in the middle of the four-section, twelve-lane street at the corner of 73rd Avenue.
A pedestrian was killed here, the sign read. Be alert. Cross with care.
The accident happened after a blowout between my parents. I’d spent that weekend at Matt’s house, so I hadn’t been there to witness it, a detail I knew Matt was grateful for. I wasn’t so sure, though. If I’d been there, the morning might have gone very differently, and guilt is a very real emotion.
I was far from over it, but Aunt Lucy insisted I return to camp for the summer.
Now that I was a counselor, I earned a salary while also enjoying a two-month reprieve from home, which was now so overwrought with memories that I could barely stand to be there at all.
Matt and his parents agreed I should return to camp as well.
But the most important reason to disappear was the one nobody wanted to talk about: if I didn’t go, I’d be home alone to deal with my father’s grief.
It didn’t make sense for me to spend the summer anywhere other than Sound Hollow.
Also, getting out of the way was my specialty.
Since arriving at camp in late June, I filled my days teaching dance classes and conducting activities for my cabin of 8-year-old girls.
Sometimes, thoughts of my mother would creep in and mess with my head, but between a high-octane Prozac prescription and the lack of downtime, I did a pretty good job of numbly holding it together.
Only in sleep did I feel untethered. Lately, my dreams had become so disruptive that I’d wake in the middle of the night, shaking, covered in sweat, unable to go back to bed.
The dreams were so vivid that I could remember them upon waking and had hours until sunrise to relive them in my haunted mind.
“I just want you to have a good night’s sleep,” Matt explained. “And I think it might be easier if you’re not alone.”
“I’m never alone,” I countered. “I have half a dozen little girls with me all night long.”
“You know what I mean. Just enjoy it. We’ll take a break from everything.”
The gesture was sweet, just like Matt. At noon, we signed out at the camp office, carried our backpacks to his car, and drove into town.
We stopped for lunch at a café with outdoor bayfront seating on the boardwalk, followed by ice cream cones at the East End Creamery next door.
Being by the water calmed me; I blankly watched the ducks, geese, and occasional swan float by and was able to settle into a meditation of numbness.
At three o’clock, we checked into the hotel.
Matt unlocked the door to our room and watched me take in the king-size bed with multiple layers of fresh white linens covered by a soft lavender duvet.
Ten pillows adorned the head of the bed.
The room smelled like fabric softener, a memory that took me back to the inside of Soapy Suds, the coin-op laundromat where I used to spend Saturday mornings with my mom when I was young.
As promised, a chrome hook on the closet door held two terrycloth-lined bath robes on velvet hangers.
Matching slippers were lined up neatly on the closet floor.
The bathroom was three times the size of the one in my apartment, with a soaking tub and a separate shower.
Elegant paper-wrapped soaps and tiny bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion, all adorned with French words I couldn’t pronounce, sat in a small wicker basket by the sink begging to be opened.
I turned to face Matt. “This is too much.”
“No, it’s not,” he responded, pulling me in close for a hug. “And I got you a little something. Look in my backpack.” I opened the zipper of the large pocket of Matt’s JanSport, where I discovered a small bottle of bubble bath.
I willed a smile. The only thing more spectacular than the hotel was Matt’s thoughtfulness.
The evening went according to his plan. We changed into bathrobes, took a nap, and he watched television while I had a long soak in the bathtub.
He ordered a pizza with extra mushrooms and had it delivered to our room for dinner.
We ate until we were full, made love, and then ate some more.
With my hair pulled up in a messy bun held by a claw clip, he kissed my temples while I nuzzled against him watching old movies on the oversized television until I finally drifted off.
The next morning, I awoke to bright rays of sunshine seeping in through a crack in the curtains. I rolled over and looked at Matt, still asleep, who stirred from the movement in the bed.
“Good morning,” he said, opening one eye.
I kissed him.
“How did you sleep?” he wondered.
“Amazing.” I stretched. “Thank you.”
“Told you you’d sleep better if we were together.” He grinned, his eyes still closed.
I rolled over. The alarm clock on the nightstand glowed. 11:15 a.m.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaimed. “We have to be back at camp at noon.”
“Who cares?” He yawned, raising his arms up over his head.
But we both cared. We packed our things, quickly took turns showering, grabbed a cup of coffee in the hotel lobby, and got to the car with 15 minutes to spare.
Matt drove over the speed limit, lamenting the fact that we missed the free breakfast. I reminded him that once we got back to camp it would be time for lunch.
Just a few minutes late, we jogged down the road to the office to sign back in.
I swung open the old, squeaky door, cocking out my hip to keep it from slamming shut, then stopped short at the sight of the diminutive woman in the chair by Joanie at the desk.
It took me a moment to recognize the older lady with the uncharacteristically blotchy, pink face.
I was all too familiar with the complexion of someone who had recently finished a crying spell.
It was like looking in a mirror. Fear seized my chest, wrapping itself around my lungs.
“Aunt Lucy? What are you doing here?” My voice shook.
Silence. She looked lost. She clasped her hands together, as if in prayer, and put them to her lips.
Matt stood beside me silently.
Tears filled Aunt Lucy’s eyes before she could respond. “Honey, it’s your dad.”
The words rang in my head over and over again, like a siren, giving me an instant headache. I expected to feel something sudden, but the 60 milligrams of Prozac muted my surprise.
“What happened to Dad?”
Aunt Lucy squirmed in the chair as the assistant camp director, Ellie, came bounding into the office through the side door, two little girls following her eagerly.
“You get to do the CD, but I get to make the announcement!” the blonde one said, her freckles dancing on her cheeks as she bounced up and down in excitement. The redhead nodded excitedly.
I caught eyes with Ellie, who sensed the discomfort in the room. “Sorry, guys,” she began. “We’re just blowing the bugle for lunch, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Aunt Lucy’s lips were pursed, holding back an inferno of emotion and information that I could see all over her face.
She was disheveled, her shirt untucked, her hair brushed but not its usual, rounded shape, her face lacking makeup, making her look at least 10 years older.
Her hands were folded in her lap over her purse, clutching a used tissue.
Ellie opened the CD player and handed the disc to the redhead, who popped it into the deck of the old sound system.
She closed the plastic door and jubilantly hit the play button.
The loudspeaker above the office played the scratchy sound of the beginning of an old 45 record, which led into the peppy bugle song “Come and Get Your Beans,” the camp call to line up for a meal.
The song took an eternity. Then, Ellie handed the microphone to the blonde girl and turned it on.
“Lunchtime! All campers and staff report to the Lodge,” the little girl announced proudly.
Ellie patted the girl on the back and quickly put the microphone away. “Good job, girls. Let’s head on out now,” she said. “Sorry again,” she offered as the screen door to the office slammed loudly behind them, thanks to the tight spring hooked onto the frame.