20. Present
Chapter twenty
Present
“Ican’t believe it,” Matt says, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong, Daddy? Is it closed?” Brett asks.
“Take a picture of the sign, would you? I want to keep the phone number,” I say. Matt rolls down his window wordlessly and snaps a photo.
“Yeah, baby,” Matt answers in a brave voice. “Looks like they’re all closed up right now. Oh, well. We’ll have to save our visit for another time.”
“Aw, man!” Brett slumps her shoulders. “That stinks.”
I suggest we take her to Polly’s Cottage, a local greasy spoon, counter-seating only diner that’s been a fixture in the area since I was little and serves the world’s best pancakes.
The dose of sugar from the fresh maple syrup makes everyone feel a little better, and Polly’s is nostalgic itself, as Matt and I ate there on many a day off in the past. The counter is lined with business cards from locals featuring everything from used and rare comic books to fresh sunflowers to realtors galore.
The coffee is hot and plentiful, and the waitress is none other than Polly’s hard-working, 40-something daughter, whose abundant smile is interrupted by a chipped front tooth.
The impromptu stop works as a distraction, and Brett falls asleep on the long ride home, her head slumped down over the middle console in the backseat of my car.
“I think I’m going to call the realtor,” I tell Matt.
“And say what? You’re hardly equipped to purchase a sleepaway camp.”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe I can get access to the camp somehow. I promised Brett I would bring her for a tour. There’s so much I want to show her.”
“I know. She was excited, too.”
“I’ve never really seen her quite that animated, actually. She’s usually pretty reserved. Or anxious,” I say sadly, remembering how it felt to be young and constantly nervous. “It broke my heart to let her down, even if it was by accident.”
“Tell me about it,” he replies. “How do you think I feel? The poor kid’s whole year has been chock-full of disappointment.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Well, I don’t know what I’m going to say to the realtor, but I’ll figure something out. Can you send me the picture you took so I have the number?”
“Okay,” he agrees, pulling out his phone to text it to me.
An idea blossoms. “Hey. Would it be okay if we went to my house instead of yours?”
“Your house?” His face lights up a little.
“Yeah. Do you feel up to it? Because it can wait if you just want to head back home.”
“No, it’s fine. I’d like that, actually,” he replies, and opens his hand, palm facing up, on top of the gear shift.
I check to make sure Brett’s still asleep before taking it, letting my fingers settle into the spaces between his, the warmth of his calloused skin swallowing mine, sending a shiver down my back.
Forty minutes later, I pull through the gate at my condo complex and into a covered spot in the parking area.
Matt lets out a low whistle. “This is nice.”
“I’m sorry; did you assume I was living in squalor?” I laugh.
“No, of course not. It’s just a far cry from how you grew up, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s true. I got lucky, though. I bought at a good time when the market was low. I was able to buy in cash because of my mom’s life insurance money plus, like, seven years of working and saving hand over fist because I only had myself to take care of.”
Brett wakes up when I put the car in park. “Where are we?” she asks, groggy.
“We’re at Taylor’s house, sweetie,” Matt answers.
“Yeah, I thought it would be fun for you to come over. Plus, I have something I want to show you.”
The little girl stretches her arms up over her head. “Cool,” she says.
As we walk around the parking lot to the front of my building, Brett takes in the surroundings. “What water is that?” she asks, pointing at the inlet just beyond the manicured landscape.
“That’s Manhasset Bay. It leads to the Long Island Sound,” I explain, glancing at Matt.
“Oh my gosh, is that a swimming pool?” Brett exclaims. I remember when I was a child, I felt like anyone with a pool had to have been a millionaire.
“Yup. It’s closed for the season, but it’s pretty nice in the summer. The whole complex shares it.”
“Wow.” Her tiny voice trails off.
“Honey, you’re welcome to come visit anytime you want.” The words escape my mouth just as I realize how improbable that would actually be. But Matt doesn’t notice. He just walks along beside us, the corners of his mouth turned up.
Once inside the building, we round the corner to my apartment.
I unlock the door and open it. The foyer area spills out to an open-concept living space, featuring a small kitchen with a breakfast bar and a nice-sized living room with a slider leading out to a balcony.
There’s a dining table with four chairs set up that’s littered with mail and some of my books.
Two bedroom doors with a bathroom door and a linen closet are down a small hallway.
“Two bedrooms?” Matt asks.
I nod.
“How come?”
“I don’t know. Office? Guest room? I got a little greedy when I bought this place. After a whole lifetime of being cramped, I just wanted a bit of extra space. Anyway, please sit, guys. Make yourselves at home. Feel free to hang your coats on the hooks by the door. I’ll be right back.”
I disappear down the hallway. When I return, Matt’s standing by the balcony, studying a framed series of photographs on the wall.
Brett stands next to him, looking out the balcony door at the view of the water.
I set a stack of large books down on the coffee table with a clumsy thud, making Brett jump.
“Sorry, kiddo. Come check these out,” I offer. “Would either of you like something to drink? A snack, maybe?”
Matt and Brett shake their heads no. Brett sinks into the couch next to me, kicking off her sneakers and pulling her feet up underneath her.
Matt follows her and sits on the other side of Brett.
Directly across from us is my favorite thing about the condo, an electric fireplace with a faux-stone front that looks real, topped by a mantle made of reclaimed old barn wood.
I notice Matt checking out the lineup of framed photographs, including an old family photo of me and my parents, one of me and my mom from when I was a baby, and one with my Aunt Lucy.
There’s a picture of me and Jess, and then, at the end of the mantle, sits our jar, filled to the brim with beach glass, and a photo of the two of us taken during our first summer as an official couple.
It’s one of my favorites, and I can tell from Matt’s expression that he’s touched to see it there.
“Check these out,” I suggest, passing two of the books over to Matt. I place the biggest one on Brett’s lap and open it.
“Sound Hollow memories,” Matt reads. “A scrapbook?” he asks.
I smile, nodding. I spent hours working on these books at the end of each summer.
I’d visit the pharmacy, trade in my Kodak disposable cameras for photographs, and spread them out all over my bedroom floor, listening to mix tapes of summer tunes while handcrafting headings and captions to accompany the pictures and mementos before taping them into the pages of the book.
“How come I’ve never seen these before?” Matt wonders.
“They’re big. I never thought to bring them to your house when we were kids. I couldn’t exactly schlep them on the train.”
“Oh, my God. Look how little you were,” he swoons, looking at the cabin picture of my bunk my first year there.
In the photo, I’m seated right in the middle of the bench of girls, the runt of the litter, with crooked bangs and a front tooth missing.
There are a few other pictures of those early years, including one of Matt and me taken at the farm during our first summer together, albeit with a large group of boys, all swinging from the apple trees like a pack of chimpanzees.
There’s an old, laminated grace card tucked between the pages, which slides out onto the couch. Brett picks it up.
“What’s this?” she asks, holding it up.
“Wow. It’s been so long since I’ve seen one of these,” Matt says.
He goes on to explain that before meals, all the place settings at every table in the Lodge were set with a grace card on the plate.
There were nine graces in total, each one a short verse of no more than eight lines, and the camp director would begin each meal by calling out a grace number that the entire camp would sing together.
The fan favorite was grace number six, Johnny Appleseed, which went on longer than the others but was upbeat, replete with clapping and banging on the table.
Matt’s face grows animated remembering the detail, and I can tell Brett’s hanging on to every word.
“Wait, look here,” I say, flipping to a different page.
“This is your dad during a Halloween themed co-ed,” I laugh.
“He was trying to be Batman.” Matt had a black garbage bag tied around his shoulders over an old Batman T-shirt.
He was wearing a black mask over his eyes that he made out of a painted paper plate and a rubber band, and he’s giving the camera a big thumbs up.
“What’s a co-ed?” Brett asks.
“It’s like a boy-girl dance,” I explain. “It was a big deal at camp, because the boys and girls lived on opposite sides of a forest, and co-eds were a chance to see each other.”
“And dance?”
“Yup. It was a lot of fun.”
“Daddy doesn’t dance,” Brett comments, smirking at him.
“He used to! He would dance with me at every co-ed.”
“Really?”
“Mm hmm,” I confirm. “And he wasn’t half-bad.”
“Was he your boyfriend?” Brett asks. Matt looks over at me.
“Yeah, he was. But we were best friends first for a long time.” I keep the explanation simple in an effort to avoid further questions. “Hey, look at this one! This was me and your dad at the end-of-summer staff party.”
“So, what happened?” Brett asks.
“Hmm?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
“What happened to you and Daddy? Did you stop being friends?”
Matt cocks an eyebrow.
“No,” I lie. “We just lost touch.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I moved all the way to Boston, and then I lived in Connecticut for college, and then I moved back to Queens. By that time, he and your mom were together, and they had you. And then, a few years later, I moved out here.”
“But—”
“We always cared about each other,” Matt interjects. “Sometimes people you love leave for a little bit, but that doesn’t mean you love them any less.”
“Like Mommy?” Brett asks.
My breath catches.
“Yeah. Like Mommy,” Matt replies, squeezing her hand.
“But you came back,” Brett says to me.
“Yes, I did. And I got news for you, kiddo. I’m afraid now you’re stuck with me.” My stomach churns a little when I say it, my body reminding me that the words are really just wishful thinking.
Brett grins.
We sit awhile longer, reminiscing over photos.
Brett gets a kick out of seeing Matt as a kid at camp.
The only pictures of him she’s seen from his childhood are the ones hanging up at Matt’s parents’ house, and those are from school, she explains.
She asks pointed questions about buildings and backdrops of some of the pictures, like “What did you do at the Science Center?” and “What kind of candy did they sell at the Canteen?”
A few minutes becomes almost two hours, and Matt looks tired, so I suggest we get going.
“Can I borrow these?” Brett asks.
“The scrapbooks?” I clarify.
She nods eagerly.
“No, honey. Those are Taylor’s. They should stay here,” Matt says.
“I don’t mind. She can borrow them,” I interject. “You’ll take good care of them, right?” I ask Brett.
The little girl’s face lights up. “I will, I promise. Daddy, please can I bring them home?”
He agrees reluctantly. “She might screw them up,” he whispers. “These are precious.”
“She won’t,” I say. “I trust her. And look how happy she is looking at them,” I point out, filling with resolve. I’ll find a way to get that kid to camp if it kills me.
The next morning, I scroll through my text messages from Matt and click on the phone number of the realtor from the sign out in front of camp. I suck in a breath as it rings.
Once, twice, three—
“Hello?”
“Hi. Um, I’m calling regarding the for sale sign in front of Sound Hollow Sleepaway Camp?”
“Yes,” the professional older man’s voice replies. “How can I help you?”
“Well, it’s just, I used to go to that camp, and I went out to visit yesterday and the gate was locked, and I saw the sign. I was just hoping to get some information about the seller.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’d like to take a tour.”
“Are you a prospective buyer?”
I laugh aloud, despite myself. “No! I mean, I wish. It’s just—um—my husband and I went to that camp as kids, I mean, that’s where we met—and, well, he recently had a stroke.
Our daughter wanted to see the place where we met, so we went out there yesterday and the place was all locked up, and I just wanted to know if there was any way…
” I let the sentence hang in the air, a request built on half-truths as fragile as a house of cards.
The realtor is silent for a moment.
“I mean, I know it’s a pretty odd request,” I continue, staring at the photo on the mantle above the fireplace.
The man on the other end of the line clears his throat.
“Tell you what,” he begins. “I’ll talk to the owner.
I can’t make any promises, but you’re not the first person I’ve heard of who has deep ties to that place.
Let me take down your name and number, and I’ll see what I can do.
” My heart leaps as I thank him and offer him the information.
Hope is a powerful thing, I decide. I have no control over Matt’s health, no control over my feelings for him, no control over anything really.
But my own actions—the effort I put forth, the time I spend, the little bit of extra I can offer to Brett—somehow, I honestly believe that all of it matters.