Chapter 13
Sonny’s house shares a property line with the far edge of Camp Colibri, connected by one of the more remote trails, but the entrance by car is three miles away, along a sequence of switchbacks I anticipate like lyrics to my favorite song.
When I pull into the dusty lot, I park beside Caleb’s black truck in front of the welcome hall, an old log cabin with a tin roof and a cheerful sign with a blue hummingbird and hand-carved letters: Welcome to Camp Colibri.
I brace myself before stepping out, stalling by cleaning up the mess Abby left on the floor of the passenger seat on the way to the hospital. I don’t have the heart to toss her creations—an origami crane, a folded star, and a fortune teller—so I shove them in my glove compartment.
When I stride up the flagstone path, I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia so potent that my breath catches.
It smells exactly the same, an olfactory trigger that sends me right back to my childhood.
A whole lotta heartache rushed straight at me when I crossed the town line last week.
But this scent sparks a kindling of happiness, too.
I’ve been holding my rage like a shield; the memory of my joy is the sword that can pierce it.
The brick patio is bordered by a halo of towering pines, with rustic cabins nestled beneath the emerald branches.
There are no counselors or campers. No nervous energy.
The camp is in hibernation. It reminds me of Friday afternoons when kids would pull away in their parents’ minivans, and I’d stay behind to help Mom clean the art room, take inventory, pick up trash on the trails, or shadow Sonny as he oversaw it all.
During the week, I slept in the cabins with the other kids.
But I spent every weekend with Mom in her summer rental.
We’d choose books at the Paper Horse and paint each other’s nails while watching DVDs borrowed from the video store, now a French bistro.
Dad would call to tell us about the summer classes he was teaching at the university, and we’d tell him everything we’d been up to.
Or at least, I’d tell him everything. Mom was more selective, apparently.
But Fridays were my favorite. I loved the stillness of the typically bustling space, like an empty theater.
There’s something sacred about stepping out from the wings in solitude, finding center stage, imagining the spotlight, and hearing the echo of your own footsteps.
The empty camp was like that: hallowed, as if the campground was exhaling and reclaiming the tranquility.
And all the beauty and charm were just for me.
It’s fitting that this is how I’m seeing it again after all these years.
I tilt my head to the sky. Clouds are collecting overhead, but the sun barrels through a patch of blue, and it feels like a spotlight.
I close my eyes, raising my arms, palms up, breathing in the scent of pine, and replaying memories that are more joyful than I’ve allowed myself to trust.
“Eden?”
My eyes fly open, and I drop my arms. Caleb is so close I take a step back, squinting into the light. One side of his mouth quirks into a smile.
“Hi,” I say curtly. “What did you want me to see?”
His smile falls, and he settles back into his standard posture: stance wide, arms crossed, a hint of a scowl. “You don’t know why you’re here, do you?”
“Adelaide,” I say, as if that explains everything.
Caleb sighs. “I could tell you weren’t listening.”
“I think I get sensory overload when Adelaide starts talking,” I admit. And Caleb shakes his head but waves his hand in a come along gesture, and I follow him.
“We could’ve done this without a personal tour, but you’re here now, and I have to make my rounds anyway.” He stops beside the door to the welcome hall and glances at my feet. “You all right for a hike?” It’s then I notice the heavy daypack slung over his shoulders.
“I can walk just fine,” I snap, but my leg rewards me with a dull, phantom ache—my own rebellious body calling me a liar.
“Good to know,” Caleb says. “But I was talking about your shoes.”
I look down at my canvas sneakers, chastened. Maybe I need to dial it down a notch. Once someone’s seen my leg, pity and lowered expectations follow. But perhaps I jumped to conclusions with Caleb. “Oh, yeah. I’m good.”
He watches me skeptically, not looking away as he calls, “Houdini, come on, boy.”
Houdini appears around the corner of the welcome hall, head lowered and tail tucked between his legs, taking a cautious step onto the landing.
“Look at you, playing coy after coming on so strong the other day,” I say, and Caleb snorts as I sink down to my haunches. “What’s wrong, Houdini?” He slinks over and rests his chin on my thigh. “Is he in trouble or something?” I scratch his ears.
“He’s just been acting weird the last day or so. Anxious for some reason.”
“Ah, that’s rough.”
Houdini whines in response and nestles his muzzle against my stomach.
I whisper into his ear, “I know how that feels.” He tilts his head as if he’s really listening to me, and then he licks my face.
“Cheap shot.” I laugh as I stand. But Houdini leans his body weight into my legs, and I lose my balance before Caleb catches me by the elbow.
And there it is again—a jolt of lightning at his touch.
We make eye contact before he releases me.
Does he feel it, too? I wish I could read him.
“Let’s head out,” Caleb says.
We walk in silence for the first twenty minutes, which is for the best. The nostalgia has me by the throat.
We pass through the lower grove, where I had enjoyed so many hours building fleeting but intense friendships.
We skate around the amphitheater, home to Sonny’s sing-alongs, improv contests, game nights, and dances.
Along the river trail, I spot the park bench where I had my first tentative kiss with a boy named Roger.
There’s an old willow, bent and bare now, that once held a rope swing.
The sleeping cabins are new and sleek; the buildings look like they were photoshopped over my memories.
But the footprint of the camp is the same.
I catch sight of the ropes course in the distance, and I peer through the trees where redwood posts rise above the clearing, with tightropes strung between them.
“Was the ropes course here when you were a kid?” Caleb asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I never tried it. I wanted to, though.”
“Why not?” Caleb asks.
“By the time I was old enough, I was too serious about ballet to do anything that came with a risk of injury. I had to sign a contract with my school.” I’d come down and watch my friends and high-five them when they were done.
But I was used to it; I spent so much of my childhood on the sidelines observing others take risks I couldn’t.
I didn’t ski, ice-skate, or play sports.
I was so careful. The irony of my later injury was another layer to my grief.
This camp was the only place I was able to be a kid.
But it was also the place that destroyed my childhood.
“Whoa,” Caleb says, frowning. “That’s intense. How old were you when you had to stop having fun?”
“I started dancing when I was three, but I don’t think I had to sign my life away until I was ten or so.” Most of the time, it wasn’t a sacrifice. I had a goal. And my body was the vehicle that would get me there.
Caleb glances at my leg, a well of questions perched on his lips, but he quickly looks away. “Abby has the fastest recorded time on the high course.”
“I bet.” I follow as he starts up the trail. “She’s a cool kid.”
“The coolest.”
At least we agree on something.
Houdini hangs close, frantically herding us as we climb the Poppy Ridge Trail. It’s one of the longer hikes, and Caleb takes several detours, checking out the trees and shrubbery and making notes on a clipboard while I hang back.
“Come here.” Caleb crouches beside a pine and presses against the bark with his thumb. Houdini is at his heels, sniffing around the trunk.
My feet crunch along the pine needles, and I avoid a patch of poison oak as I make my way over.
Caleb snaps a few photos with his phone before shoving it in his pocket. “This tree is showing signs of a bark beetle attack, but it looks to be fending it off.”
I guess Caleb isn’t a fan of context, but I play along. “How can you tell?”
“See these globs of white sap?” I nod. “That’s the tree’s defense. If the sap was brown or red, I’d know the beetles had gotten in.”
“And this has something to do with why I’m here?” I ask.
He spares me a glance as he stands. Houdini lifts his leg against the side of the tree.
“Last year, bark beetles killed a whole batch of trees, weak from drought. It cost a fortune to remove them. Dead trees are kindling during fire season. And climate change makes all of these issues worse, so managing these lands is gonna get even more expensive.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond while he swerves around a few stumps to check out another ancient ponderosa.
“And this is what you need money for?” I ask.
“For starters. We also need a fire station and the main road repaired. We’ve been sitting ducks in case of emergency since that landslide.”
“Isn’t that a state or county responsibility?” I ask as I pat Houdini’s head. His ears are folded back like he’s scared of something.
Caleb is focused on a tree, scribbling notes on his clipboard after noticing subtle marks and blemishes.
“Yeah, but I gotta put pressure on them to do their jobs. CAL FIRE and FEMA give grants for fire prevention and disaster preparedness. And the camp is a nonprofit, so we can apply for some. The town can as well, but the council is all volunteer, and I’m the only one who knows how to work a computer. ”
“Ah,” I say. “That’s where I come in.” I scramble to keep up with him as he veers back to the trail. “You know, I’m not technically a grant writer.”