24. Present
Chapter twenty-four
Present
Brett’s unusually quiet, too, which makes me feel out of sorts.
For Diana, the behavior is off-putting, but at least it makes sense.
But Brett is only six years old. In my mind, that’s too young to be so quiet.
If this is their way of coping as a family, then it’s not my place to judge.
Instead, I keep busy, washing dishes, refreshing my cup of coffee, and folding the blankets I used on the couch the night before.
I stayed up well into the night trying to think of a plan to make the day special and fun for Brett, a genuine distraction from the disturbing reality of her father’s situation.
Around midnight, I finally settled in on a plan I thought would suffice.
I was proud of it, actually. The key to executing a successful hooky day for Brett would be to take her mind off her dad’s condition.
I came up with something I knew would be exciting for Brett, but it would absolutely remind her of Matt, which was why it was a little bit risky.
“You ready, kiddo?” I ask.
Brett looks up, snapping out of a fog. “Sure,” she responds. “Where are we going?”
“Well, it’s a hooky day, right?”
Brett nods.
“So, it’s got to be something special.” I wink. Brett’s rosebud lips turn up into a smile.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Diana promises me. We hug. “And you, little miss,” she says to Brett. “You be a good girl for Taylor, okay?”
Brett nods, folding into the woman’s arms, both of them searching for comfort in the gesture.
“Okay, kiddo, grab your jacket,” I instruct.
We climb in the car, where the stereo promptly comes alive as soon as I start the ignition.
I leave the music on, allowing us to drown out any potential silence.
We groove for miles to pop songs that Brett appears to like or, at the very least, knows the words to.
Because Brett is always cognizant of her surroundings, I intentionally take a different route out east, choosing a parkway about 10 miles south of the Long Island Expressway and driving the back roads up toward Sound Hollow.
I turn into a small, residential beach community called Bluff Oaks and drive down their private, main drag past several narrow side streets, littered with bungalow houses.
I only know about this community because Lisa’s family’s summer house was somewhere among these tangled, winding lanes.
Everyone knows that Dottie D’Angelo was raised on a farm out here, before the land was parceled out and sold to developers, most of whom turned them into summer communities like Bluff Oaks.
At the second to last cross street, once the beach is in full view, I make a left turn and park the car in front of a random, minty-green beach cottage.
It’s a risk, leaving my car here like this, but given that it’s April and there’s nobody around, it’s unlikely that the police will be out and about ticketing trespassers.
“Where are we?” Brett asks.
“The beach. I thought we could go walking,” I reply.
I grab my backpack, which contains an extra sweatshirt for Brett, two large bottles of water and plenty of snacks to keep us satiated.
The initial walk measures a mile and three quarters, which I’m concerned might be too much for Brett’s little legs, but it only gets worse from there, so I opt not to think about it.
We’ll just take it slow. We’ve got all day and nowhere else to be.
We stroll down the hill to an entrance to the private beach. A large sign reads “Bluff Oaks – Private Property.” Brett sounds out the bigger words. “Are we allowed here?”
“Of course, honey. Come on. It’s going to be fun. This beach is very special.”
“Special how?”
“Well, come follow me.” I lead Brett down to the water.
Sand kicks up into our sneakers until we get to the rocks.
It takes me a minute, but finally I catch a glimmer of Budweiser brown.
It’s a rich, clear woodsy color. I reach down and rescue the piece of beach glass before a wave comes to wash it away. I hand it to Brett.
“What’s this?” she asks, turning the treasure over in her palm.
“It’s beach glass. People throw old glass bottles into the sea where they get broken and trashed.
The waves and the current smash them against the rocks, and eventually they shatter into little pieces.
” I bend down and find another, smaller piece the color of fresh sod.
I hold it up for Brett to see. “But the pieces live in the Sound, turning and tumbling over the rocks until eventually their edges get smooth and their flat sides get cloudy.”
“They’re beautiful,” Brett says, quietly.
“I’ve been collecting beach glass on this stretch of shoreline since I was your age.”
“Is this still Long Island?” Brett asks.
“Sure is.” I grin. “We’re at camp.”
“Wait. But we didn’t come through the gate.”
“You’re right. Technically, that over there,” I point east, down the shore, “is our camp beach. Right now, we’re at Bluff Oaks, which is right next door.”
“So, will we get to see it?”
“Well, I had an idea. I think we might be able to get in there by coming up through the beach. It’s going to be a lot of walking, though.” I watch with appreciation as Brett’s eyes smile behind her purple frames. “Are you up for it?”
“Yes!” Brett shrieks. “So cool!” She jumps on me, filling my soul with an exuberant squeeze.
We begin our walk. As we get closer to the beach stairs on what used to be girls’ side, I point them out so Brett has a landmark, a goal to reach along the endless coastline.
By the time we arrive at the steps, our pockets are stuffed with beach glass, the hunting of which slows down the speed of our walk immensely but also makes it far less strenuous on our legs.
Climbing the beach stairs will be another thing, though.
“Be warned,” I say. “There are a lot of stairs. But it’s really cool up there. The view can’t be beat. Are you scared of heights?” I wonder aloud.
“I don’t think so,” Brett replies.
“Okay, well the first two flights are more than fifty steps combined. That’s like climbing to the fourth story of a building. Come, I’ll show you. You go first,” I encourage her.
When we get to the first landing, the beach looks like a postcard.
Brett is astounded. We sit on the bench for a moment, resting our legs, and I take out my phone.
“Selfie?” I ask. Brett squeezes in close and smiles brightly.
The photo catches the expansive vista of blue-green water below, our oversized faces crowding the foreground.
The next set of steps lead us right into the forest that grows along the bluff’s edge.
Deep and dark from the shade of abundant treetops above, the stairway feels narrower than I remember.
Brett can’t believe her eyes, evidenced by her occasional gasps and mumbles of whoa and wow.
We stop a few more times on the way up, allowing Brett to rest her legs and ask questions.
When we pass a giant rock on one side, Brett stops to ponder it.
The rock has a pair of handprints on it in very old, faded red paint.
It’s also covered in bits of something Brett can’t make out.
“Gum,” I explain.
“Ew. Why?”
“That’s the Spit Rock.”
“The Spit Rock?”
“Yup. It’s camp legend. You have to spit on the rock when you pass it. A lot of kids used to stick their gum to it instead. It’s pretty gross.”
“Why would you do that?” Brett asks.
“It’s tradition,” I answer. I suck together some saliva and spit it onto the rock. Brett looks at me like I’m crazy. “Give it a try.” I smile.
The little girl pulls the top half of her torso back and lurches forward, launching a messy spray of spit onto the giant boulder. She almost misses, but the saliva catches the bottom of the rock. Brett giggles at the ridiculousness of it all.
We continue up the steps, stopping when I spot a deer in the distance.
When it gets spooked, three others that we hadn’t even noticed jump along with it, leaping gracefully through the thicket to safety.
Some of the wood planks are in need of replacement, and I point these out to Brett so that none of them give way under the weight of her body.
Once at the top, we stop for a drink of water.
I can’t believe we’re standing here, less than 100 feet away from the cliff in one direction and Green Pines, the cabin I lived in for a spell that summer almost seven years ago when Matt and I rekindled our relationship.
The beach grass grows wild, the long weeds promising we'll need a tick check later. I begin a narrated tour of every structure that remains standing on girls’ side.
I point out the Health Office, the washhouse, the giant Dining Lodge, and my heart breaks at the years' worth of pine needles that cover the roofs of every cabin, making them sag in disrepair.
I remember the sorrow I felt when I came back seven years ago and noticed the place was worse for the wear, and now—well, nothing has changed except for the addition of seven more years of rot and decay.
But I focus on the positive memories as we walk, recalling with glee the end of each encampment’s bonfire as we pass the girls’ Council Fire ring, remembering the songs we’d sing while marching down the road that led to boys’ side, showing Brett sassafras leaves and how if you suck on the stem, it kind of tastes like root beer.
We snap more selfies, eat barbecue Pringles and make our way over to the farm.
I expect animals to still be there, but they’re so long gone that even the air is empty of the old, familiar stench.
I show Brett where the crops used to grow, point to the exact spot where her dad and I first picked string beans together.
The barren space surrounding me is alive only in the recesses of my brain, a harsh reminder that we all moved on, even the pigs and goats and chickens; we all left this special, incredible respite behind.
How could that be? I wonder. I note the harsh irony of it, the way Matt’s skin has thinned, the crow’s feet that frame his eyes when he smiles now, the stubble on his jawline that hold the first bits of gray and white among the brown.
Like Matt, Sound Hollow has become a shell of its former glory. I grow quiet.
“Are you sad?” Brett’s curious, tiny voice asks.
I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re allowed to be sad. I get sad, too.”
“I’m sure you do, honey.”
“You know what helps me?”
“What’s that?”
“I sing a song that Daddy used to sing to me when I was little. It makes me feel less lonely. Want me to sing it to you?”
I smile, though my eyes are swollen with tears. “Sure. I’d like that.”
Then, as clear as a church bell, Brett emits the most melodious sound from her mouth.
With eyes closed, the words drift into the vast emptiness, flashing me back to every Candle Lighting ceremony of my youth.
I can feel the arms of friends wrapped around my then-childhood waist as campers and staff created a human chain, swaying back and forth to what was always a featured song in the sing-along on the last night of camp every summer.
Brett puts her arm around me as she sings.
Her father must have taught her this. Pitch perfect, Brett croons the timeless chorus to James Taylor’s "You’ve Got a Friend.
" I smell the little girl’s strawberry-scented hair, indulging in a rare moment of heartbreak over the man who left an indelible mark on me, and whose beautiful soul dwells in the small but powerful voice of his precious child.
I only let the hedonistic memory last a moment, afraid I’ll scare Brett or ruin our otherwise amazing adventure. At the conclusion of the chorus, I wipe an errant tear with the heel of my hand, sniffle, and give Brett a hug. “Thank you, sweetheart. You sing like an angel.”
At this, Brett smiles.
“Come on. We’re almost done with our tour. How are your legs holding up?”
“Good,” Brett replies. We take another swig of water and continue towards the boys’ rec field, past the old camp office, and finally, toward the boys’ Lodge.
The cedar chips crunch beneath my feet. I’m caught up in the memory of returning to camp after all those years when I’m surprised to find a light coming from the kitchen. I peer at it as we draw closer.
The air changes. The musty scent of old dirt and pine blends with familiar undertones of vanilla and cinnamon. Cake?
We approach the side door of the Lodge, which leads directly into the kitchen.
I place my ear to it and hear the faint sound of crackling music, as if from an old, staticky radio.
Anywhere else, I’d be more keenly aware of my indiscretion as a trespasser, but not here.
Instead, I gently push the door open only to be engulfed by the unmistakable smell of Opening Day cake.
I step into the kitchen, Brett on my tail.
Sure enough, there stoops the culprit, checking on her creation in front of the commercial oven door, clad in a pair of khaki pants, orthopedic shoes, oversized oven mitts, and an old Sound Hollow sweatshirt covered by a dirty apron.
From the radio, the Beach Boys serenade the old woman with the words to "California Girls," to which she hums along, foot tapping, unaware of her intruders.
I wait until she closes the oven door.
“Dottie?” I ask. “Is that you?”
The old woman jumps, startled by the unexpected company. The look on her face conveys the surprise of someone who has been caught like a child stealing from the cookie jar.
The surprise of the moment renders all of us speechless. All I can hear is the harmony of the Beach Boys. I don’t hear the sound of the woman’s tiny gasp or the buzzing of my cell phone in the small pocket of my backpack.
Later, I’d find it. Missed call. Matt.