29. 7 Years Ago
Chapter twenty-nine
The weeks that followed moved slowly, thick with the cloud of Leyla’s unmade decision hanging over me and Matt.
This was unlike what I was used to at camp, where typically everything rushed by in a blur.
We kept the same schedule, the same routines as before, and I desperately tried to ignore the elephant in the room every time Matt and I were alone.
But reminders were everywhere: in the Pampers commercial that showed up on television while we watched old sitcoms on TBS, in the incessant chatter about the baby pigs that had just been born at the farm, and especially in the bedroom.
Every time we were about to be intimate, one—or sometimes both—of us grew overwhelmed by the reality that everything could change in a heartbeat.
We clung to each other in those moments with heightened desperation, almost reminiscent of the way we used to hold on so fervently to each summer night when we were younger.
Nothing lasts forever, the voice in my head reminded me.
I worked hard to push it aside. Matt tried to fix the awkwardness by talking about the future, but the uncertainty was too glaring to ignore.
Every night, we slept together in a bed with a Leyla-sized shadow lurking between us.
On my early morning walks home, I tried to clear my mind by thinking about my own future.
Camp would be ending in just two weeks, and there would be a few days after for camp clean-up.
Then everything would shut down, except for the Lodge and the Gate House.
I had spent the summer coasting, intentionally not thinking about my next steps, but now I began to wonder if maybe that had been a mistake.
The assistant camp director position was seasonal, so I would be out of a job soon.
Could I realistically stay at Sound Hollow and live with Matt long term?
Where would I work? The summer had helped me realize that I loved working with kids, especially the ones who lived with the incessant challenges of circumstances beyond their control.
I had a heart for the Mackenzies of the world.
Kids like that reminded me of myself, and it felt good to be able to create even the tiniest bit of positive change for them.
In those early mornings, and sometimes late at night, after Matt had fallen asleep, I began looking for jobs in the area that involved working with children.
I didn’t want to be a teacher; I technically wasn’t qualified to be one, anyway.
There wasn’t much out there, and the jobs I found interesting were all the way in the city.
Manhattan would be at least a two-hour commute from Sound Hollow, and it wasn’t something I (or my car) would be able to handle for long.
Occasionally, I’d stumble across a promising want ad in the outer boroughs, or in Nassau County, still on Long Island but over an hour away.
I considered these positions and filled out a few applications on the computer in Pat’s office during rest hour, just to keep some irons in the fire.
I knew Pat was retiring, but his job wouldn’t become officially available until January, and I couldn’t sit around doing nothing for the entire fall.
Plus, I didn’t know if I was ready to be in charge of an entire camp, or if I would get the job even if I did apply.
There was a lot to think about, and I felt woefully unprepared for it all.
Matt, on the other hand, was full of plans—or ideas for plans.
He sketched out lists, trying to figure out ways he could afford to support a child if Leyla decided to keep the baby, coming up with side jobs he could take on if he needed more money.
He wanted to “do the right thing,” he kept insisting, but I noticed that his plans never included the idea of being a father to the baby.
I didn’t say anything about that, since the entire situation was still hypothetical. Leyla would be back in touch with Matt once she made her decision, and anything he came up with at this point was merely speculation. There was nothing we could do but wait.
Meanwhile, camp went on, and as it neared an end, a palpable feeling of panic filled the air.
Campers and staff alike could feel it, and I remembered that it was always like this when I was a kid, too.
Nobody wanted to say goodbye. Evening activities (especially co-eds) lasted a little longer than they were supposed to, summer couples holding on to each other with silent melancholy under the bright lights of the rec field while slow pop songs played over the speakers.
After the seventh week ended, the combination of anxiety and denial led to more behavioral issues than I was used to, largely made up of boys sneaking over to girls’ side in the middle of the night or underage counselors drinking too much and getting caught.
Nobody wanted to face the fall; the idea of going back to school or real life and leaving Sound Hollow behind was enough to break even the toughest hearts.
The final night of the last week of camp was an age-old ceremony called Candle Lighting.
Council Fire, which was typically the last evening activity of the week, consisted of a huge bonfire with songs and traditions honoring camper achievements.
During the last week of camp, it was held the night before, making room on the calendar for Candle Lighting.
Situated in the archery pit, Candle Lighting was the most solemn night of the summer, as it incarnated eight weeks’ worth of memories via live performances, group singing, a slide show of photographs, and a symbolic lighting of candles in the shape of a giant S-H.
Each attendee received a taper candle in a lined paper cup that would catch the wax, and at the end of the ceremony, the final candle in the S-H was used to light a candle in the crowd.
Then, with the slideshow playing in the background, each camper, counselor, and staff member received the light of a candle from their neighbor to the left, and silently passed on the light to their neighbor on the right, until the entire pit was filled with lit candles.
I remembered the ceremony from my youth.
I was always awestruck and nostalgic after it ended, as children were escorted by their counselors back to their cabins for the last time.
I knew this summer would be no different, and yet it would be a million times harder.
Pat needed me to help emcee the event, simply because he couldn’t stand up for the whole two hours.
Throughout the eighth week, I worked tirelessly on the slideshow, trying to make sure every child who would be in attendance was in at least one of the pictures.
I planned the playlist with help from Matt and some of the counselors.
It had to be perfect, a manifestation of this incredible summer that, for better or worse, had changed my life.
Matt drove the tractor down into the pit with the wagon we used as a makeshift stage early in the afternoon that last Sunday in August. I arranged the larger candles, which had a burn time of eight hours, into the ground in front of the wagon.
Matt set up the tech stuff: the laptop with the slideshow, the big screen that was used for all-camp movie nights, and the projector, and we ran a sound check on the microphones.
It was almost five o’clock when we finished setting up. I needed to head back to my cabin and take a shower before dinner, as the late August sun and all the running around resulted in what felt like buckets of sweat pouring off me.
Because of that, I wasn’t there when Matt got the phone call.
In retrospect, it was probably for the best, as I was pumping with adrenaline and it would only have served to derail me. Besides, Candle Lighting was sacred. Matt wouldn’t have wanted to ruin it for me.
After dinner, the kids filed quietly into the archery pit by cabin, walking to the song "You’ve Got a Friend" by James Taylor.
The sun was already setting as if it was autumn; only a few more minutes and the sky would darken.
Everyone took their seats on the hill, some sitting on towels or blankets, others on sweatshirts, and some content to feel the grass under their legs.
Matt was stationed all the way at the top of the hill, next to the projector, on a folding chair under an old oak tree.
The music quieted, and Pat spoke first.
“Tonight, we gather to honor and appreciate the light of Sound Hollow. Our challenge is to hold this light in our hearts and shine it on others the whole year through. I would like to kick off the night by sharing a story with you.
“I met Taylor Roberts when she was only six years old. She was a scrappy little thing, with tangled brown hair and a bunch of teeth missing. Still just a baby, she missed her parents horribly. They couldn’t make it on Visitors Sunday, and the poor girl was a wreck.
“I was a young man back then. Well, maybe not young.” The crowd chuckled.
“But certainly a lot younger than I am now. I didn’t know what to do, or how to help her.
But I knew one thing: she needed a family that day, and I could offer her one.
So, I did what any dad would do. I gave her a job, working the grill with me.
It helped a little, but it didn’t take the sting out of the hurt she was going through. ”
He cleared his throat. “See, that’s the thing.
Family isn’t built in just a day. Or even a week.
It comes from the repetition of year after year, summer after summer, memory after memory.
Taylor Roberts came back to camp for another eleven years after that summer.
And then, just like in a real family, she went away for a little bit.
“Earlier this year, I was surprised when she applied for the job of assistant camp director. Pleasantly surprised, mind you. I couldn’t believe how old I was, or that she was old enough to even do that job.
But as soon as I got the application, I knew I would hire her.
She’s family. Sound Hollow is her home. I knew nobody would care more than Taylor about making this summer special for you. ”
I wiped a tear from my cheek, my heart pounding as I listened.
“And now, after a million years of being in charge, I’ll be stepping away from this place that I have loved with my whole heart since I was a young man.
You might see me back here in the future, stopping by to say hi, leading the occasional song in the Lodge.
But there are people in this family who will make sure that when you come back next year, you’re coming home.
“So,” he continued, lighting a long, white candle, “tonight, I light this first candle for Taylor. Thank you for everything you’ve done to make this summer incredible.”
Pat used his candle to light the first candle of the S. Then I walked up to him and warmly welcomed his massive bear hug. He passed me his candle and took a seat on a nearby folding chair.
The butterflies in my stomach suddenly gone, I stood in front of the microphone and began the rest of the ceremony.
I thanked each cabin, citing some of their funniest or most touching moments of the summer, as the counselors were called up to light the candles in the S-H.
I called up four eight-weekers, including Mackenzie Brooks, to read thoughts or poems that they had written down to commemorate the summer.
Mackenzie read an excerpt from my favorite book, The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein, and thanked me for being like the tree, always willing to give just a little bit more.
After the letters in the pit were all lit, the slideshow began and its soundtrack filled the air as I lit the first candle in the crowd.
I watched silently as the flame was passed from one person to the next.
I couldn’t remember ever witnessing a sight so beautiful, an evening so magical.
I was shrouded in love. As the light spread across the pit, I vowed to hold it in my heart and not let any cruel circumstance of the universe steal it from me.
I’d spent far too many years in the darkness. The light was long overdue.
Pat closed the ceremony when all the candles had been lit. He ended with the traditional "Bless This Camp" and Taps, and then said, “We’ll see you next summer,” just like he had at every Candle Lighting service for as long as I could remember.
The campers were led out of the pit, and once they were gone, I extinguished all the candles in the ground.
I told Pat I could clean up by myself, that he should feel free to go grab a snack in the Lodge, or get some rest if he needed to.
He welcomed the reprieve, thanking me and shaking hands with Matt as he climbed up the hill and walked slowly out of sight.
Matt came down to help me with the cleanup. I was in the middle of plucking half-burnt candles out of the ground when he approached me.
“You did an amazing job, Roberts. It was beautiful.”
I looked up at him from the ground. He reached out his hand and helped me up. Then, he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed like he was holding on for dear life. When I pulled back, we locked eyes.
And I knew.