by Kim Turrisi
“This is your cabin,” Alison tells us.
You know when you’re about to drop what the fuck but your inner ten-second rule takes over? That’s happening right now as I assess my new home. “Stay positive,” I mutter to myself. I traipse up the weathered wooden steps. An etched sign to the right of the doorway says CABIN 2.
Jesus Christ.
Reminders everywhere, even at grief camp. I thrust my elbow out, jabbing my mother, who sees the number two and knows, like I do, that it’s Jen’s old apartment number. No words needed. She nudges me gently forward through the entry. Since I’ve never shared a room in my entire life or ever gone camping, the sparse accommodations are a stunner. Two twin beds flush against tan walls with plain pine nightstands between them. So monochromatic and slight. To make matters worse, the mattress is covered in plastic.
“Worried we’ll wet the bed?” I ask, attempting a touch of levity in this impossible situation.
Alison doesn’t miss a beat, leading me to believe I’m not the first camper to note this. “It’s a law. Keeps bedbugs away.”
Now that thought will stay with me for the next twenty-nine nights.
Matching pine dressers on one side of the room, industrial desks on the other, with a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs slid under them. Distressed-wood floors covered in a paisley rug that’s tattered on the outer edges. A miniature tweed couch that has certainly seen better days. This place could pass for juvie. Dad hauls in my duffel bags and sets them down in the middle of the room.
“If you need anything while you’re getting settled in, my cell number is on this sheet,” Alison says, handing my mom a detailed map of the grounds. “Make yourself at home. See you in the main house at three.”
And then we’re alone.
I check out the hovel. “It’s so cramped.” These new living quarters of mine could fit into our family room with plenty of space to spare.
“You probably won’t spend a lot of time in here,” Dad says, like he meant to say, shouldn’t spend a lot of time in here.
“Which bed do you want?” Mom starts unpacking the sheets. Right. Get on with it. Power through.
“The one under the window,” I say, kicking into action with her. “At least there’s a view.” We both semi-laugh, seeking any relief from the tension that’s flooding this place. I mean, there’s nothing out there but a stack of wooden produce boxes, some random hoses and a couple of trails in the dirt.
She tosses the fitted bottom sheet in my direction so that we can start to make the bed. We had to buy twin-size color-block sheets at Bed, Bath and Beyond since I haven’t had a bed this small in forever. It’s like a miniature candy bar, you get just enough but not really. At our house, we graduate bed sizes every five years or so. I hijacked Jen’s king-size when she went off to college.
Another reminder.
When we get to the top sheet, Mom takes over, spreading it evenly across the bed, tucking the end of the sheet between the mattress and noisy box spring. I watch as she makes her way to the top of the bed, adjusting the sheet, yanking it taut. She folds the corners at the foot of the bed with military precision. I can’t believe what I’m witnessing, and neither can my dad, who’s pretending not to watch. You could bounce a quarter off that sucker. She hasn’t made my bed in years but she’s making sure this bed is perfect.
“You know it’s never going to look like that again, right?” I tease.
I begin to unpack my things.
I reach into the bottom of the linens duffel and tug on the chocolate throw. I set it at the foot of the bed, doubling it up on top of my sheets. Mom dots her eyes with a Kleenex. She’s been keeping them in every pocket since Jen died.
“I’m glad you brought that with you. Jen loved it,” she comments as I bunch it up just right.
Digging into Jen’s backpack, I notice the few stashed Xanax that my parents didn’t find. Wisely, I hid them in a zippered pocket while I was packing. No way I could deal with this without a bit of synthetic assistance. I unearth Hershel and am transported back to dropping Jen off at the Miami International Airport when she went to Europe. She had this same bag slung over her shoulder, ready to tackle the world. I start to slide out a few of the postcards that weren’t lost in the whole I’m-ripping-my-room-to-shreds episode. I can’t help but smile when I see one with my favorite book cover on it: Charlotte’s Web. The first time Jen read me the book I was so upset that Charlotte died, she held me for hours until I fell asleep.
I can’t bear to turn it over. Seeing her handwriting now is just too raw.
I get Hershel situated, then carefully take out Jen’s shirt and unwrap the family photo I packed. I didn’t smash this one, thank God or whoever. It’s in the seashell picture frame I made with Jen’s help. Seeing what I have, Dad grabs Mom’s hand. I display the photo on the bare pine table next to my bed, where I can see it every morning when I wake up. Fluffing Jen’s shirt, I toss it across the headboard for now.
“That was a great trip, wasn’t it?” Dad asks, trying to make conversation.
“It really was,” I whisper. “We’re never going to be able to do that again.”
“We’ll make new memories, I promise,” he says, almost mumbling.
“Kai, come sit down, I have something for you,” Mom says.
She reaches inside her purse and ferrets out a shiny red-and-green-covered package. Santa and Rudolph in June? WTF?
Mom blinks. “When we went through Jen’s closet, we found Christmas presents for each of us.”
Blindside. “She really thought of everything, didn’t she?”
“Your dad and I thought this might be the place for you to open it whenever you’re ready.”
“Did you guys open yours?” Not that it makes any difference.
“Not yet.”
“I can’t do this right now.” I sigh, cramming the gift inside the backpack, under my books, iPad, journal and candy.
Lots of candy.
Mom and I start puttering around the room, mindlessly unloading the rest of my things. Clothes. Books. Shoes.
When I throw my duffel on the worn couch, I spot one of those crocheted quotes hanging on the bare vanilla wall. Crochet on the walls? That’s something Nana would have. I start to roll my eyes but then I read the words.
Only when it’s dark enough, you can see the stars.
It can’t get much darker. I’ve never needed to see the light of a star so badly.
Ever.
* * *
Tucked between my parents, listening to the ground rules, I check my phone every few minutes for status updates. I need a lifeline from home right now.
“Breakfast starts at seven thirty, your group therapy is at nine,” I hear. Oh, God. Group therapy. It’s really happening. There aren’t enough pictures on Instagram to make that better.
“Lunch is at noon. Dinner at six. Lights out at eleven. Your afternoons will be up to your counselors. Your packets include a map of hiking trails and a list of emergency contacts,” announces Alison, who’s up on a small stage with a microphone and a clipboard.
With the obligatory welcome and orientation nearing a close, anxiety spreads over my body like poison ivy.
“Families, if you have any more questions, the counselors will be available out front to assist you,” Alison continues. “Kids, once you’ve said your goodbyes, we’ll get together in the recreation hall next door so you can meet your groups.” According to my welcome packet, my therapy group consists of four other teenagers — three guys and the girl who is supposed to be my bunk mate. I will be oversharing my deepest feelings with this group of strangers?
No, thanks.
Then I remember: Crap, I made a promise to make an effort. I’m stuck with all this camp BS for a whole month. It stretches ahead of me like a century. Perhaps there will be s’mores.
All the families, including mine, make a mass exodus to their cars for a final farewell. My mom steers clear of eye contact, trembling as she marches.
“Please don’t leave me here. I can’t talk about her with strangers. They didn’t know her,” I plead.
The crease between my dad’s eyes deepens, and he grabs the collar of his shirt. I can sense his emotions are ripping through him but at least he answers me. “Kai, your mom and I don’t want you ever to leave our sight. But we can’t give you the kind of help you need right now. These people are experts. I can’t tell you how much I wish it could be us helping you through this.”
I run into his arms like I used to do before work took over his life and Jen’s dying took over mine. I allow my father to really comfort me for the first time since the day Jen died. When we break apart, he brushes the drops from his cheek, then wipes away mine with his big Daddy-size thumb.
“Trust me on this. She loved you more than her own life. She wants you to be okay.”
His argument is solid — arguing is what he does for a living. Still, how does he really know? “Her exact words to me in my letter,” he reveals.
“I promise to try,” I manage to say.
Watching Dad’s Mercedes creep down the roadway, getting smaller and smaller until it disappears, I brace myself for the unfamiliar. I am filled with dread.
Chapter 12
Any other day, I’d be at least a few vodka shots plus a Vicodin or two into it. Not today. I have some time to kill before I greet my strangers at the assembly. I’m sprawled on my bed, staring at the knotty wood ceiling, thinking about the last few weeks of hazy hell. This must be what rock bottom looks like.
I thumb the Favorites on my phone and tap the second name. Jen’s is first and I’m not deleting it. Not even two rings and I see a face so elated that it instantly assuages my fear. TJ’s mug fills my Facetime screen.
“I’m so happy to see you,” he says.
“I’m happier than you, trust me. Look at this place.” I wave the phone around the room for a panoramic view.
“It’s not that bad. I know it’ll suck at first, but then it won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because that’s the way things go.” He’s quiet for a minute. “If Em and I could have helped you, we would have. We did as much as we could.”
“Like telling my parents on me?” I take a little cheap shot.
“I have no regrets. I thought we were past this. The three of us are a team. You would’ve done the same thing if it was one of us. You’re going to be surrounded by kids who are going through the exact same thing as you.”
I do know why he turned me in.
“You know I’m not a big sharer.” I plead my case.
“Get out of your comfort zone,” he chides.
“So not easy for me and you know it.”
He softens, his puppy-dog eyes reaching out to me. “I have faith in you.”
“Love you, TJ.” It’s all I’ve got at the moment.
“Same.”
The next thing I see is his lips kissing the phone screen. He’s a dork but he’s my dork.
“Time to go to meet my group.” I am terrified.
“Be open. Text whenever you can.”
* * *
Left foot.
Right foot.
With much hesitation, I thrust open the pea-green double doors of the log cabin rec room, desperation hanging in the air like cheap perfume. Pool tables, a Ping-Pong table and vending machines decorate the otherwise ordinary space. The tan-ish walls are covered with pictures of campers who’ve come before me. One for every year, like in the yearbook. And they’re smiling. How is that even possible? I comb the cavernous recreation room for Group Five, grateful it isn’t Group Two. According to the numbered tables, there are six groups. Some of them are long cafeteria tables designed to fit more kids. Others are round with five or so plastic off-white chairs. Looks like there’s about fifty of us altogether. Different ages, different sizes, different colors. One common denominator.
A chipped sign with a bright white 5 in the center peeks out from behind a post in the far back corner. The other strangers in my group are already parked there in dead silence. The first one to catch my eye is a rosy-cheeked girl wearing an embroidered dress and Toms shoes, nervously twirling her spiky jet-black hair. She’s the lone girl, so I’m thinking she must be my roommate. The Toms tell me she’s got a social conscience, so how bad can she be? The grungy-looking guy to her left, wearing ripped jeans and an attitude for days, with longish dark black hair peeking out from under his beanie, has his arms crossed, avoiding eye contact with the others. Not so sure about him. His feet are propped up on the chair next to him, the red shoelaces of his work boots untied. He looks more apathetic than me.
Next to beanie guy, a younger, sweet-faced kid with flaxen hair and freckles, wearing some kind of silver necklace, has his knees tucked up to his chin. His white Vans knockoffs have seen better days.
Like all the people who are stuck here.
Across the room, I spot quite possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on and he’s headed my way. His chiseled face and athletic build lead me to peg him as a jock. I know I’m stereotyping but I’m okay with that. I can use the distraction. Eye candy at grief camp? “Sorry I’m a little late. My mom had a hard time leaving me,” he announces. How is he so loose and chipper?
Beanie boy throws him a look of disgust, then goes back to staring at his bootlaces. As I approach the table, I catch the eye of an older, olive-skinned guy with a buzz cut just about to sit down. He’s wearing surfer shorts and a Tree House T-shirt, carrying a stack of books.
“Hey. Group Five?” he asks. I nod as I slide out a chair and plop onto it. The only thing on the table is a plastic cup filled with pens. I have a bad feeling about that. He sets the books down next to him.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Marco Esposito, your grief counselor. I’ll be leading your group for your duration here. Today will be quick, informal, break the ice a little. Get to know one another before we officially kick off group therapy tomorrow. Did you all bring the stuff on the list we sent?”
We all grumble yes.
When my parents dropped that bomb on me, I lost it. They didn’t care. So I gathered up pictures of Jen and all the other items required for my stay here.
“We’ll use them for some of the exercises you’ll be doing over the next few weeks.”
What was not on the list was that fact, though maybe I should have guessed. Show-and-tell at grief camp.
“So ... why don’t we go around the table? Tell us your name and something about yourself.”
No one steps up to the plate. There’s a lot of looking up, down and sideways. Marco takes the hint and the lead.
“I’ll start. I’m twenty-two. I just graduated from UCLA with an International Business degree. The first time I came here, I was thirteen. My mom was diagnosed with end-stage breast cancer when I was twelve. When she died, my dad left. He couldn’t handle having kids without a mother to do all the work. My older brother, Hector, who pretty much raised me, brought me here. It saved my life,” he shares, with an emphasis on the last four words.
I most definitely do not want to follow that. Too bad; he turns to me and throws me a wink. I get it: my turn.
“Kai Sheehan. I’m sixteen. I have a four-year-old golden retriever named Duke. I miss him already.” I twist the sleeve of my Rolling Stones T-shirt nervously, hoping my voice isn’t shaky. That’s all I’m offering up.
I pivot toward the freckled-faced younger kid who has been nonstop quiet-crying since we all sat down. He’s slight and so frail looking. His camo utility shorts are baggy, not in a trendy way, and his hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in days.
He stumbles through. “Ben Ellis. My mom and dad were killed in a car accident. My
little brother is in a coma.” Teardrops roll down his face, and we all kind of look away, not wanting to embarrass him.
And this isn’t even “group” group. I’m never going to last here.
My roommate is up next, fiddling with her hair as she talks. “Hi. I’m Cass Salisbury, I write songs and sing in a band.” Her body is birdlike but her mouth is full, her cheeks as rosy as Braeburn apples. The jet-black shiny hair helps with the rocker image. That and she’s really pretty without a stitch of makeup other than ruby-red lipstick.
“That’s way cool.” That slips right out of my mouth and Cass half smiles. Beanie guy flips me the death stare. Mr. Hot Guy steps up.
“Jack Sumner. I play football for my high school. That’s about it.” I knew it. The cuts on his biceps and the way he fills out his New York Yankees gray-and-blue T-shirt support the football stuff, but his suave demeanor … there’s more to this guy than that’s about it. I catch him swinging his foot from side to side. More nervous than he likes to admit, I think.
Mr. Apathy yanks his purple-and-gray Neff beanie down to just above the top of his bushy eyebrows. A few pieces of his dark hair sneak over the collar of his loose-fitting V-neck navy striped shirt. A total rebel. Looking up at us, his fiery blue eyes catch me off guard. “Graham Nelson. I don’t want to be here.” I sympathize with him, but that is kind of rude considering the rest of us played along.
Marco jumps in to ease the tension. “It’s okay, Graham, I understand. I didn’t want to be here on my first day either. It’ll get easier.”
