Will I get used to this quiet once my kids are gone? Could I be happy alone if David and I are unable to iron out our differences?
“Boo!”
I scream. Liz stands and begins chopping at the air like a crazed jujitsu fighter.
Rachel is standing in front of us, holding an overnight bag and a sack of groceries.
“Psych!” she says.
“You scared us!” I say. “Where did you go?”
“For a drive,” she says. “I needed time to think.”
“We thought you were gone,” Liz says. “For good.”
“Still undecided,” she says. “Let me be blunt.”
“As usual,” I say.
“I don’t want to do that right now,” Rach says. “I don’t want to yell at both of you and get angry for what you did to me.”
“I could say the same thing to you,” Liz says.
“What is going on?” I ask.
“Can I finish?” Rachel says. “Please.”
We look at one another, nodding.
“I just feel like I need to take a moment in my life to honor Em. I think I need to take a moment to assess my life. Just a moment to slow down. I don’t ever do that. I’m sure neither of you do either. But what does it say about us as people—much less friends—if we can’t stay a night in a place that meant so much to our best friend? She deserves that.”
Rachel looks at me. Out of nowhere, she smiles.
“I got lost, too,” she says.
I stare at her, waiting for her to expound, but she doesn’t. I don’t know if she’s saying that literally or figuratively. All I know is she’s back. For a night. I smile back at her.
My mind races, and my heart follows suit. I don’t even know if we’re up for a night together, but I’m bone-tired, and I need a hot minute to stop and assess, too.
And honor our friend.
We still might leave and never speak again, but, for one night at least, we’re together.
And that just feels right, doesn’t it, Em?
“Oh, and I brought dinner,” Rach says. She pulls Jiffy Pop Popcorn from a bag and shakes it at us. “From the party store.”
Liz and I clap wildly.
“Just like camp!” I yell.
“Who wants to do the honors?” Rach asks.
I grab it. “I don’t trust you getting too close to the fire,” I say. It comes out fast, without any warning, just as it might have decades ago. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s okay,” Liz says. “I’m not a baby.” She stops. “And you just said you wouldn’t say you were sorry anymore.”
“Okay, what’d I miss?” Rach asks.
I don’t say a word this time.
“Does ‘Burning Down the House’ mean anything to you?” Liz asks.
Rach laughs. “I missed Fire Baton Redux?”
“You missed ‘Burning Off My Hair’ 2021,” Liz says, patting her curls.
“Liz heard what we said after that happened,” I say.
“Oh.” Rachel’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“There’s certainly a theme tonight,” Liz says. “I have a feeling we might be saying that a lot this week...if we stay.”
Rachel takes a seat.
“Really, I am.”
Liz nods.
I remove the instruction cardboard top of the Jiffy Pop, grip the handle tightly, sit on the edge of my seat and hold the popcorn over the fire. I shake it and shake it and shake it so the popcorn won’t scorch until I hear the first kernels pop. Slowly, steam begins to pipe from the hole in the middle and the foil begins to rise, higher and higher, like Aladdin from the lamp.
“Looks like your hair,” I say to Liz as the foil balloons.
“Ha ha,” she says.
“My children would think this is absolutely barbaric,” I say.
“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Rachel says.
When it’s done, we wait for the Jiffy Pop to cool a bit and then rip open the foil top and tear into the popcorn.
“Tastes just like I remember,” I say.
“Me, too,” Liz says, closing her eyes.
We shovel popcorn into our mouths without stopping, just like we did as kids. I look around the campfire at my oldest friends, now people I don’t even know. And yet I can still feel something. It’s as real as the fireflies, the stars and the campfire.
After we finish the Jiffy Pop, Liz asks, “What now?”
Life’s million-dollar question, I think, no matter what age we are.
No one responds.
I watch the flames flicker and the embers burn, and then I look around the fire at my old friends and realize that we—for the first time today—look perfectly balanced, between dark and light.
Rachel
“Why is there no service out here?”
“Because we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Liz responds.
“What are you doing, Rach?” V asks.
“I have a client going on a late-night news show out of Detroit. I want to make sure they understand the talent.”
That last word—talent—echoes in the Michigan night. A bullfrog belches by the lake, and I see Liz and V give one another a secretive glance. Liz giggles.
Are they laughing at the frog or my use of the word talent? I wonder.
“What’s so funny?” I blurt.
I look over, and Liz is glaring at me. “Really, Rach. I get—what?—a few nights a year when I’m not wiping my mother’s butt, running my grandchildren all around town or showing houses for lookie-loos at every waking hour. I think it’s okay for me to giggle.”
I’m about to apologize when Liz adds, under her breath but for me to hear clearly, “Talent. Spare me.”
This, I know, is aimed at me.
“Spare me your sob story, Liz,” I blurt again. “You’re a martyr. You always have been, and you always will be. That’s why your life is the way it is.”
Liz stands up, so quickly and with such anger, her chair tumbles backward. “And you’re an egomaniacal, self-centered woman-hater. You always have been, and you always will be.” Despite her anger, she says this calmly, as if she’s in a spelling bee. She marches off. “I’m going to bed. One of us needs to be gone by morning. And we all know who that is.”
Silence. Total, complete silence. Not even the bullfrogs’ mournful croaks can match the way I feel.
“You did it again,” V says. “You and your mouth.”
“I can’t help it,” I say.
“You can,” V says. “You just don’t want to. We were having a moment of honesty and calm and you blew it. As usual.”
“Aren’t you going to go after her?”
“Me?” V asks. “You two are the ones who have always had the secret bond. We may have been the leaders, but you always had more of a connection with Liz and Em. I think they spoke to something deeper in you, the sweet girl you hated to show the world.”
“Wow,” I say. “You sound like a mom.”
“I am. A damn good one.”
There is more silence, but then V says, her voice as low and rumbling as the frogs in the distance, “You know, I never thought I was pretty. I was just telling Liz that. I don’t think I ever shared what my life was like before Birchwood. Before I was a leader.”
“What? No.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” she says. “Before I came to camp, I was teased nonstop at school for being the ugly redheaded girl. Coming here was the first time I was really accepted and popular. I was going to be a teacher, remember? Becoming a model was the last thing I ever thought I’d be.”
I look at V. All of the memories come flooding back. She’s right: we were having a moment of clarity, and I blew it. I keep my mouth shut. After all these years,
I think, she is finally going to apologize for what she did to me.
V continues. “I became an expert at modeling. That sounds like such a joke, doesn’t it? But I took it very seriously, as seriously as any business, because it was my business. I studied the companies and products I sold. I stayed in shape. I didn’t drink or smoke or stay out late. I arrived early to every single shoot, no matter if it was at dawn or the middle of the night. I was professional with photographers, even those who treated me like a piece of meat, and I was kind to every single person who was on staff. And do you know that’s what got me as many jobs as my looks? Just being a good person.” She stops. “I mentored so many young women who have turned out to be great models but even more amazing role models.”
I am staring into the dying fire. I find it too hard to look at V. She is not going to apologize. I bite my tongue. I am tired. I just want to get through tonight and go on my way. I am not good at placating, but if that’s what it takes, then I—for once—will continue to keep my mouth shut.
She continues. “I knew my looks would fade. I knew I’d eventually be replaced by the next Molly Ringwald or Brooke Shields. I also realized I was talented. I knew how to make a photo memorable. And I always knew I was secondary to the product I was selling. I may have worn a bikini and leg warmers to sell potato chips and jeans, but I also intentionally never took a job I knew might harm someone. I didn’t sell cigarettes or alcohol.”
She stops and glares at me in the firelight.
“And I never set women back. Ever.”
“You hypocrite!” I hiss, my facade of playing nice shattering. “How dare you try to turn the tables on me! You set me back. Don’t I count? You lied to me about the Life magazine photo shoot, leaving that fake note. You got the others to go along with you. And you never apologized because you got what you wanted. So don’t sit here and act all high-and-mighty about your contributions to feminism when you set the bar pretty low for how women actually treat one another. At least I’m honest about what I do. You are the worst kind of liar, V, because you lie to yourself to make you believe your own worth.”
A log collapses into the fire, mimicking my complete emotional collapse, and I exhale all the air out of my body. “You crushed me, V. Do you know that? My best friend stuck a knife in my back. You were my Judas.” I stare at her. “But you want to know something? That actually motivated me to act. I was so filled with rage, I would walk through fire to make things happen for myself. I would never be duped by anyone again.” I stop. I will myself not to cry. “You know the worst thing of all? I actually stopped believing I had a special talent, too,” I finally say, my voice barely audible. “I lucked into a TV show that turned into a blockbuster. I starred in a sitcom for years, a gift to any actor. And I thought for the longest time I was a joke. But I was good, V. I was a damn good actress to make such a silly show so successful and such a shallow character so beloved and believable. I worked hard at my craft. But when the show ended and my next one was short-lived, I learned I was a joke in Hollywood. I couldn’t get an audition much less a job shilling toaster ovens at midnight on local cable. Remember I got on that reality show, Where Are They Now?, about young stars whose careers died. I spouted off about how much I hated Hollywood, and that’s when conservatives came calling. I had no job, I had no opportunities, I was running out of cash and I was offered a lot of money to be an attractive face that people knew and trusted. I’ve built a brand doing this. I’ve become one of the most influential women in politics.” I look at her. “What would you have done?”
V ducks her head, and her red hair glows even brighter in the firelight.
“I don’t know,” she finally says. “But what you’re doing now willfully denigrates women. You’re against everything that we’ve fought for, that makes us equals. Everything we learned and celebrated here at camp. How can you do that every day?”
“Being an adult isn’t as easy as being a kid,” I say.
“Why not?” V asks, her voice shaking. “Shouldn’t it be?” She is quiet for the longest time but looks at me intensely in the firelight. “And you still didn’t answer my question. Do you actually believe in the candidates whose campaigns you promote? Do you actually believe what you’re saying? I have a daughter who sees you on TV, and she wonders why you hate yourself.”
“I wonder the same thing sometimes,” I say, too low for V to hear.
“You are immensely talented, Rach,” V continues. “I’m not saying that I don’t have conservative values as well. I mean, most of us grew up as Reagan Republicans. But times have changed. We’ve lost touch with the importance of meeting in the middle, of talking, of recognizing and respecting each other’s differences and backgrounds and all the beauty that brings to this world. There are more women than men in America, and yet we continue to be treated like second-class citizens. Next time you campaign or talk about women’s issues, think about my daughter. Think about Em. Think about your mother.”
My mother hates me, I want to tell her. She is embarrassed by me. Em was the glue that held us together, and my father was the glue that held our family together. His death left two headstrong women not only adrift but to do battle. It is hard to grow up an emotionally fulfilled woman when you grow up eating dinner every night next to an empty chair at the family table. You always seek to fill that void, often with the wrong things. And to not have my friends...
I look at V. “And the next time you decide to lecture me about women’s issues, think about what you did to me. Tell that to your daughter. You can’t even say you’re sorry for what you did.”
“You can’t even say you’re sorry for what you’re doing.”
“I think it’s time for bed,” I say, standing.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Too tired to fight. Too tired to counsel a client. Just dog-tired, as my dad used to say.
“I’m going to sleep in one of the other cabins tonight. You and Liz are staying in town, right?”
V nods.
“Take care of yourself,” V says.
“You, too.”
I grab my stuff and head back to camp, turning on my cell’s flashlight to guide my way.
I stop at Pinewood. I can see a tiny light illuminating the bunkhouse. I turn off the flashlight on my cell, creep onto the stoop and look through the window. Liz is on the top bunk, her old bunk, crying. I feel the pull to enter, but instead I turn away and walk to Sassafras.
Our rivals. Fitting.
For all the summers I spent here, I rarely, if ever, entered the Sassafras cabin. It seems as if I’m on an alien planet, although the bunkhouse is pretty much the same as ours was: same number of bunks lined in rows across the floor, same mattresses, same pillows. Except the bunkhouse is red. And the paint is peeling away.
Like our friendship, I think.
I peek at a lower bunk in the far corner. I throw the covers back and scan the mattress for bugs with my flashlight. All looks good. I kick off my shoes and crawl into the bed fully dressed, pulling the old sheet and blanket over my legs. They smell musty. They smell like they always did.
I scan my light around the bunkhouse. I can’t even remember when, or why, the camp closed. I think of the former owners, Cy and Guy Nigh. We loved that their names rhymed. Everyone yelled, “Hi, Mrs. Nigh!” or “Hi, Guy!” or “Hi, Nighs!” whenever we saw them.
They started the camp because they felt like kids were losing touch with nature, being outdoors, being self-reliant, being around friends.
They were ahead of their time, I think. All we had then was TV and radio.
I guess their kids—I think they had four, two boys and two girls?—no longer wanted to run the camp. Or maybe some did. Maybe there were too many memories, good and bad. Or maybe they just ended up engaged in their own Color War.
I get it, I think.
I lay down my cell, put my head on the pillow and try to still my mind. My
heart is fluttering, my brain twitching, my mind flying from thought to thought: candidates, campaigns, Em, Liz, V.
How did I get here?
How did I get so far from who I was here?
Suddenly, I am angry at Em for putting us all in this spot. What was she thinking? For such a sweet girl, her little plan seems very mean. Did she think coming back here would just wipe everything away like dusting away all the cobwebs everywhere? Did she think we would somehow change when we smelled the lake? Or did she just hold out hope?
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
I open my eyes. My heart goes from butterfly flutter to hummingbird wings. I sit up in bed.
“V?”
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
“Liz? This isn’t funny. Are you pulling an old camp trick on me? I’m freaking out here.”
That’s when I realize they are probably long gone by now.
Scritch. Scratch. Scritch.
The noise is close. Very close. Too close.
I grab my phone, which is sitting next to me, and flip on my flashlight.
A raccoon is scavenging through my backpack. The not-so-little scavenger has it wide open, contents scattered across the floor, and its tiny mitts are elbow-deep in a can of Pringles, eating them four at a time, just like I do.
I scream.
The raccoon doesn’t budge. It looks at me and continues to eat.
I pull my knees to my chest and scream again. The raccoon grabs a lipstick from my purse, considers it and throws it aside as if it knows Perfectly Pink isn’t its shade. It grabs a container of breath mints, opens it, tries one, seems to like it and tries another one.
You’ve discovered the wonders of fresh breath, I think, before yelling, “Scoot! Scoot!” at it.
V and Liz appear at the door. The raccoon, knowing it’s outnumbered, grabs my Pringles and scurries through an opening in the log wall, which I hadn’t noticed this late at night in the dark.
“Are you okay?” V asks, hurrying over.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Liz stands at the door wearing a bemused expression.
The Clover Girls Page 9
