I Liked My Life(47)

“Oh. My. God. She died? And you’re calling me?”

The comment makes Rory self-conscious. “It was expected,” she justifies. “She was ill.”

“Yeah, but still. I’m sorry. I didn’t, like, know.” Then, to Rory’s astonishment, Eve starts to cry.

“It was her time,” Rory says, before catching her mistake. Eve’s cry goes an octave higher. For Eve, this isn’t about Linda, it’s about me, and it hadn’t been my time. “Are you going to be okay, Eve? Is your dad home?”

“Don’t ask about me! God. This is about you. I know that. I’m sorry, Rory. I’m so sorry I’m crying. I don’t know why.”

Rory does. Every new death brings back the full weight of those already gone. I don’t need to be able to read every thought to know that memories of her daughter, Emma, have been flooding Rory since Linda’s death, the same way that thoughts of my mother have been pestering me. “I shouldn’t have told you all that. I just didn’t want you to think it was about the other day.”

“I’m fine,” Eve manages, this time with a voice strong enough to convince Rory it’s acceptable to hang up.

But Eve isn’t fine. She curls up on her bed and howls, the way she did when she first learned of my death. My daughter truly believes she failed me. Her loss isn’t pure like Rory’s, it’s layered thick like mine with should have and could have and would have if only I’d known. It’s the worst kind of grief. I try to persuade her of her innocence, but Eve resists. I settle for focusing my energy on sending her warmth, hoping she feels my presence, my love. She coughs between sobs, choking on mucus. After an hour of this storming she falls asleep, raw from a running list of perceived failures.

If only there was a way to explain.

Eve

This is going to suck. I look at the other teenagers who were sentenced to community service. I’m the only girl. The oldest guy has a translator because he doesn’t speak English (Dad will have a fun rant about taxpayers’ dollars when he hears that). The youngest is covered in tattoos and has what looks to be a weapon of some sort wedged in his oversized jean pocket. The remaining two are chewing tobacco and spitting it in a shared empty Pepsi bottle. Camp Ray may want to rethink its recruiting pool.

“Thank you, everyone, for getting here early.” As if the court gave us a choice. “I’m Robin Winters, director here at Camp Ray. After orientation this morning, arriving at quarter of eight will be fine.” The other four delinquents grunt their relief. Seven a.m. competes with morning hangovers.

The director is right off the set of The Parent Trap, wide-rim safari hat and all. “Camp Ray is the only state-funded summer program available to special-needs children. The kids are between the ages of nine and twelve, with conditions ranging from deafness to cerebral palsy. Everyone alternates between drama, water sports, and crafts. Each station lasts an hour. There’s an assigned aide for every three kids and a camp counselor in charge of each station.”

She walks through our limited role, referencing her clipboard as if she couldn’t possibly remember the three responsibilities entrusted to the delinquents: greet campers each morning, get them to their correct starting station based on group color, and assist between sessions with preparation and cleanup.

When she finishes we’re all excused to the parking lot, except me. “Eve?” Robin says, tapping my shoulder.

“Yes, nice to meet you,” I say, extending a hand.

“Hopefully you still feel that way in a minute. I need a favor.” She looks down at her clipboard for moral support. I wonder what the top piece of paper actually says. “One of the counselors had to back out unexpectedly. I’ve been freaking out all morning, but when I saw you it was like a divine intervention. Use Eve. That’s what my heart told me. I’d be so grateful if you’d step up and man the craft station.”

I look at the rest of the involuntary volunteers and see why I’ve been singled out for the unpaid promotion. “Why not,” I agree. I have to be here either way.

“Thank God. Well … I guess thank you is more accurate. It’s pretty basic.” She shuffles through a stack of papers and hands me a catalog of choices. “Pick a craft, any craft. Get supplies from the storage shed first thing in the morning and instruct each group on the project as they come through.”

“Got it,” I say. With all the aides present, it shouldn’t be a biggie. I walk to the shed and grab a bunch of Popsicle sticks and glue to make picture frames. When I return to the art station campers are arriving.

It’s instantly clear there aren’t enough aides. We’re not talking about learning issues here—these kids have no-joke disabilities. Even a dedicated person for every single child wouldn’t cover it. I do awkward things like stare a moment too long before wiping the drool off a boy’s face and struggle to find an appropriate way to move the older kids in wheelchairs over to the bench. Then there’s Hanna, a ten-year-old hooked up to a ventilator. I’m terrified to accidentally detach one of the tubes and go from an underage drinking violation to manslaughter.

Each second feels like an hour. When the five-minute-warning bell rings, I arrange the frames in a row to dry and work with the three aides to line everyone up. I lift Hanna, noticing midair that the bench is wet. I look down to see her soaking shorts in time to avoid mushing her pee into my T-shirt. “Oh my God,” I shriek, knowing I sound like a spoiled brat. I hold the poor thing at arm’s length with no idea what to do. It’s not like I have a change of clothes. Hanna’s aide rushes over, aggravated by my reaction. This is session one of day one—the idea that I have to live through twenty-nine more is totally overwhelming.