The Names They Gave Us(16)

“So, I have nine third-graders, but also an all-age color group.”

“Exactly. You’re Blue Team. Color activities are usually in the evenings—sometimes for points against one another. Tug-of-war, cheer-offs. It’s called Color Wars.” She smiles grimly. “You’re lucky you missed the naming of the color captains on Saturday. Lots of tears from those who didn’t get it.”

I’m about to ask more about competitions, when a group of campers walks by. They look fourteen or fifteen—the oldest camper age. It’s funny, once you’re going into senior year of high school, how young freshmen look—coltish legs, baby cheeks, adult noses taking shape. As they pass us, one of the girls calls hello to Anna, whose response becomes static to my ears. Because the girl’s stomach protrudes out in a perfect sphere that leaves no space for doubt. I almost stop walking midstride. She’s so young.

Somehow, my legs keep walking down the path, though the rest of me has stalled out. Finally, I stutter: “Was she . . . ? Is she—”

“Pregnant? Yeah. That’s Tara.” I can feel Anna looking at me. “You’re not from a camp like Daybreak, huh?”

“Not exactly. Not grief camp.”

“Well, we’re not all grief campers, necessarily. It’s more like, in the scheme of baggage we carry, all of us here have at least one big suitcase. My checked bag is my anxiety disorder, for example.”

“Oh,” I say. Am I supposed to drop that my mom has cancer? I can’t seem to push the words out of my mouth. “Okay. That makes sense.”

Anna takes me down to the water’s edge, and I crane my head to see if Holyoke is visible. It’s a silly thing to do—I’d need X-ray vision for the mile through the trees. But maybe I could make it out in the evening. My dad keeps the chapel lights on all night, in case any of the campers want to seek prayer time or solace there.

“There’s another camp that way,” Anna says. “But don’t get excited. It’s some crazy church camp, so not exactly boyfriend potential. Or girlfriend. Whatever!”

It lands like a smack. Crazy church camp? We’re not crazy! Not even a little. In fact, we’re pretty modern by Christian standards! But I like Anna already, and I don’t want her to write me off.

She’s moved on to explaining evening activities, but I’m tuning out. Was it cowardly to not mention that Holyoke is my camp? It’s just that . . . telling people you’re religious can make them assume a whole list of things about you. Like you’ve rolled out a scroll of all the ways you see the world. My dad always says: try to let it go if people judge you that way.

I know he does that himself. The truth is, there’s theological disagreement within the church—between Methodist ministers, even. My dad comes home from state conferences looking wind-battered, even though he’s been inside all week. His hair is mussed, shirt collar askew, skin dry. I imagine him in conference room sessions, frustrated and fidgety. I imagine him up late in his hotel room, jotting down notes as I hear my mom say on her end of the phone line, I know, babe. But just keep speaking your heart—that’s all you can do.

We wind up at the lodge, and the porch beams creak in welcome. Inside smells like camp dinner, a not-unpleasant mix of starch and seasoning, with vegetables somewhere beneath it—green beans, maybe. With almond slivers, I bet.

“Behold,” Anna says. “The mess hall. Standard.”

It is standard—long tables in rows, a tall ceiling. But at Holyoke, we call this space the fellowship hall.

Ha. We have fellowship. They have a mess.

Anna has a bouncy walk, long arms swaying. It makes her look young. And happy. I think my walk must look like shuffled feet in funeral procession. “Our chef gets in the zone during dinner prep, so now is not the time to introduce you. I’ll be right back. Wait, are you allergic to anything?”

I shake my head, and she leaves me at the end of a hallway, which is lined all the way down in framed photographs. The end picture, nearest me, is from last year—all the campers and counselors, with the year printed at the bottom. In it, I spot Anna beside the same threesome in the photo above my bunkmate’s bed. My bunkmate, Keely Simmons, is sandwiched between the two boys—one with glasses and a wide grin, the other slim and smirking—with her arms slung over their shoulders. They look like they belong to one another.

I follow the pictures down the hall, watching the present-day recede and the hairstyles lift. Still, all the campers are alike in their comfortable smiles, in the easy way they pool together on the lodge’s porch. At the end of the hall, I find the first few years of camp. In them, Rhea’s hair is jet black, her skin smooth. Thirty years ago. There are three blank spaces on the wall nearby, like missing teeth in a big grin of frames.

“Sorry!” Anna reappears with heavy footsteps. “Whelan had to yell at me for interrupting his process, but I got the goods.”

“The goods” appear to be two massive cookies. They’re crammed full of chocolate chunks, oatmeal, some kind of nut—and that’s only the ingredients I can decipher.

I nearly unhinge my jaw taking the first bite, and it’s everything at once: sweet, salty, nutty, crunchy. My mouth waters in demand for more.

“What is that?” I stuff another bite in. “That crunch . . . Is it . . . ?”