The Names They Gave Us(17)

“Crumbled-up potato chips. Secret ingredient. Whelan calls them First-Week Cookies. He keeps them in a secret jar. Big ones for counselors and staff, smaller ones for the kids.”

“He only makes them the first week?” That’s not acceptable. I will be needing more of these in the immediate future.

“Nah. But we need them especially now. You know—first-week blues. Homesick kids or exhausted counselors, all the summer breakups. That kind of thing.”

The walnuts scratch against my throat as I cough. Could she just tell I got dumped? Are the hippies clairvoyant?

“You okay?”

I manage to swallow, my eyes watering. “Yeah. Just . . . apparently trying to eat this thing whole.”

Anna’s laugh is a quick, happy bark. “Totally understandable.”

“So,” she says, back to her tour-guide voice. “Rhea’s office is at the other end of the hall, on the right. Bryan’s is on the left. Have you met Bryan? That’s her son. He’s a therapist too. He lives in town with his wife and kid over the summer, but he’s here a ton of the time.”

Anna walks me down another hall to a big reading-and-rec room. Beaten-up leather couches square off, facing one another. There’s a deer head mounted over the fireplace, sun-faded maps tacked up on the walls, and a few time-thinned Persian rugs. Old board game boxes are stacked on the shelves beside books—slim early readers on the lowest levels, thicker novels up higher. The piano my mom mentioned stands upright on the far side. On top of it, a globe, a brass trophy, a framed Michigan state flag.

“This is nice,” I say, noticing floor cushions near the worn-in couches. The room looks like Ralph Lauren designed it twenty-five years ago, using East Coast antique stores and a tight budget.

“Yeah, Rhea knows how to make resources go the distance. She spends all her free time on grants and stuff. Sometimes for the whole place, like specific projects or objectives. Sometimes for individual kids. She’s basically who I want to be when I grow up.”

As we walk out, I run my hand across the knit blanket on the back of the couch. It’s every color of green—near-black forest fading into palest honeydew.

“I made that,” Anna comments.

“Seriously?” I turn to look at her in a slightly new light. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. Rhea taught me my first summer. Knitting can be good for anxiety.” She mimes moving two needles. “These days, I do whole sweaters.”

And here I thought the hippies were around the lake growing marijuana or something. But no. They eat really great cookies and knit?

Near the rec room, Anna opens a door labeled “Maintenance.”

“This,” she says, “is the counselor meeting room. AKA the Bunker.”

The room is small and wallpapered with notices, pictures, Post-its, neon flyers. A frayed plaid couch lines the back wall, and several tall bookshelves hold binders and bags of snack food. In the corner, a table and chairs have manifested straight from the 1970s: pale orange seats with metal legs.

“We do quick updates here or just hang after lights-out. One counselor stays in each cabin after nine o’clock, but the other two get free time after that. If we’re not too tired, which sometimes we are.”

Next, we visit the nurse’s office, which is a small building right off the lodge. We’re greeted by a nurse named Miss Suzette, the howls of a middle-school camper, and a TV blaring political commentary. Anna introduces me over the clamor.

“Nice to meet you, Lucy Hansson.” Miss Suzette swivels toward the kid, who is whimpering with dramatic flair. “You’ll have to excuse Chase here. He is dealing with his discomfort vocally.”

“Hey! That stuff you put on burns.”

“I know, baby.”

He holds out a hand, open-palmed. Miss Suzette smacks it like a high-five, and he scowls. “Just give me the Band-Aid.”

She complies, and turns back to me. “Rhea tells me your mom is a camp nurse!”

Was. I don’t say: She’s taking the summer off because doctors have to put poison in her body to kill the cancer.

“Yeah! And a school nurse. Elementary.” I don’t say: She can’t return this fall because her weakened immune system won’t be safe around sick kids.

“Ah. So you understand my triumphs and struggles.” Miss Suzette pats Chase’s head as he applies his own Band-Aid, looking sour about it.

“All right. We should get back so you can meet your campers before dinner.” Anna throws a conspiratorial glance at Miss Suzette. “Chicken casserole with mozzarella and tomato. I snooped.”

“Yes, Lord,” Miss Suzette says.

Outside, campers swarm toward the lodge. My view narrows into tunnel vision. All these kids I don’t know. All these kids I’m now responsible for. At home and even seeing their bunks, it was only the idea of them. But they’re entirely real—fast feet, waving arms, small bodies. With hair wet from the lake. Two little ones holding hands. Middle-school boys crowing with laughter over something whispered. And I am an interloper. A guest at someone else’s family dinner.

At Holyoke, I greet the campers with my parents, welcome them, and field any questions.

At Holyoke, I know the answers.

The Daybreak campers buzz with energy around the nearest counselor, chattering and a few half-climbing on him. He’s one of the guys beside Keely and Anna in the hallway picture, easy to recognize by his thick, old-school glasses—dark frames on top, clear on bottom. He has deep brown skin and close-cropped hair and a short-sleeved oxford shirt. Linen, the kind my grandpa wore after he moved to Florida. Not that this guy looks like a grandpa.