The Names They Gave Us(46)

“Okay,” Simmons says. “We’ll dole everything out. Make a nice stack in front of you, and when we’re done, you’ll put everything away neatly on your shelf. Anything without a label, we’ll figure out at the end.”

We pass out polka-dot dresses, thin-striped cotton leggings, soft shorts, and T-shirts with every cartoon character under the sun. It’s one thing to see the girls every day, but another to see all their clothes at once. The designs are colorful, patterned, joyous. I tend to like simple outfits, but there’s something fun about childhood clothes that I miss.

“Sofia,” Simmons says, handing over a loose denim dress with a string dangling. She pulls it back to examine the sagging hem. “Uh-oh.”

“It was like that,” Sofia says. “It’s not the launder-mat’s fault.”

“That’s okay.” Simmons leans into her, winking. “I can fix it.”

Sofia perks up. “You can?”

“Yep. With needle and thread. You can even watch me do it later.”

I examine the label on a pair of denim shorts with a white star pattern: T. Anderson.

“Thuy again,” I say, reaching out to hand them over. She accepts them without a word or smile, so I keep hunting for clues. All her clothes seem particularly nice—quality fabrics still bright in color.

“Those are cool shorts,” I say. “Did you pick them out?”

She nods her head. Simmons shoots me a sympathetic look, because she’s been trying too. Thuy does talk—a yes, please or no, thank you. She has a good appetite and seems to brighten up during crafts and cooking class. Sometimes she starts getting really into games; she loved hula-hooping. But it’s like she catches herself, and then she returns to a neutral facial expression.

On our way to lunch, Simmons sidles up to me. “It was a good try, earlier.”

She nods toward Thuy, who is walking ahead of us and listening to Brooklyn and Maya chatter. Saying nothing. “Do you think it’s time?”

We’ve been debating when we’ll ask Rhea for help. Rhea knows most campers’ stories, as they’re often referred by her network of psychiatrist friends. There’s doctor-patient confidentiality, of course, but a lot of the parents and guardians disclose what’s going on so we can help. Rhea prefers that we let the kids tell us in their own time, but I’m about ready to cave.

Simmons sighs, blowing a tight curl off her forehead. “Let’s give it till the end of the week. I want to read them a special story and see if it helps at all.”

“A special story?”

“Yeah, about a fox and a wolf. It can help with—”

“?‘Posy and the Dreaming Tree’?” The only story I know with both a fox and a wolf.

She turns to me fully. “Yeah! How’d you know that?”

“It was one of my favorite fables when I was little.”

Her frown is not displeasure, just genuine confusion. “Huh. I thought it was only a Daybreak thing.”

“Nope.” My mom told me the story some nights before she left for an overnight shift at the hospital. She’d add new details here and there, mixing it up for me. I even begged for fox pajamas one year, which Santa delivered on.

“Huh.” Simmons tilts her head thoughtfully. “So you’ve seen our dreaming tree?”

In the story, Posy finds a tree that grows stars instead of leaves. She lies beneath it and dreams of what she wants for her life. And the tree hears her. Or so I always believed. “You have a . . . dreaming tree?”

“Yeah. Kind of. Around the back of the lodge, near the shed.”

“Seriously?” She nods, looking a little pleased at my awe.

When Thuy sits across from me at lunch, I take another shot. I talk about my mom and dad a little bit, trying to engage the others. Finally, I look right at her. “Thuy, who do you live with at home?”

“Mommy Sheila and Daddy Pete.” She doesn’t look up from her potato salad.

Hmm. It’s a clue, anyway. I think back to her meticulously clean bunk. She has a stuffed animal—a cat, maybe? “Do you have any pets?”

At this, she makes eye contact. “Bernadette. She’s a kitty.”

“Cool.” I try not to sound too excited. “Like the one in your bunk?”

“Yes. With long fur. But Bernadette is gray, not white.”

“She sounds beautiful.”

“Yep. And she likes me best.” Even spearing the potatoes has become more animated. “I’m going to take her with me if I have to leave.”

“Why would you have to leave?” I ask, shocked. Stupid, Luce. Stupid. Overeager.

She looks at me as if I am completely daft. “Because you always have to.”

Bingo. I open my mouth to say Not always, but I don’t know if that’s true for her. It’s too late, though. Her gaze is downward. I blew it.

But it sounds like Thuy is—or maybe was—a foster kid, like my mom was. Last year, I went to get ice cream with the swim team after practice and forgot to tell my mom, who I thought wouldn’t be home till later. I didn’t hear my phone as she called repeatedly. In one of the few times I’ve see my mother furious, she yelled, “Do you have any idea what my life was like at your age? The absolute least you could do is pick up your phone.”