The Names They Gave Us(80)

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffs.

“She is,” I insist. “She’s up and moving.”

My dad follows me, gesturing for my mom to stay inside.

“You’re going to pay for that later,” I tell him.

“You’re telling me.” His hair is a shock of white in the darkness outside. For the first time, I wonder if my mom’s hair will grow back in the same color, with the same curl.

“Is she doing okay?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Hanging in there.”

Once we hit the threshold of the chapel, my dad’s strides lengthen until he spots the girls. Keely has an arm around Tara’s back, and they’re pacing the center aisle slowly. Tara’s legs are spread hip-width apart as she lumbers forward.

“Hi, sweetheart,” my dad says. “I’m Dave, Lucy’s dad. Can I help you to our cabin for a quick checkup?”

“Yes, please.” Tara puffs out a few breaths, and I second-guess my call that she isn’t in active labor.

“Good. My wife is a longtime nurse, so she can help you. Everything’s going to be fine.”

There’s some strange collision of worlds, my dad introducing himself to my bunkmate as they both support a pregnant teen camper. I trail behind them to the cabin, feeling useless. Tara’s steps are heavy, and it’s impossible to imagine the weight that she carries.

My mom’s waiting by the door, looking frail in body but determined in stance.

“Hi, honey,” my mom says, smiling at Tara’s surprised expression. “Oh, don’t worry. Just a little cancer. I’m not as sick as I look.”

For the first time, I don’t believe her. She’s gaunt in the porch light, even her once-full hips slim in silhouette.

“Come on back to Lucy’s bedroom. You can lie down, and we can talk about your symptoms.” My mom holds out one arm, and Tara goes to her the way any child goes to a good mother: instinctively. “Dave, some tea, maybe?”

“On it.” He disappears into the kitchen, calling, “You girls take a load off. Do you need anything? Are you hungry?”

“We’re okay,” I decide, but I know he’ll bring us shortbread cookies anyway.

We settle on the couch, and Keely looks around the room. I wonder what she sees. She’s always taking people in, getting a read on them. How does the cabin, this living room, my family add to her impression of me? I have no idea.

Keely’s gaze goes past me, toward a family picture on the side table. “You look like her.”

“Yeah.” Less and less, as her face thins out. But I can’t think about that—not now. “So, how’d you guess Tara would be in the chapel?”

She shrugs, brushing her hair back. “I walked there once, when I couldn’t sleep.”

“When you were little?”

“Yeah. My second year at Daybreak.” The snort she gives is self-effacing, the admission of an embarrassing moment. “Back when I thought you could ask for things like God was a genie.”

I don’t let myself ask what she wished for.

Keely is still looking at our family pictures. She leans toward a picture of my mom and Aunt Rachel, arms over each other’s shoulders. “How does your mom know Rachel?”

My head jerks back. “How do you know Rachel?”

“She helped us paint the mural on the side of the gym one summer.”

“At Daybreak?”

“Yeah.” Keely looks confused by my disbelief. “She knows Bryan. They were at camp together as kids.”

“No, they weren’t. Rachel—” I begin, but I cut myself off. Rachel went to camp with my mom. That’s where they met. “She went to a camp called . . .”

“Donoma?”

My mouth goes slack. How could Keely know that?

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yeah, Daybreak had a different name the first few years after Rhea started it. Camp Donoma.” Keely’s looking at me like I’m the one who’s crazy. “The people who owned the property before Rhea called it that. She changed it once she learned the name might have been appropriated from a Native American language.”

My mom went to Daybreak in its early years? Not possible. She’d have told me that ages ago—or at least early this summer, when she first tried to sell me on being a counselor. But if—if—it were true, no wonder Rhea helped my parents buy the Holyoke property. It makes so much sense if she knew my mom as a teenager. Did Rhea assume I knew that?

“Lucy?” Keely asks, quiet.

“All right!” My dad’s too-chipper voice blares in the silence. “Two cups of pomegranate green tea. That okay with you, Keely? It’s Lucy’s favorite.”

“Perfect,” she says, and takes a cookie to be polite.

“Luce?” my dad prompts.

I hold my hands out to accept the mug. My mind can’t form rational thoughts, so I stare down into the tea as if it will spell out the answers. I don’t want to say anything in front of Keely. It feels wrong to interrogate my parents, given the circumstances. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t fully believe it.

We sip our tea, and my dad valiantly makes small talk. I swear, there must be classes on this in seminary.