The Names They Gave Us(81)

I nibble four cookies like a nervous squirrel, barely making eye contact as I wait for my mom and Tara to emerge.

When they do, Tara has my mom’s Sherpa blanket over her shoulders like a poncho, her stomach jutting out almost comically.

“Braxton Hicks contractions,” my mom reports. “At least, I think. Nothing to suggest she’s in active labor, though we’ll want to get her to a doctor just in case.”

“You need anything before I drive you back?” my dad asks Tara. “Something to eat?”

“No, thank you,” she says. “I just really want to go to bed.”

“Well, then, let’s get you back.”

My dad ushers Tara out, offering his arm to steady her. He’s being so solicitous to this very young, very unwed pregnant girl. But then, of course he is. Why did I ever think my parents would turn someone away for having premarital sex? It’s such a trivial concern in the face of cancer, abuse, drugs—all the things Daybreak sees every summer.

If my mom was at Daybreak in its first years, why? I know she was in foster care, but did something happen?

“She’s gonna be just fine, baby,” my mom says, thinking that my stunned expression is about Tara.

“Thanks, Mom,” I manage, in a whisper.

When she leans in to hug me, I almost flinch, wondering what else she’s kept hidden from me. She no longer smells like her shampoo because, of course, she no longer has hair to wash. “I have loved you since before you were even born, Lucy Esther.”

I pull away to look at her, confused.

“Seeing Tara . . . it just takes me back, that’s all. You are the gift of my life. Okay?”

“Okay.” My voice cracks, tears spilling over. She’s crying too, and it doesn’t even feel weird anymore.

With a ruffle of my hair, she puts on her brave smile. “See you Sunday, little bird.”

Back at camp, I watch as my dad drives away from Daybreak. June, when he did this the first time, feels like a lifetime ago.

“Will you walk me to Rhea’s cabin?” Tara asks. She’s looking at me.

“Of course.” When I offer my arm for support, she shakes her head—steady for now.

Keely squeezes Tara’s arm. “Hang in there.”

“I’m really sorry for all the trouble,” Tara replies.

“I’m not.”

I amble down the dark path, hand ready to brace Tara at even the suggestion of a stumble. When Keely’s footfalls are out of range, Tara says, “Your parents are nice.”

“Yeah.” My eyes itch, threatening to flood. “They are.”

“Your mom told me about giving birth and everything.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is reverent, almost awed, as she touches the swell of her belly. “She seems like a really brave person.”

My mom’s body is riddled with mutating cells and the toxins meant to kill them, and yet she still cares for others—gently, nimbly, with such great love. “Yes. She is.”

“She said that this will always be part of who I am, but that I can move on too.”

Of course she did. Of course my mom could empathize with someone so different from her—enough to say the perfect thing. “She’s right.”

When I glance over, Tara is wiping her cheek. “She prayed for the baby. And for me. She asked if she could, and I said yes. It felt real.”

“Oh, Tara,” I whisper. I stop walking and open my arms. She rests her chin on my shoulder as her stomach presses into mine. I almost ask what she meant—that it felt real. But I know what she means. Prayer used to always feel, for me, as real as sending a letter.

“I thought I’d want to keep the baby. My mom said we don’t give babies away. But I still don’t feel anything. I thought I would by now.”

“That’s okay,” I say stupidly. How the hell would I know? “Oh, Tara, don’t cry. It’s all going to work out.”

“I’m only crying because your mom made me feel better. I want the baby to be adopted. She said my gut feeling counts, and I’m just . . . I don’t know. Relieved.”

We stand there, near Rhea’s cabin, hanging on under the moonlight. I’m not sure how long Tara sniffles on my shoulder before I hear Rhea approaching.

“Hi, sweet girl,” Rhea says. Without a word, Tara transfers to Rhea’s arms. “It’s okay, honey. It’s all okay.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I worried everyone.”

“I know you are. It’s okay.” Rhea cradles her close, and I wonder if she ever comforted my mom in hard times. Part of me wants to interject with all my questions, but now is not the time.

Over Tara’s shoulder, Rhea mouths, Thank you.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The next night, I’m staring at our cabin’s thicket of small children. Somehow, the bedroom routine seems to make them double: little girls everywhere. They bound around, through the routine. Pajamas on, teeth brushed, bathroom squabbles broken up before they escalate to tears.

“Well, we’re done with No Flying in the House,” I say when they’ve settled. “Who wants to pick the next book?”

Thuy raises her hand. “Can you read ‘Posy and the Dreaming Tree’?”