“Okay, let me expla…”
But she begins reading from the text. “If anything, Campbell’s dementia only adds to his allure.What the hell is this?”
“I’ll admit, the project has taken off a bit,” I say.
“A bit? Cricket, you promised to stop this, and now you’ve turned it into a regional sensation.”
National, I think. But I say: “I’m only just processing it myself. Look, I know none of this makes sense from where you sit, Nina, but this is a good thing. Dad is loving the visitors, and I finally have something that…”
“That what?”
That feels meaningful. That is reviving me. That has turned the tide of my despair. There is so much I could say, but I put it in terms I hope Nina will appreciate: “That is keeping me focused. That is giving me purpose.”
“You know what else could do that? A job!” She continues to read from the article.“In a world where other self-styled healers charge upwards of $150 a session, the oracle at Catwood Pond is not a commercial enterprise. Campbell doles out his prophecies free of charge, and a wooden donation box is the only place where visitors can contribute.”
“We’ve gotten a fair amount of donations,” I say.
“Cricket, this wasn’t the plan,” says Nina. “You were supposed to get settled with Dad and then get ajob. A real job.”
There’s no denying it: my financial outlook is flimsy. But with my father’s pension, his social security, and the donations we have received, we are surviving. It’s not enough for an emergency, but it’s enough to get by for now.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “I wish you could see it, experience it. It’s kind of amazing, what we’ve built.”
“What you’ve built? Cricket, Dad is not an oracle. He doesn’t even knowour names. Did you ever stop to think you’re just using him to keep yourself entertained? Just because you’re lost doesn’t mean you can lead our father on a wild goose chase.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow, and for a moment, out of habit, I assume she is right. But once I take a breath, I realize that inthis case, she might not be. I feel less lost than I did a year ago; that’s for sure. And I may not know exactly where this prophecy project will lead, but I have enough certainty to know that it’s somewhere positive, meaningful, and maybe even magical. I am neither martyr nor manipulator. I am not using my father. We’re co-creating something, and I’m tired of Nina assuming that he can’t be a willing participant in that endeavor just because he has Alzheimer’s. Why should dementia be the end of creativity? Why can’t it be the starting point?
Nina goes on. “If I weren’t hugely pregnant, I would get on a plane right now and put a stop to this.”
“Nina, I need you to trust me,” I say with conviction. I’m not used to challenging my sister, and it’s a foreign feeling. As I stand my ground, my blood courses through my veins, hot and exciting. “I can handle this. I know what I’m doing.”
It’s not the first time I’ve ever said those words, but it is the first time I’ve believed them.
When we finally hang up, I take a deep breath and make my way across the parking lot. I’m so fired up that I forget to look where I’m going, and a car that has just pulled in stops short to avoid hitting me.
“Sorry,” I mouth, wincing and putting my hand up in a gesture of repentance. The driver, a young woman, waves back and then lifts her sunglasses onto her forehead.
When our eyes finally meet, we both freeze. It’s Chloe.
Chapter 35
The parking lot is not a conducive place for a catch-up that is a decade overdue, so Chloe and I make a plan to hang out the next day. When she arrives at my house, she lets herself in as she always used to, and I can hear her greet my father, who is sitting on the porch enjoying the afternoon sun.
“Hi, Mr. Campbell,” she says. “Don’t get up. It’s just me, Chloe Zimmerman. It’s so nice to see you.”
“Chloe! And how are you?” my father says. “Have you ever tried this stuff?”
He is about to offer her a sip of his ginger beer when I join them on the porch. Chloe looks a little unsure of what to do, and I swoop in to save her. “Dad, Chloe and I are going for a swim. We’ll be at the dock if you need us.”
“Very good!” My father settles back into his chair and studies a catalogue from a company that sells fancy fruit baskets.
Chloe and I grab towels and beers and head down to the water. She looks the same as always, although her hair is a bit shorter and she wears a fat diamond on her ring finger. The sun is blazing today, and as we settle onto the dock, we both slather on sunscreen and put on our hats. Mine is a faded baseball cap that bears the Adirondack League Club insignia; Chloe’s is a straw sunhat with a wide black bow around the crown. We would never have given such consideration to sun protection in our youth, but clearly, we have matured.
“Look at us, being responsible,” I say.
“So responsible,” says Chloe, pulling a vape pen out of her bag and offering it to me. I decline, but I open two beers and hand her one.
As she sips hers, she reaches over and presses lightly on the scar I got from smashing my knee into a rock when we were twelve. “I’m still trying to process the fact that you’re here, in front of me. Where have youbeen, girl?”
