The duffel was on the floor, and I began tossing in sneakers, cleats, and rollerblades.
Zelda placed herself in front of me and grabbed my arms. “Stop packing and tell me what’s going on.”
Hazel’s eyes were brimming with tears while Zelda’s looked panicked. In my anger I hadn’t given any thought to how my kids would react.
“I had a huge fight with Jack, and I don’t want to work for him anymore.”
“Who’s Jack?” Hazel asked.
“The camp director.”
They both had blank looks.
“I don’t know him,” Hazel said.
It was absurd how he was always up my ass but had no connection with my kids, the campers he supposedly kept so happy. Come to think of it, I’d never seen him or Marilyn at any activities.
Hazel broke the silence. “But I don’t want to go home.” She could barely get the words out.
“Neither do I. You can go. You said camp was where we’d learn independence. We don’t need you here,” Zelda said.
Depleted, I sat on the unmade bed. It was true, I wanted my children to become self-reliant, but her words stung.
Hazel threw her arms around me, nuzzling my neck. “I don’twant to go home, and I like having you here. Please don’t go and please let us stay.”
I could tell by Zelda’s out-of-focus expression that she was building her case. Not only did her facial features resemble her father’s, she thought and acted like him as well. I missed the days when my children had hung on my every word.
Zelda stood with her hands on her hips, ready to lecture me exactly like her father would. A ray of sunshine fell across her face, accentuating her freckles. Her hair was tied in a ponytail, frizzy strands forming a halo. Even though she looked angelic, I braced myself for the tirade that was about to begin.
“I don’t understand. First you gave a big speech about how you wanted to send me and Hazel to camp to become confident and responsible—your words. And then you change your mind and tell us that if you don’t go to camp, then me and Hazel can’t go to camp. So here we are, together at camp, and now, right in the middle of the best summer ever, you want us to leave just because you don’t like this Jack guy? It makes no sense.”
Hazel looked upset. “Why do you always have to yell at Mom? Can’t we talk about this calmly?” Hazel turned toward me. “Mom, I want you to stay but if you can’t, why dowehave to leave? I love it here,” Hazel said.
I hadn’t thought this through. As campers they got to play with their friends all day without a care in the world while I dealt with the behind-the-scenes bullshit. From the campers’ point of view, Woodlands was a fabulous place.
“But we need to support each other.” As soon as I said that, I could hear how absurd I sounded.
Zelda crossed her arms. “If you want to leave, I absolutely support that. I don’t need you here.”
I winced.
“Zelda,” Hazel said, “that was just plain mean. I think what Zelda was trying to say was that the only time we even see each other is across the field at Flagpole. Zelda and I don’t spend any time together either. She even pretends not to know me when I wave to her.”
“Why do you snub your sister?”
“I don’t want to be the kid who gets treated differently because my mother works here or because everyone thinks my little sister’s cute.”
“Do I embarrass you?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, sorta.”
“First you tell me you don’t need me. On top of that, I embarrass you. Just when I thought my day couldn’t possibly get any worse.”
Hazel sat down next to me and put her hand on my thigh. “Mom, I love you, and I love that everyone knows you’re my mother, and you never embarrass me. But it’s impossible for me to leave right now.”
“Please tell me why it’s impossible to leave right now. I need a good reason to leave you here without me.”
“I have a singing part in the play, and I’m the only girl from my division who has one, and you’ve taught me that if I joined a team or a play, I have to see it through to the end. You said it’s inconsiderate and rude to let the other kids down.”
