Meg’s got a few more days left in the hospital, but Levin’s started visiting, sitting by her side. She has to stay in the States a little longer to help out with the Cantor Assets investigation. Cooperate with the Roxwood police, confess what she knew about Heller. But after that she’s heading home to the UK to restart her life. Figure out what’s next.
My parents’ station wagon pulls up to the door and I bend down to see Ava in the driver’s seat, Imo right beside her. I climb into the back seat, overcome with gratitude. Ava tosses her hair over one shoulder and glances at me in the rearview mirror. “You okay?”
I reach forward over the console and squeeze her hand. “Now I am. Are you?”
Ava shrugs. “The stepbitch came to get the twins this morning,” she says. “Hate to say I’m going to miss those little goobers.”
“Think you’ll see them again?” Imogen asks.
“They’re actually moving to Connecticut,” Ava says. “So, they’ll be close to me.” She pauses. “And Dad. Inmate visiting days and all that.”
“Oof,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Ava smirks. “I’m not. He deserves to go to jail for what he did.”
Imogen rests her head back against the seat. “Remember when we thought our biggest problem would be who we’d hook up with this summer?” she says wistfully.
Ava and I both break out into laughter and Imogen can’t help herself either. As we drive down the hill entering camp, my stomach is full of butterflies, humming in time with the sounds of my two best friends, happy, at least for a second.
“Still one night left for Tommy time, Imo,” I say playfully.
“Nah,” she says. “I’d rather spend it with you guys.”
We pull through the gates to see all the counselors who stuck around. They’re standing near the fences where the kids usually hang out for visiting day. They all wave and cheer and welcome me back to the place I blew up, the place I saved.
“Well, shit,” Ava says.
A sweet little jolt runs through me and for the first time in a long time I feel something I never thought I would again. Hope.
---
The loudspeaker crackles overhead and I jump at the shock of it. I thought only Stu and Mellie had access to it.
“This thing on?” Mom says, her voice nervous and high.
Ava stifles a laugh and folds a shirt on her bed.
“Clearly never used this thing before,” Dad says. “But, uh, all-staff meeting at the picnic tables. Now.”
The loudspeaker goes quiet but then someone else speaks far away. “I’ve got two hundred cookies. Think that’s enough?” It’s Christina, talking somewhere behind Dad.
“Should be fine,” he says. “We’ll empty out cookie patrol, too.”
“Aw, crap, we left the speaker on,” Christina says. The microphone goes muffled and then finally it shuts off.
Ava, Imogen, and I are all laughing then.
We make our way to the picnic tables, and I look out over the manicured grass, the neatly marked field, and the rows of pristine, picturesque cabins—all the things that have kept me going my whole life. I wonder if I’ll ever get them back.
There’s caution tape around where the dining hall once stood, signaling that therewasa crime here. That everything hasnotbeen sorted out. There is still so much to do, so much to uncover. My heart is heavy with each step I take, and I reach up to touch the bandage on my forehead, to remember that it was all real. Whatever happened over the past few days wasreal.
I climb up onto a table and sit with my feet sturdy on the bench. Imogen plops down between my legs, resting her elbows on my knees. Ava sits on the grass in front of her, pressing her back up against Imo, who reaches down to pet her hair.
Everyone else assembles and the staff is quiet and still, trying to pick up the pieces of this place that we all love, that we’ve given so much to. A few people throw me somber nods. I don’t know what they’re supposed to mean—thank youorI’m sorry—but all I know is that it hurts too much to nod back.
Mom and Dad are standing at the front of the group, behind Christina. Mom’s got on a vintage Billy Joel shirt and long jean shorts, her woven sandals frayed on her feet. Dad’s wearing aRoxwood Hospital T-shirt and exercise shorts, his hair matted under a backward Alpine Lake baseball hat. They both look like they haven’t slept.
I want to run to them, to be sandwiched between them in a hug so tight I can’t breathe, but I don’t move. Because Dad starts talking.
