“Well,” Matt began. “That sounded nice.”
I nodded.
“Therapy sounds like it’s helping him,” Matt said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“I guess he has plenty of time for it since he’s not working,” I replied, noting the anger in my tone.
“Do you think you’ll write back to him?”
“I guess so. I mean, I should, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Matt wrapped his arms around me and squeezed tightly. The pressure of his embrace made me feel safe. Quiet sobs formed in my chest.
After a minute, he pulled back to look at me. “You okay?”
I took a stuffy breath, wiping at my reddened cheeks. “I’m fifteen years old, and that’s the first time my dad’s ever written me anything.”
“Better late than never?”
I summoned a half-smile. Leave it to Matt to try and find a silver lining. But he, like me, kept a mostly positive outlook, an outlook rooted in hope. I chastised myself for feeling it now. Given his track record, it was unlikely that my dad was suddenly going to change. Still, I couldn’t help it. A letter! Maybe he was trying.
Because CITs keep a busy schedule, it took a few days for me to find the time—and the head space—to write back to my dad. I finally did it during rest hour on a rainy day later that week. My unit had gotten in trouble for a raid they’d done the night before on the boys’ Lodge. Our counselors came up with the brilliant idea to rearrange all the tables and chairs so that the middle of the Lodge was cleared out, and then they took a baby pool and filled it with water. Then they filled the pool with five ducks. Actual ducks! The next morning, all of boys’ side was surprised to find their Lodge occupied by a makeshift duck pond, and the old CD with the bugles had been replaced with a pre-school nursery rhyme CD that played “Five Little Ducks” instead of reveille. Even though the counselors were responsible, the unit got in troublebecause the campers knew and didn’t say anything. Our punishment was a silent rest hour. I didn’t think it was fair, but I also didn’t see the point in the raid, and since it was raining anyway, I didn’t mind having a little peace and quiet. It gave me the opportunity to work on my response to my dad.
Lying in bed, I leaned on my CIT binder and took out some of the flowery stationery my mom gave me at the start of summer.
Dear Dad, I penned in my neatest handwriting.Thank you for your letter. It was a nice surprise.
I reread the words and checked the tone. I didn’t want to sound anything other than grateful, and I was nervous that hints of sarcasm or pain might slip into the spaces between the words.
I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. It sounds like your therapist is helping a lot.
Things at camp are going well. Yes, I still get to dance every day, third period. I help out the dance teacher, Olivia, with a group of younger girls. Olivia’s great. She even lets me choreograph. So that’s been fun.
Matt and I are enjoying being CITs. We’re learning about all the things you need to know in order to work at camp. Hopefully, next year we’ll get hired as Junior Counselors. He can work with kids on the farm, and I can teach dance or arts and crafts.
I stopped, wondering if the letter sounded selfish. Should I ask more about him?
So, how is the job search going?
Pausing again, I wondered if my dad was even looking for a job. I scratched out the sentence and tried again.
So, how is the weather by you? We’ve had a little rain but mostly sun.
I shook my head. Camp was only a two-hour drive from home. The weather wouldn’t have been all that different in Queens than in easternLong Island. I sighed, rereading the entire letter. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. There just wasn’t much else to say.
Thank you for the envelope and stamp.
That was it. I couldn’t come up with anything else, so I ended the letter the way I ended all of my notes to my mom.
I love you. Write back soon!
Love, Taylor
I considered sending him something—like a gift—but I couldn’t figure out what I could put in the envelope that wouldn’t seem babyish. I considered making him a friendship bracelet, but I knew he’d never wear anything like that. Instead, I licked the seal and pressed it shut.
After mailing the letter, I waited. I knew it would take days for my dad to receive the mail, and if he wrote back right away, it would still take a few more days until I received his response. On mail duty, I tried not to get my hopes up, but each day brought with it the new possibility that my dad might have written me again, so I filtered through letters with quick eyes, looking for the scrawl of my father’s penmanship. On the one-week mark, I found a letter addressed to me in the white, plastic mail bin. This time, the writing was the gentle, rounded cursive of my mother. I opened it without concern for Joanie sitting nearby, fanning herself with a camp brochure.
Hi sweetie,Mom wrote.How are you? Things here are pretty good. I have a bit of exciting news—I got a job! I am officially Pathmark’s newest grocery bagger. It’s not a glamourous job, but every little bit helps, right? I was finally able to convince your dad that I could help out with the finances without it getting in the way of keeping the house and raising you. I mean, look at you! You’re already 15—a young lady! You certainly don’t need your mommy at home anymore. You know your dad, though – he’s so old-fashioned, he has to have his dinner on the table at 6 o'clock sharp and hisshirts ironed and all that jazz. I promised him I could do both. And I will, you’ll see!
