“That’s the scariest part, in my opinion,” Jess explained.
“What?”
“You’re getting attached to his daughter.”
“I know. I never even considered that something like that could happen.”
“But she’s not yours, Taylor. Not even a little bit. I know you want to help her, but this isn’t like those kids at the center. Shehasparents.”
“So do they,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but it’s different. You’re not trying to bring them home with you like a lost puppy or something.”
“I just feel a connection with her. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Are you kidding? I understandcompletely. The connection you feel is that Matt and Brett look like a little family with a missing piece, and you think you fit into that spot. But that spot’s not actually empty. It’s reserved, Taylor. That spot will always belong to Leyla.”
Well, not today,I thought. Today she’s still in California doing God knows what. But I’m here! Because, especially now, time with this man is a precious gift and she chose to give it up. She chose to leave, just like I chose to come back.
Which is why I'm seizing the spring weather and Matt’s (relatively) good health and keeping a promise to Brett. Today, we're all going out to Sound Hollow.
I know that at this time of year there won’t be anyone there except for the facilities manager, who lives at the Gate House. Since nothing ever changes at camp, I fully expect the gates to be wide open, the visitor’s book at the office to be tucked off to the side of the main desk, and the whole place to look and smell old, musty, and full of nostalgia, exactly as I left it seven years ago.
On the ride out, Matt and I compile a list of places and things we want to show Brett. I have to resist the urge to hold Matt’s hand in the car as we share stories of our childhood. The ride takes over an hour, but Brett’s excited, so she doesn’t whine. She listens mostly, asks some questions, and quietly looks out the window. As we get closer, I try to tune the radio to STAR 99.9—a station from across the Long Island Sound in Connecticut—but I can’t pick up a frequency, so we talk instead. We drive to the end of the Long Island Expressway, and then, remembering the route as if I drove it just yesterday, I navigate past a slew of outlet malls and car dealerships onto roads bordered by empty fields almost ready for the planting season, big red barns, and the occasional shell of a farm stand. Brett lights up when she sees a horse grazing.
“So, you guys had real animals on your farm?” she asks eagerly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Matt replies. “We had chickens, pigs, cows—”
“Bunnies,” I interrupt, “goats, farm cats—”
“And that one sad looking sheep.” Matt laughs.
“Oh my God! Remember it? It was so fat! And always alone! Poor thing was so depressing to look at.”
“It was a girl, not anit. HernamewasSheila,” Matt remembers.
“How do you remember that?” I wonder aloud.
“I want to see Sheila!” Brett exclaims.
“I wonder if my barn kitten is still alive,” I add.
“And you grew, like, actual food?” Brett wonders.
“Yeah. All those veggies you never eat,” Matt says.
“Daddy! I do so eat vegetables!”
“Potato chips are not a vegetable,” he smiles.
“Yes they are! Potatoes grow in the ground, so, you’re wrong.” She folds her arms, triumphant.
“Okay, Sass McGee. I stand corrected. Yes, we grew potato chips on our farm. The sour cream and onion ones were particularly healthy,” he jokes.
As I make the turn onto the road leading to camp, my heart pounds with anticipation. Brett goes on about the beach, wondering aloud how a beach and a forest could be in the same place, when I pull into the driveway on girls’ side.
“What the hell?” Matt shakes his head. “Sorry, baby,” he says to Brett, referring to the swear word, an afterthought that is the least of my concern.
