“Only Green Pines and the Gate House. It’s really sad, actually. The cabins look awful. They just had no choice but to shut it down with so few kids coming here the past few years. I honestly think that’s part of why my dad’s retiring. It’s too depressing.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah. You’ll see when you head over there.”
“What about the schedule? Do we have anything today?”
“There’s nothing until after dinner, which is at 6 p.m. here in the Lodge. Dottie’s making lasagna.”
“Dottie still works here?” I laughed nervously. “Wow. Some things never change.”
“She’s a lifer, just like my family. But yeah, go unpack your car, relax a bit, and then come back for dinner at six. After that, Dad’s having a staff meeting. I’m just finishing up the training manuals now,” Callie continued, gesturing at the stacks of paper she was collating and hole punching on the long, metal desk. She grabbed an envelope, baking in a warm spot illuminated by the sun streaming in through dusty, thick, olive green curtains. Inside the envelope was a single brass-colored key. “Here you go.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Cal. I’ll catch you at dinner, right?”
“Sure thing. Hey. It’s great to have you back, Taylor.”
“Thanks! It’s great to be here.” I smiled, leaving the office, being careful not to let the screen door slam behind me.
Something about the air, laden with the sweet richness of dirt, calmed my nerves as I got back in the car and drove out the main entrance to Sound Hollow Road, making a left at the gate leading to the girls’ side of camp. The first house through that now lesser-usedentrance was a yellow-shingled cottage commonly referred to as the Gate House. It used to be inhabited by Larry Sawyer, the longtime maintenance guy, and I looked for his old red, rusty Ford pickup truck parked out front. I knew it wouldn’t be there, though, having heard through the grapevine that he retired earlier in the year, trading in his work gloves for the sunny skies of Palm Beach, Florida. Instead, a shiny black GMC Sierra that couldn’t be more than a few years old sat in the driveway alongside the house. I peered past the truck, wondering if that was where Matt was staying now.
Continuing down the gravel road, a cloud of dust forming in my wake, I passed the camp rocks: 12 boulders lined up at the top of a small hill along the road, each painted green with white letters, reading SOUND HOLLOW with an unpainted rock between the two words. I remembered the very first time I saw those rocks, riding into camp in a yellow school bus 18 summers ago. They seemed huge back then. I had many fond memories of hanging out with friends after hours by the rocks as a teenager, and had more than a few photos with groups of girls and Matt posing on top of or in front of the rocks. I was struck by the joy I felt at being back at this place, passing the horse stables, the home-ec center, rec hall, girls’ dining Lodge, and two dozen wood cabins, all painted brick red but with their shingle roofs sagging, covered in years of fallen and fermenting leaves.Callie was right. This side of camp has definitely seen better days.Finally, at the end of the road, alongside the entrance to the wood-planked beach stairs, I found my new summer home. I parked my car on a bed of pine needles out front and stepped out, the brass key in my hand. Sprigs of sassafras leaves climbed up the sides of the cabin, their green a few shades lighter than the color of the peeling paint. I slid the key into the lock, turned it to the right, and gently pushed the door open.
Mildew and cedar filled my nostrils. I switched on the light and swiped at the cobwebs that served as a reminder that the little house had been uninhabited since last summer. The living room was decorated in old, bland furnishings, including a dark wood bookcase, an oak-framed dormitory-style couch and a secondhand recliner. A small, boxy old television with a DVD player hooked up to it via a tangled mess of wires and adapters sat atop an old coffee table in the corner. The walls and floor were bare, both made of stained pine dating back to the 1970s. The tiny kitchen consisted of only a sink, an apartment-sized refrigerator, and a very old electric range. No microwave, no toaster, not even an old coffee pot.Doesn’t matter, I thought.I’ll be eating in the Lodge anyway.Just having a refrigerator of my own was a luxury. I’d never had access to a fridge when I was a camper, and once I became a counselor in my late teens, the only fridges I could use were the giant walk-ins in the kitchen down at the Lodge. Same deal in the bathroom, which was right off the kitchen. It appeared that I'd traded communal bathing for a standard toilet and sink, both stained with an aqua blue ring around the drain, and my very own single stall shower, adorned with a bright yellow plastic shower curtain. A daddy long legs spider hung out under the toilet bowl. I laughed, grateful for the familiarity; I hadn’t seen one of those in a long time.
The bedroom was my last stop. As expected, it was small and undecorated, except for a bare mattress over a box spring on a metal frame. A wood nightstand sat next to the bed, and a rod was installed in an alcove to create a makeshift closet. I grinned.Anywhere else, this place would be a shit den. But here, it’s perfect.I made a mental note to get some empty milk crates from the Lodge, as those would be ideal shelving to hold my clothes in the absence of a real dresser. The black garbage bags I’d packed most of my stuff in would not work as a long-term (or even short-term) solution.
I needed a minute to breathe, so I sat down on the edge of the lumpy mattress.Matt Thompson.I knew there would be ghosts in this place, but never in a million years would I have expected to find Matt working here.
After my dad was carted off to prison and my final summer at Sound Hollow was cut short, I slogged through a numb senior year at my aunt’s home in Beacon Hill before transitioning to my freshman year of college at UConn. Matt tried desperately to connect with me during senior year. He sent me e-mails every day for the first few weeks, but I couldn’t find the words to write back. He convinced his parents to buy me a pre-paid cell phone, which he shipped to me via FedEx. He called every night, but after a while, I just couldn’t listen to the never-ending chorus of, “Howareyou?” and “What can I do to make it better?” It created undue pressure that Ishouldget better. There was nothing anyone could do, and it seemed the only person who really understood that was Jess. He even came to visit the first few weekends of senior year, enduring a drive that was over five hours each way only to be met by a shell of who I once was. Aunt Lucy wouldn’t allow Matt to sleep at our house, mostly because of her old-fashioned values, but also logistically due to space. So he’d rent a motel room outside of Boston—since Boston was way too expensive—and I’d stay there with him, going through the motions. I was a dazed survivor on autopilot. He tried connecting with me physically, but even the sex was robotic. Gradually, his visits faded. The calls and e-mails slowly followed. We never actually broke up, but I added him to the list of “how things were before” and grieved our relationship as if it had died along with my mom, or (perhaps more accurately) had become imprisoned like my dad, jailed by distance and pharmaceuticals. I knew things between us could never be the same as before. I had changed. I wasn’t the same vibrant girl he had fallen in love with.
At least, that was what I believed back then. Now, free of the dulling effects of my meds, I knew that my brain hadn’t been firing on all cylinders. I felteverythingnow, including the weight of my mistakes. The fear of seeing Matt without warning was firmly lodged in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down, trying to breathe deep into the will of the cosmos, promising myself that his being here was no coincidence. I closed my eyes, summoning my mother, wondering if I could believe in fate for just a moment, even when life had trained me to accept the cruel uncertainty and randomness of its events. My inclination was to call Jess, but with Matt in such close proximity, I felt compelled to keep moving, to clean, to unpack, to keep my mind and my hands busy and just let the summer unfold on its own.
I met Jessica Horowitz the summer before kindergarten, when I was shipped off to Boston to live with my aunt for two weeks during one of my parents’ “rough patches.” Jess was fun-loving and sweet. We became fast friends, splashing in the fountain at the Common. Jessica let me share a bag of bread with her to feed the ducks at the pond. Even when I moved back home to Queens, Jessica and I stayed in touch. We drew each other pictures as little kids. Stick figures gave way to letters as we got older, and we were allowed to speak on the phone on Sundays. Thirteen years later, we decided to room together at UConn. No strangers to long-distance friendship, we remained close even after graduation, when I moved back to Boston and Jess went backpacking across Europe with her then-boyfriend, Seth.
After pushing the thoughts of all I had lost into the recesses of my mind, the transition to college dorm life was an easy one for me, thanks to my many years of sleepaway camp as a kid. Sound Hollow felt like a punishment my very first summer all those years ago. I didn’t know my parents needed me out of the house; I just assumed I was unwanted and was being sent away. That year was a hard one. But in the summersthat followed, I grew to love camp in a way that most of my school-year friends couldn’t understand. It was the only place where I wasn’t defined by my crazy home life. Without parents around to stifle my voice and creativity, I blossomed, learning about myself in ways I never would have in the confines of my tiny bedroom overlooking the death trap of Queens Boulevard. That’s why it only seemed natural to come back here all these years later. If I knew one thing, it was that this place held magic, and I would leave here changed.
I went back outside and popped open the trunk of my car. I grabbed a garbage bag with both hands; it was heavier than I expected. I walked around the car, back into the cabin, and dropped the bag down on the living room floor. I unloaded the other two garbage bags, followed by the lone pink Adidas duffel bag and the exceedingly heavy footlocker. I checked the time on my phone: 3:45. I was surprised by how winded I felt after carrying in the bags. They were heavy, but I thought I was in better shape. My body hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years—not since mandatory gym class senior year. I was always in the best shape after each summer at Sound Hollow thanks to all the dance classes.Who knows?Maybe I’ll get back in shape this summer.The idea offered a glimmer of hope.
After my heart rate slowed, I decided to locate those milk crates so I could unpack my clothes into them. I also wanted to grab some cleaning supplies. I drove back up the main road through what used to be girls’ camp and turned down the lesser-traveled road by the farm. Cars rarely drove on this road, as it was littered with potholes and was made mostly of packed dirt and sand, creating a giant cloud of dust whenever vehicles used it. But it was a shorter way to get to the Lodge on the boys’ side, where—if memory served correctly—Bartlett Dairy delivered the milk twice a week. I passed through the farm, returned a wave to a farmhand, and slowed down to allow a pair of chickensto cross the dirt road before finally arriving at the Lodge. Inside, I was overcome by the familiar scent of wet dish rags and Clorox mixed with the fragrant smell of lasagna cooking. I was instantly enveloped, as if I’d just stepped into the olfactory version of a warm hug.
Approaching the kitchen, I spotted Dottie D’Angelo standing in front of a giant pot on the commercial stove. She stirred the contents of the pot, her long, gray hair tied up in a bun and covered up with a hairnet, her stained apron covering a bigger belly than I remembered. Varicose veins ran down the backs of her calves. I reached my hand out and placed it gently on Dottie’s shoulder, not wanting to scare her.
“Dottie?” I asked.
She stopped stirring and turned around.
“Taylor? Is that you?”
I nodded. “It’s been so long. It’s good to see you.”
“Pat mentioned you were coming back. It’s good to see you, too, honey.” She wiped her hands off on her apron and gave me a long hug.
“How’s Lisa?”
“She’s good. She lives down in Miami with her husband now. You know she’s pregnant, right? Due in November,” Dottie said proudly.
“I saw that on social media. I can’t believe she’s going to be a mom.”
