“Yes!” Brett shrieks. “So cool!” She jumps on me, filling my soul with an exuberant squeeze.
We begin our walk. As we get closer to the beach stairs on what used to be girls’ side, I point them out so Brett has a landmark, a goal to reach along the endless coastline. By the time we arrive at the steps, our pockets are stuffed with beach glass, the hunting of which slows down the speed of our walk immensely but also makes it far less strenuous on our legs. Climbing the beach stairs will be another thing, though.
“Be warned,” I say. “There are alotof stairs. But it’s really cool up there. The view can’t be beat. Are you scared of heights?” I wonder aloud.
“I don’t think so,” Brett replies.
“Okay, well the first two flights are more than fifty steps combined. That’s like climbing to the fourth story of a building. Come, I’ll show you. You go first,” I encourage her.
When we get to the first landing, the beach looks like a postcard. Brett is astounded. We sit on the bench for a moment, resting our legs, and I take out my phone. “Selfie?” I ask. Brett squeezes in close andsmiles brightly. The photo catches the expansive vista of blue-green water below, our oversized faces crowding the foreground.
The next set of steps lead us right into the forest that grows along the bluff’s edge. Deep and dark from the shade of abundant treetops above, the stairway feels narrower than I remember. Brett can’t believe her eyes, evidenced by her occasional gasps and mumbles ofwhoaandwow.We stop a few more times on the way up, allowing Brett to rest her legs and ask questions. When we pass a giant rock on one side, Brett stops to ponder it. The rock has a pair of handprints on it in very old, faded red paint. It’s also covered in bits of something Brett can’t make out.
“Gum,” I explain.
“Ew. Why?”
“That’s the Spit Rock.”
“TheSpitRock?”
“Yup. It’s camp legend. You have to spit on the rock when you pass it. A lot of kids used to stick their gum to it instead. It’s pretty gross.”
“Why would you do that?” Brett asks.
“It’s tradition,” I answer. I suck together some saliva and spit it onto the rock. Brett looks at me like I’m crazy. “Give it a try.” I smile.
The little girl pulls the top half of her torso back and lurches forward, launching a messy spray of spit onto the giant boulder. She almost misses, but the saliva catches the bottom of the rock. Brett giggles at the ridiculousness of it all.
We continue up the steps, stopping when I spot a deer in the distance. When it gets spooked, three others that we hadn’t even noticed jump along with it, leaping gracefully through the thicket to safety. Some of the wood planks are in need of replacement, and I point these out to Brett so that none of them give way under the weight of her body.
Once at the top, we stop for a drink of water. I can’t believe we’re standing here, less than 100 feet away from the cliff in one direction and Green Pines, the cabin I lived in for a spell that summer almost seven years ago when Matt and I rekindled our relationship. The beach grass grows wild, the long weeds promising we'll need a tick check later. I begin a narrated tour of every structure that remains standing on girls’ side. I point out the Health Office, the washhouse, the giant Dining Lodge, and my heart breaks at the years' worth of pine needles that cover the roofs of every cabin, making them sag in disrepair. I remember the sorrow I felt when I came back seven years ago and noticed the place was worse for the wear, and now—well, nothing has changed except for the addition of seven more years of rot and decay.
But I focus on the positive memories as we walk, recalling with glee the end of each encampment’s bonfire as we pass the girls’ Council Fire ring, remembering the songs we’d sing while marching down the road that led to boys’ side, showing Brett sassafras leaves and how if you suck on the stem, it kind of tastes like root beer. We snap more selfies, eat barbecue Pringles and make our way over to the farm. I expect animals to still be there, but they’re so long gone that even the air is empty of the old, familiar stench. I show Brett where the crops used to grow, point to the exact spot where her dad and I first picked string beans together. The barren space surrounding me is alive only in the recesses of my brain, a harsh reminder that we all moved on, even the pigs and goats and chickens; we all left this special, incredible respite behind.How could that be?I wonder. I note the harsh irony of it, the way Matt’s skin has thinned, the crow’s feet that frame his eyes when he smiles now, the stubble on his jawline that hold the first bits of gray and white among the brown. Like Matt, Sound Hollow has become a shell of its former glory. I grow quiet.
“Are you sad?” Brett’s curious, tiny voice asks.
I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re allowed to be sad. I get sad, too.”
“I’m sure you do, honey.”
“You know what helps me?”
“What’s that?”
“I sing a song that Daddy used to sing to me when I was little. It makes me feel less lonely. Want me to sing it to you?”
I smile, though my eyes are swollen with tears. “Sure. I’d like that.”
Then, as clear as a church bell, Brett emits the most melodious sound from her mouth. With eyes closed, the words drift into the vast emptiness, flashing me back to every Candle Lighting ceremony of my youth. I can feel the arms of friends wrapped around my then-childhood waist as campers and staff created a human chain, swaying back and forth to what was always a featured song in the sing-along on the last night of camp every summer.
Brett puts her arm around me as she sings.Her father must have taught her this.Pitch perfect, Brett croons the timeless chorus to James Taylor’s "You’ve Got a Friend."I smell the little girl’s strawberry-scented hair, indulging in a rare moment of heartbreak over the man who left an indelible mark on me, and whose beautiful soul dwells in the small but powerful voice of his precious child.
I only let the hedonistic memory last a moment, afraid I’ll scare Brett or ruin our otherwise amazing adventure. At the conclusion of the chorus, I wipe an errant tear with the heel of my hand, sniffle, and give Brett a hug. “Thank you, sweetheart. You sing like an angel.”
At this, Brett smiles.
