The girl I'd been paired up with, Anne Marie, was fourteen and from Albany. As far as other kids went, she was okay. I wouldn't be best friends with her, but she was the least offensive person there. Some of them were obnoxious and annoying. At least she was relatively quiet and didn't irk me.
Because there was no other choice, we paired up for a lot of things. In the afternoons, we had some free time, and most days we decided to head down to the lake. We hiked down with our swimsuits on underneath our clothes, chatting on the way.
"You ride the subway to school?" she asked me, amazed.
"Yeah," I said, not seeing the big deal. "That's the way you travel in New York City. Above ground is nuts."
"Do you have a pass or something?"
"We have a Metro card. My parents just add money to it."
"Parents? I thought your mom died?"
Talking about dead parents was nothing here. Everyone was in the same position.
"My bio mom," I explained. "My dad is married so I have a stepmom."
"I wish my dad would get remarried," she said as we walked through the trail.
"Why?"
"He just seems lonely," she said. "Plus then maybe he'd leave me alone."
"I hear you on that," I commented. "How long ago did your mom die?"
"Two years," she said. "Cancer. So at least I got to say goodbye to her. But in some ways it was worse."
"How so?"
"Well, I had to see her go downhill. She had cancer for a year. She just kept wasting away and it was awful. No one knew what to say to me."
"I hate that," I agreed. "When my mom died I got so tired of hearing 'sorry to hear about your mom'. What good does that do?"
"Yeah, I got to deal with that too," I told her as we reached the boat house. There were a couple picnic tables where other kids had already put their towels and clothes. We started tugging off our shorts and tank tops, and flip flops. At first, swimming in the lake seemed disgusting, but I got used to it.
We stepped into the shallow end and let our shoulders sink beneath the water. It just felt nice to be in the coolness. We grabbed a couple noodles floating nearby and just hung out and talked.
"Do you have brothers and sisters?" I asked her.
"Two brothers," she said. "Both older. They're juniors. Twins."
"Do you get along?"
"For the most part," she said. "They fight a lot, though. How about you?"
"Two little brothers," I said, smiling as I thought about them. "Well, half brothers, technically. They're really sweet."
"How old are they?"
"Francisco is two and Sebastian is five."
"Those are cute names."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Dad's family is from Puerto Rico so they had to choose ethnic names."
"That's cool. Did you visit Puerto Rico growing up?"
"No," I said, resting my chin on the noodle. "I didn't know my dad til I was thirteen."
"Wow, really?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "My mom was pretty independent. Dad didn't know about me. When my mom got arrested, they found him. So, I had to start living with him full time right away."
"Wow, that must've been awkward."
"It was," I agreed. "It was like a different world with him. He actually had a nice apartment and it was a stable home. My mom was a drug addict and an alcoholic."
"So, are you and your dad close?"
I thought about that for a moment. For a long time, I would've said no. We argued too much. But lately, since mom had died, I felt myself needing him more and more, and craving stability. I was so grateful I'd found dad when I had.
"Yeah, I'd say so," I finally said. "He's easy to talk to."
"I wish my dad was like that," Anne Marie said.
"How is he?"
"Well, I'm here so he won't have to talk to me about it," she explained. "Talking about mom is kind of off limits."
I couldn't imagine dad not letting me talk about mom. In fact, he encouraged it. He was practically begging me to talk about her. I didn't realize I was so lucky.
"That sucks," I said.
"Yeah," she said. "Anyways, enough depressing stuff. What do you do for fun in the city?"
___
Back at the cabin, a couple of us girls ended up switching bunks around. A few days in, some girls had formed friendships and wanted to be closer. Anne Marie and I snatched up two beds off in the corner. We stayed up that night whispering. Suddenly, camp was tolerable. I didn't even call Dad that night.
It wasn't all just fun, of course. Camp was intense. We had group therapy sessions and there was a lot of crying. I tried to be tough at first, but quickly gave in. Everyone's stories were so sad. But, like Dad said, it was nice to know that other kids were going through this. If they could do it, I could do it.
"Today, I want to talk more about grieving," the therapist said to the group of about ten teenagers. "Once you hit the teen years, you're often really concerned with what others think of you. It might not be 'cool' to cry or talk about your feelings."
"No one wants a downer," one boy piped in.
"Right," she said. "There are certain times that aren't really appropriate to bring it up. Like at a party. But, it's important to have relationships with a few close people. And once you have that trust, talking about it can help.
"A lot of teenagers don't really want to talk to adults about things," she said. "We get that. So, who can share a positive experience when a friend helped you grieve?"
One girl raised her hand. "My best friend Erica," she said. "We had a sleepover and we ended up talking about things. I hadn't really let myself cry about it yet, but I finally just lost it."
"Is crying the only way to grieve?" the therapist asked.
A couple kids shrugged. It seemed like crying was the socially acceptable way to show your grief. But, I didn't cry often. I raised my hand.
"Nora, go ahead."
"What about withdrawing?"
"Withdrawing can be one people deal with grief," she acknowledged. "Is that a healthy thing to do, you think?"
"Probably not," a boy said. "I mean, if you're just letting your thoughts take over your head, you just get stuck in a rut."
"But if you're thinking about it, you're processing it," a girl interjected. "Some people don't like to talk. I've done a lot of reflecting and it's helped me."
"Good," the therapist said. "What happens if you're choosing to withdraw and you start to get angry?"
"Then there's a problem," someone said. "You have to let out anger."
"How can you let out anger in a healthy way?"
"Punch a pillow,"
"Go for a run,"
"Those are all good options. Has anyone ever snapped?"
I raised my hand, along with a few other kids. "Nora, how did you snap?"
"I yell. I've gotten into fights a few times."
"Do you think that's because you didn't communicate about it?"
I shrugged. She was the therapist. I was a little annoyed, quite honestly. Obviously, she was trying to get us to say that keeping things inside wasn't healthy. We needed to talk about it. Why couldn't she just say it instead of doing it in this roundabout way?
"What about writing?" I blurted. A few people looked at me, including the therapist.
"That's a great point, Nora," she said. "Do you write?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "I stopped for a while, but I just started up again while I've been here. It's therapeutic for me."
"Excellent," she said. "So, instead of talking, that can be another outlet. Other things like singing or playing music could do the same thing. Anyone do that?"
The conversation went on a bit longer. It felt nice that she acknowledged that writing could help with the grief process. I've never shared my writing though. Dad accidentally read some once and he'd told me it was good. I had to thank him for his good writing genes, if that was a thing.
That afternoon, I decided I needed a little alone time again. I wrote again, and as I was finishing, I thought about sharing it. What if I shared my writing with Anne Marie? The therapist? Dad and Vanessa? I sucked at expressing myself out loud sometimes. Maybe if people just read it, that would get my feelings out there.
A while later, I wandered back to my cabin. Anne Marie was on her bed reading. I sat down and she set her book aside.
"Feeling better?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I wrote a little bit. Wanna see some?"
"Sure," she said. It had felt like it would be such a huge thing, but it was simple, just handing it over. I waited nervously as her eyes moved across the page, reading my thoughts. She finished the first page and looked up at me and smiled.
"Nora," she said. "This is really good. Like, really good."
"Thanks," I said, biting my lip. I hadn't told anyone who my father was. I didn't like dealing with all the questions. My last name was Thomas, so no one was the wiser.
"I wish I could write like you," she said as she turned to the next page. I laid down on my bed, hands resting on my belly. It felt like a relief, having someone else read my stuff. She started asking me about a few things, and it sparked some good conversation.
That night, I called Dad and I was actually in a good mood.
"Dad, guess what?" I asked him.
"What?" he gladly played along.
"I've been writing a bunch while I've been here," I told him. "And today I showed some to this other girl, Anne Marie, who I've been hanging out with."
"That's great, sweetheart," he told me. "Sharing your writing can be hard sometimes. I'm proud of you."
I smiled at the compliment. "Do you wanna read some when I get back?"
"I would love to," he told me, and I knew he meant it. Writing was something we had in common. Sometimes I think he had a hard to relating to me, but this was something we both liked. Dad and I caught up a little more. Cisco was turning into more and more of a monkey every day. They took him to a gymnastics club twice a week just so he could climb around and not cause destruction on the apartment. It helped, but he was still having to constantly be pulled off things at home.
"Sebastian has a loose tooth," he reported. "He really wants to show you, but Facetime isn't working so well. He's trying his best not to wiggle it so he can show you before it comes out."
"That's so sweet," I told him. "How's Vanessa?"
"Oh, you know," he said. "A force to be reckoned with, like usual. She keeps me in line."
I giggled a little at that. Vanessa definitely seemed more like the adult in the relationship. Dad could be a ham and a bit of a kid. But that's why I loved him. The bell rang for dinner time.
"I've gotta go, Dad," I told him. "Dinner. Give everyone a kiss for me. Love you!"
He told me he loved me too and we hung up. Anne Marie and I linked arms and we ran off to the mess hall.