My dad held his hands at the bottom of the large steering wheel. It drove me nuts because when he'd tried to teach me how to drive (and failed miserably) he'd yammered on about keeping my hands on the ten and two positions. But that was the past, and it wasn't me who had been driving for an hour straight. I couldn't complain about my sore and stiff leg muscles, at least not out loud—not unless I was willing to listen to him rightfully grumble in return.
A couple of days before this trip, he sat me down and said that no matter what, by the end of June we had to make the trip up from Boston to Maine to visit Mom. Now, seeing the beach along York Harbor and the happy families emerging from their campers and making their ways to the rocky beach made me regret my choice to come. Once upon a time we were them, spending hot days together swimming in the sea and eating ice cream. We didn't need to take this route to get to York Heights, but it was as if Dad sensed I needed a few minutes to absorb that we were back. The salty breeze caressed my face from the open window and memories of us as a family washed over me.
The coast couldn't go on forever, and the van found its way to York Heights, passing by my old elementary school and onto the road that led to my mother's house. Tall trees stood on both sides, offering the long row of houses a sense of privacy. I'd gotten so used to the city—the high-rise buildings, the masses of people, the wide sidewalks—that I had forgotten that we used to live so uncomfortably close to nature.
In a way, I missed the coast of York Beach—this little village in Maine and how it always felt like summer. Not that I remembered much. When I tried to picture my old classmates' faces, they were just blurry images and one semidecent image of my childhood best friend, Jessie. On the day we left this town to move to Boston her freckled six-year-old face had tears running down its cheeks, and her hands were wound in her curly brown hair. When we came back briefly for eight months when I was fifteen, it helped that she'd sent pictures in the mail. Jessie and I didn't connect that much—so much for the lifelong friends you're supposed to make at age six—and I made few friends. No one particularly memorable.
Dad pulled up beside the four-foot high, grey stone wall that separated the road from my mother's house. Once he turned off the engine, the noise of the tools clattering around in the back of the vehicle stopped. With all the traveling he did for work, it always came as a surprise that none of his carpentry equipment or projects smashed into smithereens. He'd had this blue work van for years, and it always shone, tended to with care, as he did with all aspects of his life, namely me. We didn't do anything, not so much as move to get out of the van. We couldn't believe this was how our day was going.
"Okay, I'm willing to compromise," I said, breaking the silence.
"Emma, we are at your mother's doorstep. I think it's a little late to compromise. You'll have the summer to catch up with Jessie. It'll be fun."
"Dad, we weren't all that close to begin with. I sat with her at lunch sometimes, that's about it."
"You've been writing back and forth since you left. You're probably closer than you think."
"Writing someone and being friends with someone are completely different things," I insisted.
"You used to be close. Don't you remember?"
"When we were six, not so much when we were fifteen." I dismissed him. "I'm willing to spend two weeks of summer with Mom."
"Emma," he said, and then sighed.
"Two weeks is a significant amount of time." Prodding his leg with my shoe made him turn in his seat to look at me. His face held reluctance, and I knew he didn't want to drop me off here. "Two weeks with you? That's like blinking. Two weeks with her? Just the idea of blinking hurts. That's constant arguing, possibly crying—angry tears, of course—slamming doors, endless swearing . . ."
"Since when do you slam doors?"
"I don't," I said pointedly.
His expression was torn, and he mumbled to himself, "This was the arrangement, Em. If we don't go with it . . ."
"I turn eighteen near the end of summer. I'll legally be an adult. She can't request access to me."
"Think of it this way—one more summer and then you're an adult. Neither your mom nor I can tell you what to do. But I sure as hell don't want you vanishing into thin air when that happens. You hear?"
"This isn't a compromise in the least," I complained.
"It's all I've got," he said. "Are you being testy because you're leaving someone important behind?"
"Nope." Choking on my own laughter, I continued. "Did you know that depression can and will deter people from interacting with you? Not even bullies. The lack of reaction freaks them out. Besides, being homeschooled for the year didn't give me a chance to meet someone. Or reunite with anyone, really."
Dad gaining custody and moving me in with him and out of York when I was nearly sixteen was the right decision in the end. He took action and got me a personal tutor at home while I worked on my mental health. I spent my senior year, my final school year, at home.
He snorted, turning away to rub his jaw. "You react to plenty nowadays. Don't roll your eyes. You can rejoin civilization next year, if you want," he offered. "You don't have to put off college for a year."
"It's not that I'm not ready—I honestly don't know what I want to do with my life."
"You are ready," Dad said. "You can put up enough effort to joke about it. You're managing it much better now. You'll call if you . . . can't? I'll always be here for you."
"Yup, Dad. I will."
"So, no girlfriends?"
"No girlfriends," I confirmed.
After we got out of the van, he helped me with my luggage. In with my belongings were all sorts of his equipment: a toolbox with hammers, screwdrivers, and nails; a saw with its rusted handle; and a bunch of black-and-yellow chisels, a constant reminder that carpen- try was a form of art. Then there was his latest project: a bed's wooden structure. The smell and the dust made me feel warm inside—it was familiar, homey; it was him. I missed him already, even the ugly pur- ple work sweater he insisted on wearing that morning even though it was practically summer.
In front of me was the house that wiped the joy out of my life in one full swoop. It was where I spent the first six years of my life, and random spouts of vacations whenever my mom was available, but the memory of the last time I tried to live here was a shadow I couldn't escape. The house had always been painstakingly quiet. During the day while I was at school, my mother spent her time out, and she was also out during the night doing who knew what. According to the planner on the fridge, she went to her book club, wine tastings, any number of social outings she never spoke to me about. The one time I put a parent-teacher meeting on her planner, she scribbled over it and missed the meeting.
My dad lugged my suitcase onto the doorstep, and he was as reluctant as I was to ring the doorbell. With a grunt, he turned to his side and jabbed his shoulder into the bell. When nothing happened, he knocked against it again, and this time it rang.
"Next summer, you can lay on the couch and do nothing. You can volunteer somewhere, though. I know back home Elizabeth down at the wheelchair association always needs a helping hand. Getting out there, getting real life experience, and helping people. Sounds a little tempting, doesn't it?"
"It doesn't sound like the worst idea," I admitted.
"But the rest of your time? Fair game."
"Mom doesn't know that lying around's my favorite pastime."
"There will be a dent in her couch. One week in and she'll figure it out." We shared a grin.
The door flew open. I had just enough time to grab the handle of my bag before Mom ushered me inside. The door slammed shut behind us. The last time I'd see my dad for two months ended abruptly as she dragged me down the hallway without a word.
The house had changed so much since the last time I'd been here. New paint, barely used furniture, a fresh pinecone smell, and any pictures that might've included my dad and me were either in storage or thrown out. There were only pictures of my mom partying with friends, and of the pets she had throughout the years. The rejection clung to me like a cloak that ran all the way down my back and stretched on for miles and miles. My mom sat me on the couch in the sitting room.
"Emma, honey,"—she flopped onto the opposite couch—"as you can see, I'm a little frazzled. We're going on a cruise for the summer. Exciting, right? Don't unpack."
"A cruise?"
"Yes, we're leaving once our ride gets here."
"Ri-i-i-ght," I dragged out. "How long is this cruise for?"
"Two weeks," she answered. "Then we'll likely go to another vacation spot for the rest of summer. Spain, maybe? Rome sounds nice, too, right? Maybe we'll go to both."
"I guess so."
She buzzed around gathering toiletries and phone chargers and either dumped them into one of the many suitcases spread across the floor or into her purse, perched on the coffee table. The television blasted the weather report, so it wasn't too awkward. The lack of conversation wasn't a big deal because we never made eye contact. In fact, the paucity of interaction made it easier for my brain to pretend there was no one else in the room.
When a car out front honked, my mom and I lugged our stuff outside. The driver was kind enough to help us push it all into the trunk. I spaced out as they chatted with each other, and climbed into the backseat. Mom climbed into the passenger seat instead of into the back with me. What the hell?
"I've heard a lot about you, Emma," the driver said. "You're going to have a fun summer. Fresh air, a hell of a lot of sun—"
"I suppose Mom gets your services a bunch?" Practicing small talk could be preparation for being out on the open water on a giant floating hotel where I'd be stuck in a tiny room with my mother. "Sure. Maybe once the shock wears off, I'll be able to process it better."
"Services . . ." he mumbled.
"Speaking of surprises, Mom, you should have told me when I called you last week about this cruise. Do I need my passport?" The bag on my lap grew heavier. "Have I packed the right stuff? Do we have time to go shopping? Hell, where are we going? It's a lovely surprise, but it would've been nice to be prepared."
"I have your passport in my purse," she said.
"Has it not expired yet?" I asked. "I'm almost sure it expired in March?"
"It's not expired, Emma. Relax, I have everything we need."
Her calm tone didn't soothe my rigid muscles. "Where does the boat cruise to? Where are we boarding? Where are we going?"
"I have the itinerary here, one second." She took her time fetching the pamphlet from her purse. "Here we go. We're departing from Boston, don't huff at me, Emma . . ." She deserved it—I could have waited at home for her to pick me up to take me on this grand surprise. ". . . that's leaving at four. It's eleven, isn't it? We have plenty of time."
"You're the planner, you tell me," I said. "Where are we going, though? On the cruise?"
"The Caribbean—St. Thomas, Virgin Islands; St. John's, Antigua and Barbuda; Bridgetown, Barbados; Castries, St. Lucia; Basseterre, Saint Kitts and Nevis; and Tortola in the Virgin Islands again," she read from the list. "There will be a few days at sea, that'll be fun, right?"
The anxious pit in my stomach slowly dissipated, and my head filled with circus music and flashing images of long days exploring different islands with sandy beaches while eating exotic fruit at beautiful resorts.
"I've heard nothing from you in a while." Mom ignored the driver and twisted in her seat to face me. "Any news? Boyfriends I should know about?"
"Still gay, Mom. I suppose the correct term would be lesbian, but gay kind of sits better with me."
"Emma, please. Not in front of our company."
"He drives people places—I'm sure he's heard a lot worse than girls loving girls."
The driver stared at the road and the atmosphere in the car grew uncomfortable. I couldn't blame him—being stuck with arguing customers sucked. My mom flicked on the radio and stuck in a random disk. Apparently, listening to Christmas music in June was better than talking about my sexuality.
There had to be something positive about the situation. For one, being on a cruise ship meant constant activities, exploration, and space. The amount of time in a confined space where my mother and I would scream and shout at each other would be minimal. Especially on the days we explored, when hopefully we would be too tired to talk when we returned from whatever adventure awaited. With those thoughts circulating in my mind, sleep soon took over.
The car came to an abrupt stop, jolting me out of my quick, fifteen-minute slumber—definitely not long enough to have reached any port back in Boston. I felt impatient because I'd already spent enough time in a car that morning, hours that hadn't been necessary, and I wasn't prepared for this redundant trip. Gathering the bags around me, I exited the backseat. The car had pulled into the big, wide, grassy parking lot of Camp Mapplewood, the most heinous place on earth. Half asleep and only cluing into where we were now, I didn't want to believe it.
Maybe it took my mom tilting my chin up so that I saw the sign to get the message. That all-too-familiar sense of foreboding came back with a vengeance. The best way to avoid disappointment was not to expect anything from anyone. Yet my mother had sent my brain into a frenzy of excitement at the prospect of traveling and then snatched it away all too soon. My expectations were dropped into the dirt and stomped on until they were buried deep.
"I'm not going on the cruise, am I? You meant you are," I stated quietly.
"Well . . ." She patted her bag inside the trunk and shut it. "Not exactly, honey."
The driver got out of the car and leaned against one of the doors and said, "I'm not your mom's go-to driver, Emma."
He scooped up Mom's hand, and the light reflected off their rings perfectly. It was fortunate that I could blame my misty eyes on the glare of the silver. Before I could pull it back, my voice made a strangled, hurumpfff-like sound. The driver's offended expression didn't make me feel guilty in the least. He was a complete and utter stranger. It was uncomfortable that a person so important in my mom's life knew about me, but I didn't know about him. They were married. They'd had a wedding. I'd never gotten an invite. No matter how much it hurt that she didn't think to invite me, let alone tell me about one of the most important days of her life, it pained me more that it didn't come as a shock. The blow of my parents' divorce hadn't come from her either; it had come solely from Dad. Most news did.
This wasn't only a cruise. It was a honeymoon. Another kick, another stomp, and the final light went out. The twists kept piling on, and with them, my chest heaved in an effort to breathe. My new step- father's face, the rings, the suffocating, towering trees—everything burned into my brain until all I saw was red.
"Let me get this straight," I said, teeth gritted. "You're going on a cruise with your driver. Your husband. You're abandoning me here? At Camp Mapplewood? When you only get me from July to August."
"Honey . . ."
"Stop ignoring me—the point. You're leaving me at camp. Which is the place responsible for my PTSD?"
Beyond the sign was an entirely different planet. Everything about it terrified me, from the whistle of the wind under the moonlight to the raindrops that pelted against leaves or the top of the fabric of a tent. Even the roofs of the cabins beneath the stars gave me hives. The list continued as an endless line of things that contributed to this dark feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it was the constant tension in my neck as I prepared for attack. Perhaps it was the creepy crawlies scurrying in the dark.
"I thought you would've grown out of this difficult phase by now," my mother said. This statement caused a sharp pang in the middle of my chest. Another shot fired. She tossed her husband, whose name I still did not know, a look, like the stranger knew me at all. "Your father has always wrapped you up too tightly. He took you out of school. He took you away from York. He never encouraged you to broaden your horizons, Emma."
"He concentrated on more important stuff like me getting help and showing concern for my mental health?"
"This is an opportunity for you to finally make some friends, to see Jessie again. Since her, you haven't made an effort to engage with people. I want that for you, without your dad interfering and coddling you."
"It was needed, Mom. I was a zombie when I lived here."
"You seem fine to me."
"Yes, now, after Dad got me help." Silence. Speaking of help, where were my anti-anxiety meds? I rummaged through my bag and found the bottle. Good. Even if I planned on continuing to use the techniques my therapist gave me, it was nice to know they were there for short-term relief if I needed it. I admitted, "We're pen pals, me and Jessie."
"That's good that you kept in contact, but face-to-face interaction is so much better. Trust me. This will be good for you," Mom promised. "Ethan, help Emma carry the bags."
"Sure," Ethan said.
My teeth ground together and I trembled as we ventured into the grounds of the camp and stood in line for the sign-up table outside of the main building not too far away from the cars. Lots of kids were being dropped off by their parents, mine were no exception; from the outside it looked so normal, but it was anything but.
I knew I had to call my dad and grabbed my phone out of my pocket. He planned to stay with his brother up in the country to work with him. The phone reception up there was terrible, so I had to call now, before he reached my uncle's house in the next few hours. I was about to dial when Mom snatched my phone out of my hands.
"Hey," I protested.
"You'll end up thanking me for this," Mom promised. "Someday, you will."
"You can't force Dad to give you access to me for the summer, not utilize that visitation, and then restrict my communication with him."
"I haven't the slightest notion where your dramatic nature came from, Emma," Mom said, powering off the phone. She kept it clasped in her hand as we moved up the line. "I've taken the phone from you because camping regulations dictate there are to be no cell phones on the premises."
"Dramatic? Mom, I'm not the one who got married on a whim to Ethan here and didn't tell her daughter. That was you. I want to speak to Dad. He'll listen to me."
"We didn't want it to be a big deal, Emma. I'm sorry. I didn't think you would want to hear that sort of news."
"You found a guy who makes you happy, I am happy for you. But don't you see why I'm mad? It's one thing to not let me tag along on the cruise, which I wouldn't have been hurt by if you'd let me stay with Dad, but I'm at Camp freaking Mapplewood."
"I am paying a huge sum of money for you to be here, Emma. It's an opportunity."
"I never asked you to," I exclaimed.
"And who knows? Maybe you'll find yourself a boyfriend."
"A what? The fifteen-minute car drive didn't suddenly make me straight, Mom."
She made a face and hushed me as we stepped to the top of the line. My mother handed my phone over to the camp's director, Mr. Black, who had been in charge of the place the last time I'd been here. Mr. Black placed the phone in a tray full of the other campers' various technologies. In return I was given a registration document and that day's schedule. After I successfully signed in, I dropped my luggage with everyone else's inside the hallway of the main building. I watched as my only way to free- dom was carried away and out of sight—the only way to get out of this mess left with Mr. Black.
Mom brought me in for a hug and the warmth and care that lingered from Dad that morning vanished into thin air. No trace of my father's reassurance stayed behind to keep me company.
"This will be good for you," Mom said. "I swear it."
"There's no changing your mind, is there?"
"I'm afraid not. You be good, okay? Smile, honey, it's the start of an adventure!" Those were her final words before she slid back into the car and took off with Ethan—the guy who wasn't only the getaway driver.