The Clover Girls

by Viola Shipman

  “I haven’t seen you in a long time,” I say, waving to my reflection.

  The mirror fogs again and, just like that, my image is gone.

  I head to the bunkhouse and dress. I am towel-drying my hair when Rach and Liz return. They are trying to sing, but their howls of laughter make them stop every other word.

  On top of spaghetti,

  All covered with cheese,

  I lost my poor meatball,

  When somebody sneezed...

  “I can’t.” Liz laughs. She bends over and crouches toward the floor. “Stop! I’m about to pee my pants.”

  Rach cackles and rushes to a bunk to take a seat. “Me, too.”

  Their silliness makes me giggle and momentarily forget about my life, and soon the cabin is filled with more hoots than a forest full of owls.

  I grab a brush and rake it through my auburn hair. “We sang all the time at camp, didn’t we?” I ask. “We’d sing when we were being hoppers at mealtime, setting the tables, serving the food, cleaning up. We’d sing campfire songs. We’d sing on the porch. We’d sing before we went to bed.” I stop and look at Rach and Liz, both rubbing aloe vera gel all over their too-red bodies. “Why don’t we do that anymore?”

  “You mean sing?” Rach asks, looking up at me.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “For fun?” Liz asks. “Or for a living?”

  “Just because,” I say. I walk over and take a seat on the bunk next to Rach. I rub lotion on my legs. “I mean, isn’t it strange that we all sang constantly growing up? We sang in school, in class, at camp, in our rooms, in our cars, in the mall, to each other, to strangers. And then, we just stop as adults. Why?”

  “We grow up,” Rach says.

  “That’s such an oxymoron, isn’t it? ‘Grow up?’ I mean, to grow up implies that we should continue reaching for things, be it our dreams or the sky. It implies that we continue to grow, which should mean amplifying our childhood joy, right? Why are we embarrassed to show emotion as adults? Why are we embarrassed to sing out loud? Why do we stop having fun?”

  I look up and realize that Rach and Liz are staring at me, mouths wide open.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m babbling.”

  “No,” Rach says. “You’re right. Just look at me. I think showing emotion as a woman demonstrates weakness—and I skewer women when they do it—but it’s a glorious thing that sets us apart from men. It’s a reason I’ve been so lost for so long. I can fake emotion as an actress, but I’m reluctant to use it as a woman. Men just see it as a weakness when it’s really a strength.”

  “And,” Liz adds, “the more we’re hurt, the more we hide our emotions and who we truly are inside. We bury all that, build a thick skin, so the blows will more easily glance off of us.”

  I nod. “Do you know what I was just remembering? David used to sing to me all the time. He’d sing up to my apartment window, he’d fill my answering machine with songs, he’d romance me in restaurants.” I stop and shut my eyes. “What was the name of that Parisian singer he loved? The French Frank Sinatra, David called him? Charles Aznavour! That’s it!”

  The lyrics of a man never forgetting the face of the woman he loves come to me as if David is singing them to me in that little restaurant in Paris that overlooked Notre-Dame. We ate snails and octopus, drank a red wine so sturdy it could have served as our dining table, and he sang to me, tenderly, beautifully, so without embarrassment that the oft-haughty Parisians actually applauded.

  I will never stop singing to you, he whispered.

  But he did.

  “Why don’t you call him?” Liz says, ever practical. “The longer you don’t talk, the more scar tissue develops.”

  I stare at her and nod, without getting up.

  “Do you often go several days without speaking to him?” Rach asks directly. “Is this a theme?”

  Her question pierces my heart. I can actually feel it twinge. I nod robotically.

  “I used to work odd hours all over the world,” I say. “Now he does the same. Sometimes, we’ll go quite a few days without actually talking. We text all the time, but we don’t talk all the time. There’s a difference.”

  “There is,” Liz says quickly. “Believe me, I know.”

  “And you’ve always trusted him?”

  “Rach!” Liz yelps.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say. “We’re all trying to be as honest as we can.” I look at Rach. “I have. And he has always trusted me.”

  “But you’re two different people,” she says. “And genders.”

  I lift my wedding ring. “But this...this unites us. Seals us. Makes us one. You’ve never been married...”

  Rach lifts her hands as if she’s surrendering. “You’re right,” she says. “I’ve been the provocateur too long. I’m sorry. I’ve just learned that men don’t play by the same rules we do.” Rach stops. “Because they don’t have any. And because they don’t have to.”

  I find myself nodding and thinking back over my life. I gave my heart to boys I thought I loved only to have them dump me as if I were an empty soda can. I had to watch my weight while men gorged without considering a calorie. I stayed at home for my family when I’m not sure doing the same would have even entered my husband’s mind.

  Our rule book is different.

  I toss myself back on the bunk and sigh, like I used to do at camp when the weight of the world was simply too much to bear.

  “Oh, honey,” Rachel says, rubbing my leg.

  “David gives me one room to decorate,” I say. “I know it’s a midcentury house and that he hates clutter, but I’m starting to feel like I’m the clutter.”

  I feel the mattress dip. I look up, and Liz has joined us on the same bunk. She looks at me and smiles sweetly.

  “I spent too much of my life going to bed next to someone that I knew in my heart was the wrong person,” Liz says. “I spent a good part of my life asking, ‘What if?’ I never truly loved my husband, and I knew it. We were more partners of convenience. While you were talking about your husband singing to you, I remembered something, too. Mine would snore when he fell asleep, and his nose would whistle. It drove me crazy. To keep myself sane, I would pretend he was whistling a song, and it’s only then I could fall asleep, thinking about how much we used to sing here at camp. I would dream my life was a musical and that a song could change the course of it. And then I would wake up and he would be snoring, and I’d be back in real life again.” She stops and reaches for my hand. “But the big questions you have to answer are, Did you love David? And do you still love him? Can you forgive him? And can he change? If so, then there’s a chance he will sing to you again, and you will hear it in your heart.”

  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have friends to talk to, listen to me, give advice.

  And now to hold me.

  “You never bowed down to anyone, V,” Liz whispers as she rocks me. “You’ve always been confident. You’ve always been our leader. That’s who you need to become again. And see how he handles that person.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you both.”

  “We’ll leave you alone for a while,” Rachel says. “Take a nap. I bet you never do that.”

  “I bet none of us do,” I say.

  They nod. The screen door bangs behind them as they leave, and I can hear their footsteps in the gravel grow quieter.

  There is silence. My heart hurts, and I turn onto my side. I lie very still for the longest time, stuck between falling asleep and the real world.

  Out of nowhere, a chorus of Michigan peepers sings a throaty song in a round.

  I smile.

  Someone is singing to me.

  And then I bury my face into the pillow and cry.

  Rachel

  I am squirreling around in the shed. I scan a rusty shovel and a rake missi
ng most of its teeth and then spot the kayak Emily got us. It is already covered in cobwebs. I just want to get lost in the day like I did as a kid. I don’t want every minute planned and scheduled. I just want to be still, present, here.

  Are all of us running from our lives? Or are we running toward something?

  How can such strong women be so successful and still so lost?

  Maybe Em knew we just needed a summer vacation.

  I pull the kayak into the sun and lift my face toward it, feeling hopeful, which is what the lost need to feel more than anything.

  In some point over the last week, the optimist has tumbled out of me, just like the bugs that tumble forth when I rattle the kayak.

  What could this place become?

  Who could I become?

  A daddy longlegs skitters its way back to the shed. “I’ve worked with worse,” I yell to it. “Way worse.”

  I drag the kayak all the way into the lake, up to my shins, and begin to wash it off.

  Like most adults, it is hard for me to be idle. It is hard for me to still my mind. I must always busy myself, keep occupied, for I know that if I don’t, I will dwell on the mess I’ve made of my life.

  You may be successful, but you are not a success, young lady.

  My mom’s words from our horrific holiday reunion a few years ago ring in my head. I brought gifts, hoping for a peaceful Christmas.

  My mom brought—as my dad liked to say—a can of whoop-ass.

  My cell trills in my pocket constantly, and I keep ignoring it. I know that when I leave this place, I may not have any clients, but I may have earned back my soul.

  Would you be proud then, Mom? I wonder.

  What about you, Dad?

  I toss handfuls of water onto the kayak and then turn it upside down. I drag it back to the shore and sit on one end facing the lake. My phone continues to vibrate, and I yank it angrily from my shorts pocket, lifting my arm into the air and thinking of throwing it into the lake. Reception at this camp is like controlling a hotheaded political candidate: you never know when it’s going to go off.

  I glance at the endless texts and voice mails that have come in the last few hours.

  You’re trending!

  A text from my assistant catches my eye. I open it.

  And not in a good way! it continues. Take a deep breath.

  The last few years of my life have all centered around taking a deep breath. I take yet another one and click on the link.

  It’s a parody video by Eunice Unicorn, a comedienne and singer who became famous for her YouTube videos spoofing interviews with conservative political figures set to parody musical numbers. I glance at the number of views: three million and counting. My stomach drops, and I inhale yet again. I enlarge the video, turn up the volume and hit Play.

  Eunice is wearing a Pure Michigan sweatshirt that she has bedazzled in seemingly thousands of sequins. She is wearing her trademark pink cat-eye glasses studded with rhinestones, her purple-gray wig, and enough pancake makeup to make you wonder if she’s forty or a hundred and forty.

  The video begins with the now infamous Ralph Ruddy video outside the bar. Part of me is instantly relieved that the focus of Eunice’s biting satire is going to be on him. But after the footage of Ralph ends, the video shifts to yours truly. Eunice is seated on a set that looks very much like the one from Red, White & You, the national morning political talk show on which I frequently appear. She is seated in the same chair and spot as Chip Collins, the show’s anchor. The TV show’s graphics play, and Eunice turns to face the camera.

  “I’m pleased to be joined today by Ralph Ruddy’s spokeswoman, Rachel Ives, who also serves as campaign operative and spokesperson for many of the nation’s leading conservative male candidates. Rachel, thanks for joining me.”

  Eunice has edited me into the video, as if I’m sitting right next to her, chatting. I mean, it’s so insanely real-looking, I feel as if I might have been there, too.

  “Ralph Ruddy is pro-woman,” I say.

  Oh, my God. She’s using all my past interviews.

  “As a woman, I wouldn’t support a candidate who didn’t see women as equals,” I continue to babble. “Ralph believes women don’t need a handout, we need hands applauding all we do.”

  “Then let’s applaud your incredible efforts on behalf of women and our rights!”

  Eunice applauds, her clapping echoing as if she’s in an empty studio, and looks around, suddenly understanding that no one is applauding with her. It makes the whole thing—and my responses—seem that much more uncomfortable. And then, Eunice does what has made her famous. She takes a familiar song and rewrites the lyrics to parody the person she’s interviewing.

  Which is me.

  “I am woman, hear me snore...” Eunice begins to sing.

  The old Helen Reddy song, which my parents loved, I think. My heart stops, as I continue to watch her shred me apart in front of the nation, all of my old sound bites coming back to haunt me.

  As well as my old sitcoms.

  Eunice has edited old scenes from Sorority Sisters that show us tackling sensitive topics—teen pregnancy, sexual harassment, rape, access to health care—and me turning my back on my old friends, locking them in prison, laughing at them. All to the too-perfect lyrics of I Am Woman.

  At the end of the video, Eunice looks at me and asks, “Any final words, Rachel?”

  “I am pro-woman. I am pro-woman. I am pro-woman.”

  I keep parroting the words, over and over, staring directly at Eunice. It is chilling. It is heartbreaking.

  No, I think. It is accurate.

  Can you please handle this? I text my assistant. Put out a statement saying I thought it was funny. Nip it in the bud. Show them we have a sense of humor. Say that I love Eunice’s sweatshirt, and it’s nice to see her supporting the great state of Michigan.

  I hit Send.

  As soon as I do, I am furious at myself. I throw my cell down on the sand, pull the kayak back into the lake and jump in. The momentum propels me into Birchwood, and it’s only then I realize I don’t have a paddle, a way to go forward or get back to shore.

  The perfect analogy.

  And so I lean back in the kayak and float.

  For a long while, my mind races, my brain jagged. I can only imagine what people are saying, the comments the media is making about me. I can only imagine how many more times the video will be viewed, how many times it’s been shown on TV and laughed at by all the pundits. I can only imagine the calls my office is receiving. I’m never one to go MIA. I’m never one to back down from a fight. But this no longer feels like a fight. It’s more like Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots, the game I played with my dad where red and blue robot fighters stand in the middle of a boxing ring and hit each other, the goal to be the first to knock your opponent’s block off. The whole goal is to inflict as much damage as possible.

  I’ve done that for too long. I’ve punched and punched with incredible anger and faux bravado, and still there is no victor. There are only losers, me being the biggest one.

  When I played the game with my dad, we’d laugh and laugh, mostly because we swung and missed so many times, and because it seemed so silly when one of the boxers’ heads would spring off after an uppercut connected to his jaw. But there are no winners in today’s political boxing matches. The only ones getting hurt are real Americans.

  All of us.

  I stretch my legs out in front of me, lean back and shut my eyes. My instincts want me to steer, to open my eyes, to see where I’m going, but I fight that urge and let the wind carry me. My mind refuses to still.

  I run numbers in my mind.

  If I quit, I will lose my career, my reputation, my income, everything I have built for the last two decades. I have two homes. A staff. Health care coverage. I’ve done well, but it’s not enough to
carry me into retirement yet.

  What do I do? Move back home with my mother?

  But I’m tired of fighting. Especially for everything that goes against who I truly am. I have started by trying to make amends with and forgive my friends.

  Can I do that with my mother? Can I forgive myself?

  I think of Liz.

  Life is not a musical, and a happy song may make you feel better for three minutes but it cannot change your life.

  Right, Eunice?

  The waves slap the side of the kayak, and the dull thwak-thwak-thwak of the water sings to me and lulls me into a more peaceful state. I think of my dad. We are playing games. I am waving to him as he heads off to work in the morning. I am eating cinnamon toast that my mom has pulled straight from under the broiler, the sugar and butter making a crunchy coating on top, the white bread soft underneath. I am singing campfire songs with The Clover Girls, giggling as we change the lyrics, my marshmallows sliding into the flames.

  I awake with a start, whacking my knee on the kayak.

  Ow!

  I look around. I smile and shake my head. I’m back at the shore, exactly where I started.

  In so many ways, I think. And perhaps it’s just where I need to be.

  At the beginning.

  Where I started.

  As the girl I once was.

  I jump out of the kayak and grab my phone from where I left it in the sand. It trills in my hand and is filled with texts and voice mails.

  But I know there is only one call I finally must make. Not to any candidate, or my office, or any news station, but to the person who realized I was a parody of myself long ago and did everything to help me from becoming one. The one who sang to me growing up and believed I could be anything I dreamed.

  I dial a number I haven’t called in ages. I still know it by heart.

  My heart races as the phone rings.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. “It’s Rachel.”

  Liz

  You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...

  I am singing the song to my mom that she always sang to lull me to sleep.