My mom’s dull blue eyes dart around the room, thinking I must be somewhere close by. She no longer understands the concept of a voice over the phone. She can no longer register my face in front of her. But she knows this song, somewhere down deep in her mind, heart and soul, and she grins as I continue to sing, her eyes finally shutting, her head bobbing.
“Thank you,” I say to Tammy, the late-afternoon aide who is holding up the phone I got for my mom. “I need to get back there.”
“You need this time off,” Tammy says very slowly. “You’re busy 24/7. You never give yourself a break. You practically live here.”
“How’s she doing?” I ask. “Any change?”
Tammy turns the camera toward her own face. She is around my age. There are dark circles under her eyes, and I can only imagine the mental and physical toll such a job takes on her, how hard she works for so little money. Tammy shakes her head and gives me a faint smile. “Fading a bit more every day, just like the Michigan summer sunshine. We’re losing a minute now every day. Soon, it will be dark all the time.” She looks at me. “I’m so sorry. I know how hard this is.”
I nod. “It’s not just hard,” I say. “It’s agonizingly slow.”
“We’re keeping a good eye on her,” she says.
“Any visitors?” I ask.
Tammy shakes her head. “Don’t do that to yourself, Liz.”
“How’s Mrs. Dickens?”
She turns the phone toward her. “Wave, Mrs. Dickens.”
She does.
I smile.
“I’ll be home soon,” I say.
“Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” she says. “I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
I hang up, feeling more disjointed than before I called.
Is that what you call this? A vacation? Is this a happy tune I’m singing? Or is it a goodbye to a friend? A girls’ weekend, or a swan song? A wakeup call? Beginning of a new life?
I turn my face toward the sunshine. Oh, how my mom loved summer in Michigan.
I remember her taking any spare moment she could find during her busy days—when she was hanging the laundry, washing the windows, watering the flowers, picking up our toys scattered across the house, or cooking the casserole—to turn her face toward the light. It’s as if she knew how fleeting it all was.
I remember what Tammy just said. “Fading every day... Soon, it will be dark all the time.”
I look around, half hoping there is a closet—like the one in my mom’s room—to hide in, but I see V and Rach painting their nails on the porch, and I walk over and begin to bawl.
“Oh, honey,” V says, opening her arms.
I sit between them, and they scooch over until we’re one big clump of a human, and they hold me until my tears subside.
“We’re all taking turns crying today,” I say, catching my breath.
I tell them about my mom’s decline, my family’s indifference and my growing resentment, and they listen and nod. When there is silence, Rach tells us about the viral video, the fallout with her family and the difficult, but hopeful, call with her mom.
“How did I get so lost?” she asks.
“We,” I add. “How did we get so lost?”
“Do you think Em forgives us for ignoring our friendship for so long?” V asks. “For hurting one another?”
“I think she forgave us before she died,” I say. “I actually think this plan of hers was not just about giving us a chance to forgive one another but for us to forgive ourselves before it was too late. This is all about finding ourselves in a place that we—and society—lost.” I stop. “I mean, think of the silly things we’ve done here this week: Talent Night, swimming tests, Coed Socials, Capture the Flag... Why did we do them when we were at camp?”
“Boredom,” V says with a laugh.
“To test ourselves,” Rach says. “To unleash our potential and talents.”
“Teamwork,” V adds. “Make friends.”
“And?” I ask.
They look at me.
“To just have fun,” I say. “To just be a kid. To remind us—in this often too-busy, awful, hectic, hurtful, divisive, unkind world where we all want everything—that the most important things in life are still the simplest.”
“I am finding myself,” Rach says.
“Me, too,” V says.
“I still need a guide,” I say.
They laugh and reach out to hug me again. As if on cue, my cell rings.
“Devil phone,” Rach says. “You get reception everywhere. I only get it when I don’t want it.”
I laugh and look. “Billy,” I mouth.
“He can’t hear you,” V says.
“Hello? Oh, hi, Billy. We were just talking, painting our nails, doing all the Sex and the City things without, you know, the sex or the city.”
His laughter explodes over the cell, and I hold it back from my ear. The girls smile and start to paint their nails again.
“Well,” Billy says, “I can’t offer the city...”
Oh, my God, I think. Is he offering me sex?!
“And sex...well...” Billy fumbles over his words and actually giggles, like a schoolboy saying a dirty word. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry. You get me all tongue-tied, Liz. Anyway, I was calling to ask if you might be interested in going to The Smilin’ Smelt...”
“That place is still around?”
“More popular than ever,” Billy says. “And they still have their famous smoked chub Bloody Mary.”
“Is this a...”
I stop cold. The word date practically hangs in the air like mosquitoes. V and Rach gasp.
“It can be a group thing,” he says, his words coming out in a deflated tone.
No! I want to scream. I didn’t mean I didn’t want it to be a date. Me and my big mouth. He’s not the only one that’s tongue-tied.
“Sure,” I say too perkily.
“Is eight o’clock too late?” he asks. “Younger boys will be in bed. Counselors can watch the older ones. And I can sneak out and pick you up.”
“Sounds good! Bye.”
“You sound chipper,” Rach jokes, nudging me with her elbow. “Like a theme park character.”
“Shut up,” I say. “We have a date.”
“Ooooh!” they both coo.
“No,” I say, lifting my hand and gesturing at the three of us. “We. All of us. Group date. Like in eighth grade.”
“Do we need a chaperone?” V asks.
“Ha ha,” I say, jabbing my finger in their direction. “I already have two.” I stop. “We’re going to The Smilin’ Smelt.”
They shriek in excitement.
“Oh, my God! I always wanted to be able to order a Bloody Mary there!” Rachel says.
“Me, too!” V says. “They had the best food.”
“Then this is worth staying another night?” I ask.
“For you,” Rachel says. “Anything.”
“For us, Bloody Marys!” V says. “Friday night par-tay!”
They stand and start jumping up and down, wagging their fingers in the air to dry their nails.
* * *
A few minutes before eight, we are standing in the parking lot by our cars, actually whispering to one another nervously, as if we’re about to sneak off without permission with a group of local boys. Though it’s still light, we see headlights blaring down the dirt road, which is cloaked in shade by the canopy of trees growing over it.
“A pickup?” V asks, her pretty eyes bulging.
“There better be a backseat,” Rach says. “I did my hair.”
Billy pulls up in an old Ford pickup that has the Taneycomo logo emblazoned on both sides.
“Hop in,” he says.
No one moves.
“Do you ladies m
ind riding in the back?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Rach says. “We do. We’re not horses or hay bales.”
“Listen,” V says. “We don’t mean to Bogart Liz. This is a date.”
“Yeah,” Rachel agrees. “Go have fun. Just the two of you.”
My heart leaps, but I can see the disappointment in their faces.
“Are you bowing out because of me or the truck?” I ask.
They look at me.
Billy smiles. “I promise I’ll go slow.”
“Smelt!” they yell. “Bloody Marys!”
Their excitement is short-lived as the two of them, reluctantly and very dramatically, climb into the back of the pickup—taking a seat next to each other against the back of the window. I cannot contain my laughter as the truck bumps down the dirt road, and I turn my cell on them to record the journey. Rach’s and V’s bodies rise and fall with every pothole Billy hits. They scream and hold on to one another, briefly, before their hands fly back to their heads as if they can keep their hair in place in the open wind. Dust kicks up from the road, and V and Rach are hidden in dirt, just like Pig-Pen, until we reach the highway. When Billy picks up speed, their hair stands on end. They shriek and laugh, and point at one another, until they realize I am filming them. They flip me the bird.
“You will pay for this,” V mouths.
“Having fun?” Billy asks.
“Too much,” I say.
We chitchat about the wonderful weather and other completely lame topics until we get to the restaurant. We hop out, and Billy lowers the truck’s gate and assists V and Rach out of the pickup. They both look as if they just completed a mud run.
“How do I look?” V and Rach ask at the same time.
I take a picture and show it to them. They shriek and run to find a restroom.
The Smilin’ Smelt hasn’t changed one bit since I was last here decades ago. The tiny restaurant, an expanded former wooden fishing shanty in the tiny resort town of Leland—known as Fishtown—sits near the falling waters where you can watch the salmon run in the fall. The restaurant is known for its smelt, a tiny fish that looks like a minnow, and its old neon sign hasn’t changed either: a smiling smelt leaps out of the water, doffs its hat and then jumps on a dinner plate.
The restaurant is jammed, as are all places in northern Michigan in the summer. A line snakes out the door, but a man standing at a podium on the wooden walkway waves at Billy and motions him to the front.
“Good to see you, counselor,” the man says.
Billy shakes his hand and looks at me. “I was his counselor at Taneycomo, not his attorney.” He laughs.
“I could use a good one of those every now and then, however,” the man says. “Although ‘good attorney’ may be an oxymoron.”
“Hi,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Liz.”
“Chase,” he says. “Love your outfit.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking down at my clothes. I’m wearing a leopard headband and leopard top, a chain belt over tailored trousers, and slouchy boots. “I made everything, save for my slacks. They’re from the Gap. I’m like Michelle Obama: high fashion and a little Gap.”
“You should be a fashion designer,” he says.
I wave off his compliment, as usual, but Billy says, “She is a fashion designer,” and I blush.
“Cool,” Chase says. “Let me show you to your table.”
He leads us past a throng of people waiting in line, who groan audibly as we pass, before showing us to a small table for two overlooking the water.
“I made a reservation for four,” Billy says.
“I know,” Chase says. “They changed your reservation.”
He nods toward the old, long, wooden bar—glossy in the light—where V and Rach are seated, Bloody Marys already in their hands.
“What?” I ask. “Why?”
Chase looks at them and then at me. “Let me see if I can get this right,” he says. “They said, and I quote, that they didn’t want to ‘bogart’ your date and have you ‘wig out’ because that would be ‘so ’87’ so they said it was ‘cool’ to ‘veg’ at the bar so you two could ‘scarf’ some smelt and decide if you wanted to ‘go together.’” He stops. “I think I got that right.”
I laugh and look at them.
“Cheers, Betty!” they yell. “Enjoy!”
“I thought your name was Liz,” Chase says.
“’80s slang,” I say. “It’s like speaking a second language.”
He seats us at the table and for a moment, we watch the water rush toward the lake.
“What is it about water that calms us?” I finally ask. “I literally sell the lake to homeowners, and it never gets old.”
“I think we realize it’s bigger than we are and that it will be here long after we’re gone,” Billy says.
“Have you always been this wise?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I just packed your best friends into the back of a pickup. That wasn’t wise at all.”
I look over at them again, their hair ’80s big from the wind and too much hairspray. An older man who looks like he could be Rach’s grandfather is chatting her up, while a group of women are clustered around V, asking for her autograph and taking pictures.
The waiter approaches. “Good evening,” he says. “What will it be?”
“Two Bloodys and two smelts?” Billy asks.
“Why rock tradition?”
The waiter walks away, and Billy looks at me with a big smile and says, “Speaking of tradition, your outfit. Totally ’80s. Like the way your friends speak.”
I laugh and wave him off as I did earlier.
“You know, everything you’re wearing is back in style. It’s what all the girlfriends of the camp counselors wear on their date nights.”
“Everything comes back in style,” I say. “Winona Ryder on Stranger Things, for instance.”
Billy reaches over and grabs my hand. I flinch and nearly knock over a glass of water. I grab it and then hold onto it tightly to mask my nervous energy.
“I want you to look at me for a moment. Be serious,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, a bit too dramatically.
“It’s really good to see you again, Liz.” He stops and reaches for my hand again. I let go of the glass. He holds it tightly. I can feel my heart pulse in his palm. “I think Emily knew what she was doing.”
I stare at him, blinking uselessly like a flashing yellow light on an empty country road, unable to speak. Thankfully, the waiter arrives with our drinks.
“Speaking of tradition,” I say.
“Cheers!” Billy says.
“Can I even take a sip?” I ask, trying to get the drink within the vicinity of my face.
The drink is as big as my arm. Jutting out of the mammoth Bloody Mary glass are not just celery stalks and toothpicks of olives but skewers filled with cheese, sausage, bacon and pickles. But the biggest splash—quite literally—is a giant smoked chub, a whole fish, eye intact, leaping from the drink as if it’s breaking water.
True Michiganders love smoked chub—just as they love smelt and whitefish—but the reactions of vacationers seeing the drink for the first time run the gamut from laughter to horror, guffaws to gasps.
“This is the most Michigan drink ever!” I say. “Cheers!”
I take a sip, and then another, before plucking the smoked fish from the glass and eating it in a few big gulps.
“You’re the most Michigan girl ever!” Billy says, following suit.
When our fried smelt come, we eat them whole—skin, head and tail—and they are as delicious as I remembered. I try to pick at my fries as if I’m a light eater, but I’m starving after living off of coffee, s’mores and Jiffy Pop for days, and I gulp them down. Billy orders another round of drinks, and when they arrive, Billy looks at me an
d says, “To the next chapter of your life.”
I lift my glass.
“What does it look like to you?”
I stare out at the falling waters and then at Billy. “I know what it looks like,” I say, “but I don’t know if I can actually design the whole fashion show.”
“You can and you will,” Billy says. “If you can make that outfit...” I chuckle, but Billy turns serious again. “I didn’t know what my life would look like after my divorce. But I knew I wanted—no, needed—a new start. Things have changed so much since we were little—technology, travel, the way we interact, politics—but many things haven’t. I see so many young men come to camp, just like I did as a boy, and even at the ages of ten or eleven, their path in life has already been cemented: they will be doctors like their grandfathers, or engineers like the men in their family have always been, or...” Billy stops and points at himself. “...attorneys like their fathers. I was doing the same thing for my children. We decide the paths for the next generation before they’ve even had the chance to figure it out themselves, to just be kids.”
Billy continues: “Camp is the place where they’re simply allowed to be kids again. To figure it out for themselves. To take our advice and maybe, hopefully, take it to heart. So many of the kids I grew up with now are unhappy adults, and their kids are unhappy, too. I just want the young men who come to Taneycomo to know that they can be—and do—anything they dream. The only things that hold us back are fear and ourselves.”
I am nodding, and drinking, in agreement.
“My children have so little empathy for those around them, especially their elders,” I say. “And I know much of that is my fault. I grew up wanting to be a friend more than a parent. I didn’t get that from my husband, so I put it all into my kids. I gave in to their whims and wishes. I wanted to make up for all that my marriage lacked.” I hesitate. “But I know I was a good mother. I gave my life to them, to my entire family, and I don’t regret any of that for one second. This saddens me to say out loud, but I will, because I need to hear myself say it: my children are selfish. They will not be there for me, to care for me as I age. I know that. And I must accept that reality, as much as it crushes my heart. So I have to look at the next chapter in my life knowing that it will be me taking care of me.”
The Clover Girls Page 21