The Clover Girls

by Viola Shipman

  But we also helped each other, stood by each other and stood up for each other, and the good far outweighed the bad. What we all tend to forget is that our friends are human. They mess up because life is messy. But in the end, true friends forgive.

  Oh, my Clover Girls, it wasn’t coincidence that we met each other and found that four-leaf clover the very first day at camp. Have you ever considered it was our destiny? This camp was our paradise? We were meant to be together? That we have become who we are not in spite of each other but because of each other?

  Life, I’ve learned, is not happenstance. You realize that when you’re dying. Life is beautiful and ugly, awful and amazing, happy and sad all rolled together. But more than anything, it is oh so fragile.

  We all grow up and are too often divided into two camps just like we were during Color War: There are those of us who dreamily remember their childhood days with misty eyes and shiny memories, and those of us who only want to shut the door on the past and lock away the hurt.

  Camp Birchwood was both camps. Don’t you see? That’s life. You can’t know where you’re going if you don’t know from where you came, hurt and all.

  Before you leave camp, look at one another and forgive. Say “I love you” to each other. You may never have another chance. I will say it again: life is fragile.

  I didn’t die alone. I was never alone. Just like you’re not alone right now. You were always with me in my heart. And you always will be.

  I will love you FOUR-ever.

  Em

  My voice is shaking, and tears are streaming down my face.

  I hand the letter to V and unwrap Em’s mystery gift.

  It is a plaque in an old frame with crackly green paint and wavy glass. A saying is painted on old construction paper, the edges yellowed and curled, hand-drawn clovers entwining the border.

  A Friend Is Someone Who Knows

  You Are Not Perfect

  But Treats You As If You Are

  I start bawling. Rachel takes the plaque from me and shows it to V.

  “She made that our first year here,” I say.

  “Liz—” V starts.

  “We feel so bad about last night,” Rachel continues.

  “Do you?” I ask. “It’s too late for that. I’ve tried to forgive you, I really have, but you both walked away from me. When I needed you most. Em never would have done that. You showed me what I mean to you...what I’ve always meant to you...that I am less than you, and I always will be.” I point at the plaque. “I suggest you read that again. God, we had Em fooled. We are not the people she believed we were.”

  “Liz,” V says again.

  I hear my ringtone and rush into the bunkhouse to answer it.

  “Liz, it’s Tammy from Manor Court. It’s your mom...”

  I throw my clothes into my bag and hurry out of the cabin, the screen door banging behind me.

  “Liz? Where are you going?” Rachel calls.

  I turn and look at her, unable to speak, knowing we are no longer connected, and she cannot read my mind.

  I race to my car, the girls following.

  “Liz stop,” V yells. “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “It’s all a lie.”

  I drive away.

  The last thing I see is Rach and V standing in the middle of the dirt road, and then the sign for Camp Birchwood, the logs that make up the letters barely clinging.

  “Goodbye,” I say, not just to camp but to my entire childhood.

  PART TEN

  Campfire Ashes

  Summer 1985

  “Do you believe in God?”

  Rach, V and Liz look at Em. Every feature of her sweet face is illuminated by the campfire, and it gives her an otherworldly glow, light where shadows should be, and vice versa.

  “I do,” Rachel says.

  “Me, too,” says V.

  “Me, three,” says Liz. “We’re Catholic, so I don’t have a choice.”

  V and Rachel laugh at Liz’s joke, but Em only nods.

  The Clover Girls’ first year of summer camp is ending, and they are seated around the final campfire for the Campfire Ashes ceremony. Mr. and Mrs. Nigh stand, and all of the campers grow quiet.

  “Do you understand the historical significance of the campfire?” Mr. Nigh asks.

  The older girls nod, but the first-year campers shake their heads and shift on the ground in front of the fire.

  “It has great significance in cultures throughout the world,” he continues.

  Mrs. Nigh continues. “The campfire is communal; it provides light and warmth. It can protect us at night. It can boil our water. It can cook our food. It can keep us safe. It can provide a signal that we are one, or that we need help.” She stops. “At Birchwood, a campfire is part of our tradition and is even more meaningful.”

  “It is a never-ending flame and circle,” says Mr. Nigh.

  “It represents eternal friendship,” Mrs. Nigh says. “Tonight, we gather around our final campfire to celebrate the time we’ve spent together and to say goodbye. We will watch the flames burst and reach for the sky as we did this summer, and then we will watch the fire die, and bid farewell to Birchwood for another year. Tomorrow morning, we will gather here one last time to stir these ashes. We will give some to each of you to keep. Next summer when we all gather again, the ashes from the old campfire will be added to the new one, so the tradition continues.”

  She pauses.

  “We are one, from year to year, eternally connected. Even in the dark, we know there is light to come.”

  The girls are riveted, hearts pounding. The only sound is the crackling of the fire.

  “Like this fire, camp does not end when you leave here tomorrow,” Mrs. Nigh continues. “Neither do the friendships you made. You will carry the warmth of all inside you until we meet again. You will remember the importance of tradition, doing what is right and the value of friendship as you go back into the world. But always remember that we are here for you. This circle can never be broken. The light can never be dimmed. But it’s up to each of you to make sure that continues. Forever.”

  After the ceremony, the girls roast marshmallows, sing and say goodbyes in front of the fire.

  The next morning, the ashes are stirred and then scooped into baggies—dated on the front in Magic Marker—and given to each girl.

  The Clover Girls return to their cabin and begin to pack their belongings. As they do, Em opens her baggie, dips her finger in the ashes and makes a cross on each of their foreheads.

  “It’s not Good Friday, silly,” Liz says.

  “I know,” Em says, trying not to cry. “But I just need to believe in something right now...you, me, us...that I’ll see you again...that everything’ll be okay until we meet again...” She stops. “...that you really are my friends, that the circle can’t be broken and the fire won’t ever go out.” She begins to sniffle. “I have to believe that there will be light again next summer, or I won’t make it.”

  The girls close in on Em and hug her until she can’t breathe.

  And then they leave their cabin together.

  “Goodbye,” V says as her parents gather her things.

  “Goodbye,” Rach says. “I’ll call.”

  “I’ll write!” Em says.

  Liz stares at all of them. “It’s not goodbye,” she says. “It’s never goodbye.” She scans the camp one last time. “We’ll meet again when the clover blooms, and a campfire burns so big and so bright that we can find our way back home again.” She stops. “Even in the dark.”

  “Clover Girls FOUR-ever!” they yell.

  Summer 2021

  Veronica

  I sit on the edge of my bed and look at the souvenirs I’ve laid all around me in a semicircle on the comforter.

  A friendship
pin. A T-shirt from The Smilin’ Smelt. A lake stone. A vintage Camp Birchwood coffee mug. White birch bark. A perfect pine cone.

  I pull the last one from my suitcase, and my heart aches.

  The outfit Liz made for me on Talent Night.

  I lie back on my luxurious bed with a big sigh. For the first time in a week, my back and bed—unlike the bunk I slept in—don’t creak. But something is off.

  I am home. But I was home there, too.

  The way I left both places was jarring. I went back to Birchwood with too much anger, too much baggage. I came home with...

  I shift in bed, and all my souvenirs slide toward me, into the indention left in the mattress by my body. I finish my thought.

  ...too much baggage.

  I think of Liz leaving camp, driving away, sobbing. Why did we hurt her? Why did we hurt each other again?

  What did she do wrong besides win? Why can’t I accept that? Is it my own insecurities that have made me question my marriage, my husband, my life, my friends?

  I am exhausted, but the sickness I feel in the pit of my stomach is self-induced. I’m so ashamed of my behavior. I think of Rachel and what I did to her. I think of Em.

  “Am I a good person, Em?” I say out loud, startling myself. “Am I?”

  I secure the friendship pin to my top. I stare at my little rock, worn smooth from who knows how many years in the lake.

  I’ve traveled around the world. I’ve returned from Paris with Chanel, I’ve come back with Gucci from Italy and Burberry from London, I’ve had cases of the best Rioja delivered from Spain. And yet these simple little trinkets from my days at camp are worth more than all of those combined.

  Why?

  They may not be worth much, but they are rich in memories and meaning.

  I shut my eyes and see myself as a girl growing up in the 1980s. My imagination was my best friend. My world revolved around such little treasures like my bike, my Hula Hoop, my diary, board games—from Monopoly to Candy Land—tree swings. I would wake up early and skitter out of the house, roaming the neighborhood, coming home at dusk when I’d hear my mom yelling my name.

  As a teenager, the mall became my playground. My heart would race every time I walked inside. I spent entire weeks at the mall, eating at Sbarro, shopping at Benetton, Lerner, Merry-Go-Round. I would meet classmates at Orange Julius, hoping older boys would talk to us. I would eventually work at Units.

  Every summer at camp, we swam, canoed, played games, sang and talked.

  None of us were glued to our cells. None of us were trying to influence strangers on social media. None of us could Photoshop our pictures, or connect with anyone other than who was standing directly before us.

  Fun was free. Imagination was free.

  I was free.

  I sit up in bed and pull Liz’s dress up to my shoulders.

  I think of Talent Night and wearing this dress to the Coed Social, and I start to laugh.

  “V?”

  I jump. David is standing in the doorway.

  “Why are you home?” I ask.

  “Why are you?”

  We look at each other and shake our heads. We know that asking Why are you here? is not a normal greeting for couples who haven’t seen or spoken to each other for a week.

  “When did you get home?” David finally asks.

  “Not too long ago,” I say. “Sort of a quick decision.”

  He cocks his head. “Lots of quick decisions lately.” David hesitates. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you. I know how busy you are.”

  He sighs. His face looks genuinely pained.

  “What are we doing?” he asks. His voice is unsteady. “You’re not happy. I’m not happy.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I missed you,” he says.

  “Did you?”

  “I did, V.” He stops. “I love you.”

  “But do you like me?”

  “Oh, V,” he says, walking over to take a seat close—but not too close—to me on the bed. “What have I done to you? To us?”

  “I just feel so...unwanted,” I say. “I feel so...lost.”

  “V—” David starts.

  “No, please, let me finish. I feel like I never get heard anymore. I feel like that one room in this house you’ve given me to decorate: I’ve just boxed my past away in there and forgotten who I was.”

  I touch the outfit Liz made for me and then glance at the friendship pin. “Do you want to know why I never talked about my friends? It’s because we hurt one other. In fact, we hurt each other so badly that we just gave up. We stopped talking and started believing in the worst in one another instead of the best.” I look at my husband. “That’s exactly the same path we’re headed.”

  I look at my mementoes and continue. “But Em’s death has, ironically, brought me back to life, David. I used to be a leader. I used to travel the world. I went from a kid with no confidence to someone whose face was instantly recognizable anywhere. And then I went back to being a sad little girl again. But I’ve finally learned that my true worth isn’t tied to a dress size or what a man thinks of me. I had to learn to love myself all over again. And my friends helped me do that this last week.”

  David looks at me. “That’s the woman I fell in love with, V. I hope you know that.” He stops. “But I also realize my behavior has diminished you. I am too controlling much of the time because I feel like I’m about to lose control of everything. You, my career, my kids. It’s all so tenuous, and the pressure nearly kills me sometimes. My time is so limited, and I feel like I have to choose. And I’ve chosen my career to the detriment of you.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “You’re a better parent than I am, V. Our kids adore you. You’re a better person, too. Yes, you were—and still are—beautiful. And the first time I saw you I thought this gorgeous creature could never notice me, much less love me. But I didn’t fall in love with you because you were a model. I fell in love with you because you were a model person. You weren’t just beautiful. You glowed from the inside out.”

  I think of Em’s last letter and nearly cry.

  David studies a shaft of light on the bedroom wall and then looks at me for the longest time. “Our children are a reflection of you and not me, thank God. They are light-filled. And that gives me hope for the future...my future...our future.”

  I do not want to cry, but I do.

  “This is going to take work,” I say. “A lot of work. And mutual respect. And time.”

  “I know,” he says. “But I want to try if you do. I can’t imagine a life without you.”

  He reaches over and takes my hand.

  The doorbell rings. David stands. “Probably something being delivered from work,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “The world isn’t going to change, David,” I say. “We’re the ones who are going to have to do that.”

  He nods, leaves and returns with a box.

  “Not for me,” he says. “It’s for you.”

  I stand to look at it. “No return address,” I say. “That’s odd.”

  I open it. Inside is a homemade birch box. An envelope is wrapped around it with string. The box is poorly constructed, almost as if a child had done it: glue in the seams, the sides at an awkward angle. I pull the string, which is way too big for the package, and open the envelope. A long, handwritten note is inside. It’s from Rachel.

  Greetings from Camp Birchwood!

  I’ve never been the greatest of crafters, and this proves it! Em will always be the craftiest of The Clovers.

  To say that I’m sad and disappointed in the two of us would be a massive understatement, V. Remember how we all felt when we learned Milli Vanilli lip-synced all their songs? Duped. Ripped off. Angry. That’s how I feel right now, and I’m sure you have that sam
e sick feeling in your own stomach, too. I’ve actually felt that way for a very long time about myself, and our time together made me realize I have to change. Now. Life is too fragile. Time is too short. And the only way to change the world is to start with yourself. Friends support one another. Just like the plaque Em made: A Friend Is Someone Who Knows You Are Not Perfect But Treats You As If You Are.

  We didn’t treat Liz like that. And we haven’t treated one another like that for a long time. That’s why things fell apart.

  What do you want out of life? I now know what I want.

  I thought we all had rekindled the fire, but we blew it out once again, V. There’s only one way to make it right. Open the box. Go on. Do it now.

  I lift the lid off the box and recoil.

  Don’t worry. It’s not Em (lol). Remember the Campfire Ash Ceremony?

  Can you imagine how many ashes were passed along over the years? How many memories were created around those campfires? How many secrets were told? How many friendships started? Ours did. At our very first one. Our traditions, memories and friendship are forged in fire.

  We ended a lot of traditions over the years. I’ve enclosed some of the ashes from rope burn just in case there’s a chance we all can rise from them once again. I’ve decided that there is no Color War winner: We all are winners. All of our ideas are viable. Because we are all unique. All of our ideas are valuable. All of our ideas are needed more than ever today. But we can only do that together. Otherwise, it will never be what Em envisioned. A place where we can be a family, a place that—like these ashes—links one generation to the next.

  Boom, didi, boom, boom...

  Rach

  I’m a wreck by the time I am done.

  David puts his arms around me.

  I show him the letter. I fill him in on what transpired. As I do, his eyes widen, and they again focus on the light moving on the wall.