The Summer List

by Amy Mason Doan

  31

  Early morning, 42nd day of camp

  The night after meeting Daniel

  She lay in her top bunk licking icing and pasty cinnamon filling from her fingers. Not even trying to salvage half an hour of sleep before the lights snapped on. She’d be exhausted by lunchtime.

  She guessed that across the room, Alexandra had already slipped into unconsciousness, relaxing into sleep after their overnight field trip as effortlessly as she told her lies.

  Alexandra. She hadn’t gotten the chance to ask her why she’d invented Sandy.

  But she thought she knew.

  Another name meant it wasn’t really Alexandra who’d been dumped at a camp with no visiting day. It wasn’t Alexandra who had to endure Miss Veach reading Revelation for an hour, pounding the podium, her voice hoarse with rage: Those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and liars, the sexually deviant—they will be consigned to the lake of burning sulfur! Who had to raise her hand at the stage-whispered finale, instead of laughing at how ridiculous it all sounded: Can you smell that sulfur?

  Yes, she could understand it.

  But Alexandra would go back to a home like Three Pines. The rules and the shame pressing her down, keeping her small. No boys, no radio. Acting a part, sneaking over to the cable car turnaround to see the strange, older Daniel, flipping off her life in the dark.

  Not her. One more week, and she and her mom would be home. Together. Her mom would apologize for signing her up for this weird place, and laugh at how boring her adult retreat had been. They’d trade stories, make up for lost time. Blast their stereo so loud their upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Crawley, would stomp on the floor, and her mom would turn it down a little but give the ceiling the finger right in front of her.

  They’d keep playing music until it erased every minute of this summer.

  One week later

  Last day of camp

  She was the first one in the parking lot on pickup day.

  When the white Pontiac pulled in she didn’t give her mom a chance to park. She knocked on the trunk until it popped, threw her sleeping bag and duffel in, slammed the lid, and heaved herself into the passenger seat.

  “Honey I have to sign you out, and don’t you want me to meet your new friends, I—”

  “Just drive, Mom. Let’s just get the hell out of here.” She laughed, giddy. Goodbye, Three Pines. It’s been real.

  Her mother’s fingers tightened on the wheel. She didn’t laugh. “Don’t speak like that, Katherine.”

  And she knew everything had changed.

  32

  Another Tiny Surprise

  2016

  Saturday, 3:00 p.m.

  Items 6 and 7 shared a clue:

  Twins, these are

  A pretty pair

  Welcoming one or two to sit

  One like the water and one like the air

  Time has weathered them but there’s much they share

  We sat in the sun on Casey’s mermaid bench, just inside the garden gate.

  “She’s not going to put Yeats out of business, is she?” Casey asked, her knees up inside the oversized Dreaming Shepherd T-shirt she’d thrown over her bathing suit after Jade Cove. “And did she have to imply we’re weathered?”

  “The garden looks pretty,” I said. The old fence was nearly hidden in greenery now, the rusty gate spray-painted white. The puny starter flowers that Alex had planted the year she and Casey moved in were now higher than our heads. Raised wood beds held vegetables, fairy furniture tucked among the stalks. “Where’s Alex’s witchy section?”

  Casey smiled. “She lost interest. Now we have swiss chard instead of colt’s foot. Snap peas instead of valerian. Though the growing season sucks at this elevation.”

  I ran my hand along the arched back of Casey’s bench. She’d taken care of it over the years, stored it inside for the winter, protected the wood. It was cracking a little, and grayer now, but still beautiful.

  Casey pulled her legs out of her T-shirt tent and we took a selfie. She shook the picture to help it develop, hopping off the bench and nodding her head toward the lake. “Now yours.”

  I didn’t move. I was back in high school, that last unspoiled summer. I touched the rough old wood of Casey’s bench, ran my hand inside the mermaid and wave cutouts. My dad had carved it himself, with the router.

  The wind had played with a tuft of his white hair as he unveiled the benches, one for me, one for Casey. He’d twitched his eye at Casey in a wink. I’d been so happy that my two favorite people in the world liked each other so much.

  Years after I left home for good, I’d regretted leaving my bench behind. But by then I was afraid to see it. I was sure it would be a wreck, the wood warped, the slats broken. Abandoned.

  Casey turned, took one look at my face, and sat down again. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s too much.”

  “When I read seven on the list I was fine. I knew I was going over there today. I was planning to check in on the place.” I grabbed my shirttail and wiped my nose on periwinkle silk.

  “Let’s save your bench for later. We’ll skip to number eight.”

  “I can handle it.” I brushed at the tear that had escaped below my sunglasses. “I’ll wash my face and we’ll go.” I stood.

  She shook her head. “Seven’s on hold. Let’s do eight first. I haven’t been to Reno in years.”

  * * *

  Casey said she was tired and wanted to rest up for the drive to Reno, though I guessed she knew I wanted to be alone.

  While she slept I swam near the dock, not minding the cold this time. I bathed my eyes in lake water as I swam far out, daring Jet Skiers to cross my path, but I didn’t see any. Only a single yellow kayak in the distance, crossing the north point of the lake.

  I watched its progress with a pang. My old kayak had been stolen years before, when somebody broke into the shed. I was informed via a curt email: Kayak and inner tubes stolen. I’d written a fat check for new ones and a top-of-the-line digital lock for the shed. But maybe the kind of people who rented our house these days preferred Jet Skis.

  After I lazed on the warm dock, throwing tennis balls for Jett, Elle’s brilliant orange-and-purple beach towel wrapped around my lower half. Jett eventually got tired and stretched out next to me in the sun, but every five minutes she stood and shimmied to dry herself, spraying me with water and making every hair on her body stand on end. I sprawled on my back with my eyes shut, talking in the goofy, love-drenched voice I used when we were alone. “You crazy girl, Jetty, now I’m soaked.”

  “Great dog.”

  And every hair on my body stood on end. I scrambled to sit up, my legs jackknifed awkwardly under me, as J.B. walked to my end of the dock.

  “Sorry,” he said, staring down at the wood near my feet, clearly wondering if he should sit, or kneel, or offer to pull me up. He settled for taking off his sunglasses and stuffing them carelessly in his back shorts pocket. “I’m always creeping up on you. It’s not intentional, I swear.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Where’s Casey?” He scanned the lake, squinting against the shining water, hand still fidgeting in his back pocket.

  “Napping. We’re driving to Reno later. Clue 8.”

  “Seven down? Impressive.” He crouched to scratch Jett’s ears.

  “We’re skipping around a little,” I said. “You can report that to Alex.”

  “What makes you think I’m spying for her?”

  “Please.” I met his eyes.

  He feigned innocence at first, his forehead crinkled as if the accusation was absurd, but he gave in fast, sighing. “Okay. Okay, I told her I’d check on you. So I can say it’s going well?”

  “No major explosions.”

  “But...” He
stopped himself, biting his upper lip, stretching out the tiny ski slope of flesh above it. I’d learned in a portrait class that this part of the body, the gentle groove between the nose and the center of the upper lip, was called a philtrum. (J.B. had a particularly sensitive philtrum, as I recalled, especially when he was freshly shaven. Nice to touch with the pad of a finger, nice to brush with lips or tongue...)

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “What? Say it.”

  “Maybe explosions are better than running away.”

  I stared at Jett’s silver license medallion shining in the sun. I would not cry in front of him.

  When I didn’t answer he said, “Sorry. Jesus. Don’t know where that came from.”

  I took a long, controlled breath to try to steady my voice. “Yes, you do. You’re mad I left.”

  He looked off to the center of the lake, where there was a slight chop, frosting the waves in white.

  “So,” I said. “Casey says you’re some kind of family recreation mogul?”

  He waved this off. “Dumb luck. My first job out of school was with this robotics start-up that went public. I made some money to invest. I wanted to be near my mom, she’s had some bone trouble, from the chemo.”

  “Is she—”

  “She’s better now. Thanks. Anyway, they were going to demolish the rink so I got it cheap. The economy took off, people decided this was a happening vacation spot.” He hitched his chin, indicating the lake. “One thing led to another.”

  “Do you like the work?”

  “Occasionally.” He fished a business card from his pocket and offered it to me.

  I studied it politely. Baker Recreational Properties. “Do you still tinker?”

  “On weekends. You still draw?”

  “On weekends.”

  “You have your own business, too, right?” he said.

  I remembered this about J.B., how he asked questions, how he didn’t interrupt. I hadn’t realized how rare it was until I was an adult. Most men I’d gone on dates with used questions only as a kind of conversational tennis backboard, to return the topic to themselves.

  “I’m in graphic design, mainly local companies.”

  “I’d like to see your stuff,” he said. “Will you show me sometime? Pull pictures up online?”

  “Sure.”

  He nodded gravely, all business. Let’s have our admins set that up. Then a small, self-deprecating smile broke the taut planes of his face and he ran both hands through his hair. “I’m full of shit. I’ve seen your work on your website.”

  I nodded, trying not to show how much this pleased me. Not Googling J.B. was one of the most impressive achievements in my thirty-five years on the planet. A superhuman act of willpower.

  “You’re good,” he said. “Your head shot’s good, too. Though you look better in person.”

  “Please, I don’t...” That thing some women do. I adjusted the child’s towel I was using as a sarong, securing the waist so there was no chance it would slip. I forced myself to stop, look him in the eyes. “Thanks. You look good, too.”

  He raised his eyebrows and grinned, patted under his untucked blue button-down. I caught a flash of brown stomach and glanced away. “A little jelly creeping back in there,” he said.

  “That’s Trad Whitaker talking.”

  “You remember his name.”

  I concentrated on extricating a soggy leaf from Jett’s paw.

  “So you’ve been all right?” he said. “Happy?”

  “I like my work, and I have this wild girl here, and a nice place in the city. I bought it seven years ago.”

  “Friends?”

  “A few.”

  “But no family.”

  “I see my mother once a week.”

  “You know what I mean. Marriage, kids, all that.”

  “No. No marriage, no kids, no all that.”

  Casey would come out soon. Or he’d leave. “J.B., tell me. Please. Why did Alex do this now? Casey knows, but she won’t tell me.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the house, started to speak then stopped.

  “What?” I said.

  “I can’t say.”

  “But you know.”

  He hesitated. “Try to talk to Casey.” He gave Jett a soft pat on her head and stood. “Don’t gamble away your business in Reno.”

  He walked back down the dock toward Casey’s house. When he stepped onto the lawn he turned. “It’s a good thing, you coming back.”

  33

  Biggest Little City in the World

  Saturday evening

  Clue 8

  Hands and dirt and water for sale

  Physician, beautician...fake?

  Days that don’t turn out as planned

  Are the days our hearts awake

  Take a cone from the stack to prove you went back

  The for-sale sign was huge. “18,000 square feet, Broder & Wakefield Commercial Realtors.”

  “Well, damn,” Casey said. “I wanted some brown lemon water.”

  “Poor Doctor Mona.”

  * * *

  We had dinner in Reno, settling on a place called International Odyssey. The menu was the helpful type, with pictures of the food. “Substitution’s allowed!!!” The walls were painted in a wild mélange of scenes from different countries: a bullfight next to a pagoda, a man in a striped shirt holding a baguette in his underarm next to a camel.

  “What do you think, as an artist?” Casey said. “Personally I think it rules.”

  “I’m not really an artist.”

  “As a design professional, then.”

  “I agree. It rules.” I held up a napkin with a “Flags of the World” design. “This can substitute for the cup from the spa.” I dropped it into the goody bag. “Substitutions allowed!” I said in a perky commercial voice.

  “Cheers.” Casey raised her plastic cup of red wine.

  “Cheers.”

  “So, how many of these countries have you visited?” I said.

  “A few.”

  “France?”

  “Yep. With my mom, 2004.”

  “Italy?”

  “Same trip.”

  “Thailand?”

  “2008.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Also, Kenya, Namibia, Australia, New Zealand, the Cook Islands. Arctic Circle.”

  “Alex went with you on all of those?”

  “Some were with a girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.”

  “That must’ve been serious. What’s her name?”

  “Delia. She’s in Sacramento, we still hang out. We’re still friends, blah blah blah. And, oh, yeah, my mom and I took Elle to Machu Picchu last year.”

  Here I was, thinking I was the one who’d gotten away and Casey’d been stranded on the tiny almost-island of Coeur-de-Lune.

  “I’m jealous,” I said. “You’ve been everywhere. I can’t imagine spending even one night in a hotel room with my mother.”

  “So you two. It hasn’t gotten better?”

  Our food arrived. Chicken teriyaki for me, fettuccine for Casey. I shrugged, poking at the syrupy meat and gray-green broccoli. “We’ll never have what you and Alex have. I’ve accepted it. She didn’t have an easy time of it, growing up.”

  “Neither did my mom, but she and I make it work. Most days.”

  “That’s true.”

  Casey set her fork down. “But what do you mean, she didn’t have an easy time?”

  “Kids played tricks on her.”

  “Such as?”

  I hesitated. “The worst thing I know of has to do with your house. It’s a sad story, are you sure you want to hear it?”

  “If you feel like telling me.” Casey wiped her mouth with her napkin, leanin
g forward.

  My mother had shared the memory a few years back when she was recovering from hip surgery at UCSF. A story she’d never told anyone, not even my dad.

  About a summer day when she was young, when she thought the boys across the lake were going to let her play with them at last. There were eight of them, brothers and cousins. But it seemed like there were dozens; like they ruled the town. One afternoon thirteen-year-old Ingrid was invited over and made to sit on a bottom bunk, with blankets hanging from the top so it was like a cave.

  A test, to join their club. She had to reach out and touch things, guess what they were. Something prickly: a pinecone. Something delicate: moss.

  One thing was soft, warm. She caressed it, trying to be brave so she could join their club. Then she heard one of them say what it was, snickering. She knew the word from school. She started crying and they showed it to her, laughing: only a peeled hard-boiled egg.

  You have a dirty mind, Ingrid, they called as she ran. Stupid girl, the youngest boy yelled, echoing the others.

  A boy no more than five, my mother had whispered in her hospital bed, shaking her head.

  “Little bastards,” Casey said. “And everyone in town worshipped them. The idea of them.”

  “I wish she’d told me before. But still. Me and my mother, we never would’ve been best friends.”

  “She shared that story. That must mean something.”

  “She was on opioids at the time.”

  “Oh.” Casey laughed.

  “Anyway. We were talking about travel. I’ve only seen England and Mexico and Canada. I’d like to travel more.” I wanted to say, Maybe we could go on a trip together sometime? But I stopped myself. We hadn’t talked about what would happen after Sunday. I was oversharing after my glass and a half of wine. Soggy heart. I’d read that on some blog. The not-so-technical name for when you get tipsy and accidentally tell the truth.

  A waitress led a pack of seniors to the table next to us. I scooted my chair to make room for a woman in a lemon yellow pantsuit to push her walker.

  “Excuse me, dears,” she said. She wanted to park the walker against the wall and Casey was in the way. But Casey was lost in thought, staring vacantly at the woman.