Page 19 of Until Next Summer

For all I know, I’m one of many best friends she’s had over the years. Someone like Jessie wouldn’t have the same problem making friends that I did. That I still do. Maybe for her, my return to Camp Chickawah is no big deal.

Either way, I’m about to find out.

The car turns down the narrow road toward camp and my breath hitches as the tunnel of trees takes me back in time. I squeeze my eyes shut, and suddenly, I’m the eight-year-old girl who misses her dad and just wants to go home.

Abruptly, the darkness turns to light. We break through the clearing of trees into camp, and I open my eyes, taking it all in: the Lodge to the left; the girls’ cabins to the right; the big open lawn and the boys’ cabins up ahead.

“This the right spot?” the driver asks as he rolls to a stop in front of the dining hall. I tell him it is, then step out of the car.

But it doesn’t feel right.

Something must be wrong with the space-time continuum, because this place is both everything and nothing like I remember. For one thing, it feels…smaller.Less significant. And the buildings all seem worse for wear. The dining hall, once looming and grand in a rustic way, looks like a worn-down shack. The exterior hasn’t been touched up in the last decade, and the wood on the porch is so distressed I’m not sure it’s safe to stand on.

If I were here in a professional capacity, my recommendation would likely be to wipe the slate clean and start with something new. The land is still impressive—majestic, even, with its acres of woods and pristine lake. It could be a blank canvas to build a new camp or a year-round vacation community for families.

But Camp Chickawah is not a client, and I’m not here to save it. I’m here to have fun and reconnect with a lost part of myself. Maybe then I’ll know what I want for my future.

Behind me, I hear a door open and close. I turn to see Jessie, standing like a vision before me.

Like the camp, she’s the same, but different. Older, and somehow even taller. Her strawberry blonde hair is in those familiar twin plaits and she’s wearing the uniform the counselors used to wear—a Camp Chickawah shirt and khaki shorts, a walkie-talkie on her hip.

She moves to shake my hand at the same time I move to give her a hug, and we end in an awkward collision of arms and hands. Not exactly the reunion I was hoping for.

“Hillary Goldberg, back at camp,” she says, stepping back. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

I don’t know this adult version of Jessie well enough to know if there’s a hidden barb under her words or if she’s genuinely happy to see me. I hope it’s the latter.

“I missed this place,” I say. “And you.”

Jessie flinches. It lasts a fraction of a second, but it’s longenough for my coffee to curdle in my stomach. She can’t still be mad at me, can she? I should have reached out sooner, asked if we could talk and clear the air before I waltzed in, acting as if nothing between us was broken; as if it’s been ten months and not more than ten years since we’ve seen each other.

I’m about to ask if she has time to catch up when static buzzes from her walkie-talkie.

“Go for Jessie,” she says.

I can’t follow the stream of words, but Jessie seems to understand. “Be right there,” she says to the person on the other end of the connection.

Then, to me: “I’ve got to take care of a situation in one of the boys’ cabins. Staff is staying on the second floor of the Lodge—feel free to find your room and unpack.”

“Oh,” I say, doing a terrible job at hiding my disappointment. I’d hoped to be in one of the girls’ cabins, just like the old days: sleeping on the bottom bunk, hearing the slow, measured breaths of my camp friends, knowing Jessie was in the bunk above me.

I should have realized Jessie would be in the small cabin where Nathaniel and Lola used to live, next to the dining hall. I went in there once—halfway through my second summer at camp, when my weekly letter from Dad hadn’t arrived. I was inconsolable, certain something had happened to him, that he’d had an aneurysm, like my mom.

Even though it was usually off-limits, Lola brought me into their warm, cozy cabin, which had a phone for emergencies. Hearing my father’s voice on the other end of the line was just the elixir I needed.

“Remember where the Lodge is?” Jessie calls. She’s already walking off toward the boys’ side of camp.

“I remember.”

“Dinner’s around six—you’ll hear the bell when it’s ready.”

With that, she’s gone. And I’m left to ponder if my former best friend is acting distant because this is her job now, or if she’s still carrying the hurt I caused by walking away all those years ago.

I sigh and look toward the Lodge, way on the other side of camp, then down at my luggage—two large rolling suitcases and a small bag. A far cry from the army-style duffel that was standard for campers back in the day.

It’s clear no one’s going to magically appear to transport my stuff, so I start the long haul, dragging one bag a few feet down the gravel path, then going back to drag the other. Drag, drop, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. By the time I arrive at the Lodge, my jeans are sticking to me like glue, and my brand-new hiking boots have left blisters on my heels.

The two-story building sits up the hill from the lake, and like everything else around here, it’s not as impressive as in my memory. I used to think the two-toned exterior was beautiful, with flat stones accenting the first floor and wood siding on the second. Now, a few stones have fallen out, leaving gaps of exposed cement, and the wood could use a fresh coat of paint. When I let myself in, I choke on the musty air. Even on the first floor, the Lodge has a distinct attic vibe.

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