The Names They Gave Us

“Don’t do what?” I whisper to Jones. Mohan has his eyes closed, summoning breath or strength—I don’t know which.

“Sometimes, when Mohan doesn’t get his way . . . ,” Jones replies. He doesn’t finish explaining because he doesn’t have to. Mohan is quietly singing the first line of “Wind Beneath My Wings” and reaching out to Keely. The other hand is clasped against his chest, as if really meaning the lyrics.

“Stop it,” Keely hisses.

He does not stop it. He sings the next lines a little louder, and Anna sways happily. Keely looks capable of murder.

The faceoff becomes clear to me: Mohan will continue serenading Keely with this cheesy ballad, in increasing volume, until she relinquishes an onion ring. She starts chewing frantically, like maybe he’ll stop if the food is all gone.

But Mohan has almost reached the chorus. People have definitely started to look, and Keely ducks down. He takes a deep breath and belts the chorus with total earnestness. The family sitting nearest to us looks pissed. If Mohan notices, he doesn’t let on.

“Fine, you idiot!” Keely cries. “Take an onion ring. Just stop.”

Mohan snaps his mouth shut. He smiles serenely, reaching pinched fingers across to claim his prize, and I join Anna in clapping. Jones laughs, stretching his arm so that it rests on the booth behind us. He’s not putting his arm around me, exactly, but I feel tucked into him. Into all of it.

Happy: This. Them.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The path I take toward Holyoke is starting to get worn in, but it’s the first Sunday that I don’t feel propelled away from my new camp.

I run into my dad on his way out of the chapel, prepping for the service. “Hey, Bird!”

“Hey.” I squeeze my arms around his waist. When I step back, my eye goes right to his hair. He normally keeps it meticulously short, but it’s a little shaggy around the ears. “Is Mom in there already?”

“She’s going to rest at the house today. I think she has a surprise waiting for you, actually.”

“Oh. Should I go now?”

“Yeah, go on. I think you can miss one of my sermons without fearing for your mortal soul.” He winks, and something about it wrecks me. Now that I’ve backed away from my normal life, I can see the whole landscape. Now that I know what some of my campers have going on at home . . . yes, I see very, very clearly. And I’m not sure how I got so lucky. My dad with his steadfastness and his humor.

I bound to the cabin, pausing to examine the car in our driveway. It’s new and uncluttered inside. Must be a rental. Who would have a rental car here? The front door clatters behind me, punctuating the loud whirr of the blender.

“Aunt Rachel!”

I fly at her, arms wide open, and she turns to catch me just in time.

“There’s the bird,” she says, laughing into my hair.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know. Engaging in a power struggle with your mother.”

“Where’s my milk shake?” my mom calls from the family room. “I drank all my water, so I get the milk shake. Bring more chips, too!”

“She’s hungry?” I whisper.

“Yep.” She twists the lid back on a plastic container of protein powder.

“How’d you do that? She said most food doesn’t taste right anymore.”

“Oh, I have my ways.” She thrusts a bag of potato chips into my hands. “Take these.”

My mom’s curled up on the couch, feet tucked beneath her. A loose caftan billows around her, bright blue and embroidered with birds and flowers along the neckline. Rachel’s doing, I’m sure.

“Hi, honey.” She reaches out to me, clasps her cool hand in mine. “I’m so glad you’re here. Rachel is driving me nuts.”

“I’d pipe down if I were you, Jenkins!” Rachel has always called my mom by her maiden name, a remnant from swim team in college. “I’m in control of what goes in this shake.”

“How was your week?” my mom asks me, ignoring her.

“It was good. Really good.”

“Your Highness,” Rachel says, tucking the milk shake in the crook of my mom’s arm. “She’s been a tyrant, Luce. Guilted me into watching Titanic last night. Why did we do that?”

My mom twists on the couch so she can reach Rachel’s hand.

“I’ll never let you go, Rach,” she says solemnly. “I’ll never let you go.”

Then, with no ceremony, she drops Rachel’s hand.

Rachel’s eyes dart to me. “See how dramatic she’s being?”

My mom slurps at her milk shake and shoves a handful of chips in her mouth. “These are the best chips I’ve ever tasted.”

“When you’re done terrorizing the snack food, we’ll go swimming.” Rachel pushes my mom’s leg with her foot. “Don’t give me that look, Jenkins. I didn’t come all the way out here just to cater to your every whim while you whine about having cancer.”

I gasp. “Rachel!”

But my mom explodes in laughter. Hands over her mouth, rocking forward with her eyes squinted shut. She’s laughing so hard that it’s silent at first, but then she lets out a howl of it and Rachel does too, both of their faces red and teary.

“Yeah,” my mom says, her voice barely held together, “it’s just cancer. No need to overreact.”

Rachel wipes her eyes. “You always were a drama queen.”

This sets them off again. Maybe it’s more like hooting, I don’t know, but it’s primal and uproarious. I’ve heard them do this a hundred times.

“Okay. Swimming it is.” My mom shakes her head. “The things I do for you. Sacrificing more of my hair.”

The laughter, suddenly, feels very far away. “Swimming will make you lose more hair?”

She smiles sadly. “It comes out more in the shower. On my pillow too. It’s okay, Bird. It’s normal. It’ll probably be all gone by the time treatment’s done. We knew to expect that.”

“You want me to just clip it down now?” When my mom and I say nothing, Rachel scoffs at us. “What? Why not? I cut the boys’ hair all the time.”

“It’s already so patchy and wispy . . . I guess you can’t make it much worse.” My mom touches a hand to the flyaways. “All right. I guess so.”

Rachel has this way of nudging her right to the borders of her comfort zone. She won’t push her over, and my mom knows that.

“We’ll do it later,” my mom decides.

“Why not now?”

My mom’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Rachel. Like I’m a small child who’s not going to notice nonverbal communication.

Rachel understands before I do. “I think Lucy will be fine, ?Jenkins.”

“Me?” I exclaim. “Wait! What?”

My mom folds her hands on her lap. “She doesn’t need to see her mother getting her head shaved down. I don’t want that memory in her mind.”

“Mom, I—”

“Lucy,” Rachel says brightly—too brightly. “Can you run out to the car and grab the tote bag out of the trunk? It has my swimsuit in it.”

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