“We don’t know.” Anna chews on the inside of her lower lip. “Tara went to use the bathroom before dinner and didn’t come back. At first, her friends thought maybe she went to see Suzette. But she’s not there. She’s not anywhere.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Well, yeah,” D’Souza says, annoyed. “But she’s been gone for three hours. That’s not exactly a concern to them.”
“Shit,” Keely mutters. “And her friends?”
“They don’t know anything,” Anna says. It’s so unlike her, this defeated tone, that I’m starting to legitimately fear for Tara. “They’re as upset as we are. All they said is that she’s been a little teary the past few days. They thought it was hormones.”
“Look,” D’Souza says. “We’ve been over this. We called local hospitals. We’ve got a counselor in each cabin trying to keep kids occupied and calm. Mohan and a few counselors are in town, asking around. Rhea’s on the phone calling every contact she can think of.”
Keely grabs a flashlight. “I’m going to push out farther than the camp grounds, search around the lake.”
D’Souza nods. “Good. Take a walkie-talkie.”
“What do you want me to do?” I put my hands on my hips, ready for action.
“Actually.” Keely picks up a second flashlight. “Go put some walking shoes on. I’m gonna need you to come with me.”
Keely’s theory is that Tara might have been walking around the lake but stumbled. Twisted her ankle and got stuck somewhere.
“You’re sure this is the path you normally take?” Keely asks.
“Yeah.” I point my flashlight beam into the woods, calling out hopefully, “Tara?”
“Tara?” Keely echoes into the darkness. “It’s Simmons and Hansson!”
No response. I move the light back to the ground, to guide my steps. “You really think she would head toward Holyoke?”
Leaves rustle near us—something moving—and I yelp, jumping back.
“Tara?” Keely calls, unconcerned. Her flashlight illuminates a squat raccoon barreling away from us. Oh my gosh. Possibly rabid. Why is this walk so lovely in the sunrise and so terrifying at night?
We make it all the way to the clearing where Holyoke begins. The chapel lights glow brightly, and I’m relieved to see a light still on in my parents’ cabin. As long as we’re here, we might as well stop in. Maybe my dad can help look too. Drive around.
But Keely whispers, “This way.”
She’s hurrying toward the chapel, not looking back to see if I’ve followed. The doors open with an oomph sound, and I’m rushing in behind her.
“Tara? Tara!”
“Simmons?” a small voice calls from the front.
We don’t even glance at each other before we rush up the aisle. Our flashlights aren’t necessary in here, so I’m not sure why we both keep grasping them so tightly. They illuminate a scared-looking pregnant girl leaning against the front pew.
I crouch in front of her. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” She wipes the back of her hand across her cheek, looking so impossibly young. “Something hurts.”
“Near your belly?” I ask. “Does it feel like contractions?”
“I don’t know. It just hurts down there.”
“Do you feel wetness? It could be your water breaking.” Or blood.
“No, I’m dry.”
“Good.”
Keely presses the button, walkie-talkie to her mouth. “Souz? We’ve got her. She’s okay.”
I don’t even hear the rest of the conversation as I take Tara’s pulse—high, but not dangerously. I’m not sure if we should call 911, but I know who will know.
“I’m so sorry I scared everyone,” she whispers. “I was feeling upset about some stuff, and I wanted to go for a walk to calm down, but then it started hurting. Feels like my hips are going to split apart. I’m—sorry.”
“No one’s mad at you.” I squeeze her hand. “Keely’s going to stay with you for a minute while I go get my mom. She lives next door, and she’s a nurse.”
“Your mom?” Tara whispers.
“Yep. She and my dad own this camp.”
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Can you help me up first? My back hurts from sitting now.”
Keely and I haul her to her feet.
Of all the things I expected at the beginning of summer, opening our cabin door late at night because of a pregnant ninth grader is not one of them.
“Mom?” I call. “Dad?”
“Luce?” My dad’s eyes are wide, panicked as he jumps from his easy chair. He’s rumpled in his pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s a camper. I’m fine. She’s pregnant and walked over here from Daybreak. She’s in the chapel right now, says something hurts. I need Mom.”
“I’ll get her.”
“I heard.” My mom emerges with a robe wrapped around her thin body, head covered. “I’m coming.”
“Mari,” my dad says. “Let me see if the girl is well enough to walk, please.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffs.
“She is,” I insist. “She’s up and moving.”
My dad follows me, gesturing for my mom to stay inside.
“You’re going to pay for that later,” I tell him.
“You’re telling me.” His hair is a shock of white in the darkness outside. For the first time, I wonder if my mom’s hair will grow back in the same color, with the same curl.
“Is she doing okay?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Hanging in there.”
Once we hit the threshold of the chapel, my dad’s strides lengthen until he spots the girls. Keely has an arm around Tara’s back, and they’re pacing the center aisle slowly. Tara’s legs are spread hip-width apart as she lumbers forward.
“Hi, sweetheart,” my dad says. “I’m Dave, Lucy’s dad. Can I help you to our cabin for a quick checkup?”
“Yes, please.” Tara puffs out a few breaths, and I second-guess my call that she isn’t in active labor.
“Good. My wife is a longtime nurse, so she can help you. Everything’s going to be fine.”
There’s some strange collision of worlds, my dad introducing himself to my bunkmate as they both support a pregnant teen camper. I trail behind them to the cabin, feeling useless. Tara’s steps are heavy, and it’s impossible to imagine the weight that she carries.
My mom’s waiting by the door, looking frail in body but determined in stance.
“Hi, honey,” my mom says, smiling at Tara’s surprised expression. “Oh, don’t worry. Just a little cancer. I’m not as sick as I look.”
For the first time, I don’t believe her. She’s gaunt in the porch light, even her once-full hips slim in silhouette.
“Come on back to Lucy’s bedroom. You can lie down, and we can talk about your symptoms.” My mom holds out one arm, and Tara goes to her the way any child goes to a good mother: instinctively. “Dave, some tea, maybe?”
“On it.” He disappears into the kitchen, calling, “You girls take a load off. Do you need anything? Are you hungry?”
“We’re okay,” I decide, but I know he’ll bring us shortbread cookies anyway.