“Lizzie took me shopping,” she said, to Abby’s unasked question. So Lizzie was in on this, too? Abby made a mental note to have a full and frank conversation with her best friend at the earliest opportunity. “Don’t be mad at her. I swore her to secrecy,” Eileen continued. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“And you certainly have.” Eileen was trying, she thought again. True, Eileen’s hair was probably freshly blown out beneath the helmet, and yes, she was wearing a full face of makeup, and she’d clearly found time to have her legs waxed and her nails done, but she was here. On a bike. On the road. With Abby.
Which didn’t mean that Eileen was prepared for what was coming.
“Have you done any training, at all?” Abby asked her mother. “When was the last time you were on a bike?” Eileen opened her mouth. “An actual bike. Not a Peloton,” Abby said. Eileen shut her mouth and sniffed, looking affronted.
“I do the hour-long rides three days a week,” said Eileen. “The advanced ones. It’s not nothing.”
“No, but it’s not the same as riding a bike outside,” Abby said. “Where your bike’s actually moving, and you have to balance, and there’s bumps, and potholes, and dirt paths, and other people—”
“I’ll be fine,” Eileen said, nimbly steering around a bike messenger with a giant padded backpack to prove it. “You know what they say. It’s just like riding a bike.” She pointed her chin toward Lily Mackenzie, who was wobbling along ten yards in front of them. “I’m already doing better than she is.”
“Mom—” At least I came by my propensity for judgment honestly, Abby thought.
“I’m not here to cause you any trouble,” Eileen said. “I just thought it would be nice for us to be together.”
“Why?” Abby blurted.
“Because I’m sixty-three,” said Eileen. Abby waited, wondering if that was supposed to mean something. Eileen looked at her and shook her head. “You probably don’t remember. But my mother was sixty-three when she died.”
“Ah.” Abby could barely remember her grandmother Rina. Her mother’s mother had died when Abby had been six.
“And I really do want to spend some time with you, doing something that you love,” Eileen continued. She had her eyes on the path, not on Abby, when she said, “I understand I didn’t always make the right choices about your summers.”
Was that an apology? Abby wondered. She and her mother hadn’t talked about Camp Golden Hills in years. When Eileen didn’t say anything else, Abby decided that maybe even a vaguely worded acknowledgment was better than nothing. And, quite possibly, the best she could expect.
* * *
“You’ll thank me for this later,” Eileen Stern announced from the passenger’s seat as their car rolled through the Camp Golden Hills gates. Abby didn’t answer. She was in the backseat, behind her father, looking out the window. There was an oversize wooden knife and fork, neatly crossed and nailed to the arch at the camp’s entrance, like the heraldry on a knight’s shield. Underneath the wooden silverware was Camp Golden Hills’ motto: A HEALTHY TODAY… A HAPPY TOMORROW!
“I know it doesn’t feel that way now,” Eileen continued as they drove underneath the arch. “But, someday, you’ll be grateful.”
Abby had her arms crossed over her chest. Her thighs were sticking to the seat. She didn’t bother answering. I will never thank you for this, she thought. I will hate you for this, for as long as I live.
Her father drove slowly along the bumpy dirt road, following signs that directed campers to the Welcome Center. At their first stop, a skinny, smiling young woman in a pink camp tee shirt and khaki shorts stuck her head through the open window. “Abby Stern,” Abby’s father said.
“Great!” said the young woman, like this was the best news she’d heard all day. “I’m Kelsey. I’m one of the senior counselors. And a Golden Hills alum!” Abby didn’t miss the approval on her mother’s face as Eileen looked at Kelsey’s flat belly, skinny hips, and long, cellulite-free legs.
“Mom and Dad, you can park over there.” Kelsey waved toward a parking lot, where ranks of cars were already lined up. “Abby, grab your swimsuit, and come with me.”
Abby pulled the swimsuit she’d been told to have ready out of her backpack, and plodded after the counselor, up a hill and into a wooden cabin. Inside was what looked like a doctor’s office, complete with a paper-draped examination table, a wheeled stool, and in the corner, the dreaded Medco scale.