Cindy nudged her and she gave in. Clap . . . clap . . . clap.
Whee.
The clapping accelerated all around the fire, under its own strange force, faster and faster, until palms must have been burning and until speed shattered the rhythm into staccato applause and laughter.
Then gradual silence, except for the lap of waves and occasional cracking sparks from the fire, while they all again stared at Betsy.
Okay, Ann admitted it. She wanted to know what would happen next. Maybe their fearless leader would strip and then they’d all get naked and go leaping around the beach.
Ann had a dim memory of rumors involving just that on Betsy’s junior prom night.
Betsy opened her mouth, then closed it on a tone,
“Hmmmm.”
It took only a few seconds this time, “Hmmmm,” someone joined in, then everyone did. Almost everyone. This one was easier because Ann could keep her mouth closed and no one could tell if she were hmmming or not.
Slowly, Betsy raised her arm. The
hmmms
rose obediently in pitch. Her arm lowered. So did the
hmmms,
struggling discordantly at the bottom, then settling into unison. U-up?
Do-o-own. U-u-up? Do-o-wn, do-o-own, lower, lower, until As Good As It Got
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laughter infiltrated the growling Buddhist monk sound. How low could they go?
Betsy shot her arm straight up over her head and a huge shriek rose from the women—Harpies on the Hunt—then wild laughter and more applause.
Ann laughed too. People were sheep. Even she had felt it, yeah, okay, the surge of community and power. Baaa.
But when they started passing out Kool-Aid, she was gone.
A log crumbled and a shower of sparks flew up, drawing attention to the astonishing display of stars beginning to crowd the sky. A man’s form distracted Ann from the light show. A nice man’s form, tall, solid, and strong, striding forward with an armful of wood and a poker to tend the fire. His hair was blond, longish, nicely tousled, the glint of an earring in his right ear. He had that sexy who-cares look about him that people in Ann’s tightly directed social circle lacked and that drew her, though she couldn’t always separate the disdain from the envy. Something of a wild boy.
As if he sensed her staring, he met her eyes through the ragged leaping edges of the flames. Ohhh, and how poetic to see a wild boy through fire, as if he were broadcasting his maleness directly from hell.
Around her women had started chanting and waving their arms, for whatever mysterious reason Betsy deemed necessary, a surreal background to the fiery exchange of Her gaze and His. He smiled and threw on another log. Ann looked away, but not before excitement she hadn’t felt in a long, long time had stirred. No, shaken. No, gotten up and danced.
Silly sheep-woman. Paul was barely cold and already she was getting hot? What good would that do? Better to concentrate on chanting and waving her arms.
56 Isabel
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. . . What was she saying?
Luckily, before she’d have to suffer that indignity, the chanting stopped and Betsy let silence settle again.
“Welcome, women. I welcome you to Camp Kinsonu. In the Passamaquoddy language Kinsonu means, ‘She is strong.’
You’ve all come from places of pain. In the next two weeks we’ll help you, whether you want to begin your healing process physically or mentally or spiritually, or all three. We’re here to set you on your path to recovery.
“We can’t work miracles . . . only you can travel the long journey through your own grief. But we’ll provide bedrock to stand on while you take that difficult turn away from the past toward a happier future.
“And now . . . ” She smiled at the blond guy. “I’d like to introduce some of the people you’ll be meeting here at camp, starting with Patrick, my assistant. In case any of you are of-fended by, or excited by, seeing a gorgeous young man among vulnerable women, I can assure you that unless you look like Brad Pitt, you are safe from him.”
Gay
? Ann stared while a murmur ran around the group, most likely part relief, part disappointment. She never would have guessed in a million years.
“Hi, ladies.” He stood next to Betsy, smiling, confident, body posture loose but still commanding, his face glowing in the firelight.
Him
?
“Let me tell you a little about myself. I come from a pretty bad place, an abusive childhood in Iowa, teenage addictions, a couple of young-adult brushes with the law. Not healthy.
Five years ago I was beaten and left for dead in Miami by someone I owed money to. I recovered over the next year, As Good As It Got
57
working harder than I’d ever worked at anything, physically, emotionally, spiritually, with the help of a dedicated physical therapist who never gave up on me, no matter what. I loved him.” The smooth voice thickened. “He gave me my life back. Then AIDS took his.”
Another murmur through the crowd. Sympathy, understanding.
Ann frowned. Gay?
Seriously?
“I had to leave, put as much distance as possible between myself and memories of him. I went to Thailand, lived with monks, stripped my life down to essentials. I spent five months there, learning, growing, finding peace.
“But I wasn’t one of them. So I came back to the States, still drifting, but determined not to choose a bad road again.
And then one night in L.A., down to my last ten bucks, I was ready to say to hell with it and spend it all on booze. I took a step toward the bar, and I swear this is true—a flyer for City University flew up and hit me in the face. The admis-sions people saw something in me and took a chance with a full scholarship. I worked my ass off and got my degree in psychology. I’ve been accepted to the University of Minnesota master’s program this fall, and I hope to go on to get my Ph.D.
“If I could turn my life around from addiction, self-destruction, loss, physical wounds, hopelessness, and poverty, I guarantee all of you can turn your lives around too. Welcome to Camp Kinsonu. If there’s anything I can do to help you while you’re here . . . ” His eyes flicked to Ann’s briefly, then away. “ . . . you let me know. Thanks.”
An awed silence, then warm applause that lasted well beyond a polite interval. The breeze blew. The fire crack-58 Isabel
Sharpe
led. The waves lapped at the shore, farther and farther away as the tide went out. More staff members were introduced.
The cook, the massage therapist, the kayaking instructor, the art teacher. Each told matter-of-fact stories of pain that had led them to this place and inspired them to stay on to help others.
Ann fidgeted through it all, uncomfortable with people tossing off casual stories of suffering and redemption. She looked around at the stricken faces of her fellow Kinsonuites, traces of tears glistening on cheeks. Okay. Maybe she was just an unfeeling bitch.
Patrick the Wild Boy had scored the most dramatic tale.
That much pain. That much alone time. That many risks, to travel to the other side of the world and immerse himself in a culture he didn’t belong to. Her whole adult life she’d stayed comfortably rooted in her culture, in her social class, in the world she’d created. And so had Paul.
“Now, here’s Pamela to lead us in a few songs before bed,”
Betsy announced. “I’m sure you’re all exhausted. This air is good for sleeping, but if you have trouble, come to the main cabin. Our nurse on duty has warm milk, holistic and herbal remedies, and over-the-counter tablets that can help for the first nights if you need them. Okay, Pamela.”
Pamela hauled out her guitar and tuned, strumming and smiling. She had gorgeous thick auburn hair and straight white teeth, and Ann caught herself reflexively peeking at Patrick, the way she used to peek at Ethan Rosner in tenth grade history to see if he was checking out Betsy’s tight sweater when she got up to give an oral report.
Ethan always was. But gay Patrick was looking at Ann. Or maybe just in her direction. But with enough interest to make As Good As It Got
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her pivot her head straight toward guitar-totin’ Pamela. Honestly. She needed to get a clue. No, a grip. No, medication.
“This one you all might remember from some years back.
A female power anthem made famous in 1972 by a lady from down under.”
Oh God. Oh no.
“Her name was Helen Reddy . . . ”
Please help me.
She swung around to her cabin-mates.
Cindy was watching Pamela with shining eyes. Dinah was whispering to her glassy-eyed neighbor. Martha was staring at her hands.
Ann turned in the other direction and encountered Patrick again, who was grinning openly now.
She made a face and mouthed,
Help!
He grinned wider. A connection. She couldn’t help the thrill.
Pamela strummed and struck up some rousing chords. “I am woman. Hear me roar!”
The women did. Roared like lionesses, like prisoners freed, like the oppressed finally rid of their tormentors. And then they all joined in, fumbling words when they didn’t know or had forgotten them, joining in one long glorious yell for each chorus, “Yes, I am wise . . . ”
Cindy poked Ann, jerked her head insistently toward Pamela and pointed to Ann’s mouth. “Sing,” she shouted.
Ann shook her head. Glanced again at grinning Patrick of the Flames, and wished for Paul and safety and order and calm.
I am woman . . .
Chapter 6
Ann dragged her eyelids open, registered pine walls and the most god-awful clanging drifting over from her ghastly dream into waking reality. Her brain gradually worked out where she was and that the horrendous noise—some kind of bell—would be her signal to get up every morning for the next two weeks.
She closed her eyes again, not even wanting to know what time it was. Wait, she knew what time it was. Too early o’clock. Twice already that morning the roar of motors out on the bay had woken her. Lobstermen. Very picturesque.
Better at anchor.
The dream lingered—she’d been in bed with Paul. They’d made love and he was still on top of her, his skin warm and slightly damp from the exertion. She’d been smiling up at him, so happy that everyone had been wrong about him dying. Even better, he’d been smiling too, really smiling, not the soulless baring of teeth with eyes a million miles away As Good As It Got
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that she’d tried too many times to explain away as stress or fatigue. She’d been about to tell him how much she missed him while he was dead, when his eyes rolled up and he slumped off her, leaden and still, his head horribly half gone, but bloodless, like a doll’s china head fractured. Someone else had screamed while she tried to call 911, but her fingers wouldn’t work; she kept punching the wrong numbers.
Then sirens, Paul’s body gone, and the terrible clanging of the church bell announcing his funeral.
Which turned out to be Camp Kinsonu’s bell, announcing hers.
Why was she here? She still wasn’t sure.
Her cabin-mates were up already, at least one or two of them, creaking boards, running water, thunking jars and combs back into place on pine shelves, Dinah prattling about God knew what.
In Ann’s heaven, no one would be allowed to speak before caffeine happened.
Up nearly to sitting, she gave in and fell half back, propped on her elbows, eyes open to a reluctant squint, mouth open to a long yawn. Early mornings and Ann had long been worst enemies. On weekends she’d lie in, sometimes for an hour—usually two or three hours after Paul had gotten up to run, then to sip his cappuccino reading the
New York
Times
—soaking in the glorious knowledge that her body had been able to get as much sleep as it craved and would not be forced to move until absolutely necessary. She and Paul had decided not to have children, and lazy mornings were one of the perks. Sometimes she’d regretted the decision. Now she was doubly glad they’d made it. Hard enough hauling her own pain around without coping with kids who missed 62 Isabel
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Daddy. Maybe that made her horribly selfish, but she didn’t see how grief left room for any other way to be.
“Ann?” A timid knock at her door.
“Yuh.” She dragged the syllable out and got herself all the way up to sitting, blinking painfully.
“It’s Cindy. Just wanted to make sure you heard the bell.”
“Damn hard to miss.”
“Oh. Well. We’ll see you at breakfast?”
“Right.” Breakfast. Christ. Maybe she should skip it.
Except they probably took roll and came after no-shows with a doctor. No, with antidepressants. No, a straitjacket.
Cindy’s footsteps mercifully receded. Ann let herself flop back, staring at the random pattern of brown knots in the pine ceiling.
Okay. She was here, she might as well deal with it. On the count of five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one and a half . . .
She sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feet resting on cool wood. Up. At ’em. Yee-haw.
The green shades sprang open at the first tug, eager to let in light. She pushed the window wider and bent to inhale piney morning air through the screen. At least today would bring a change from the deadening nonroutine of the last several months. Another deep breath, the sight of a sea gull soaring, and her head started clearing. Somewhat. Nice not being hung over too.
Well. That was all the perky bright side she had in her.
Showered in the tiny tinny stall, dressed in jeans and a coral sweater, made-up minimally, because why bother, she made her way to the “dining room,” a largish building next to the lodge, with a wide screened-in wraparound porch, red-checker-clothed picnic tables arranged around the perime-As Good As It Got
63
ter, about half full of women, with more arriving. Inside, the breakfast buffet, eggs, muffins, pancakes, bacon and sausage, all of which looked hot, fresh, and utterly nauseating to her churning stomach.
She picked up a tray and a plate—china, not plastic—real silverware, a thick soft paper napkin, and bypassed the hot food, nodding to the smiling plump woman standing behind the chafing dishes.