Camp Utopia & the Forgiveness Diet (9781940192567) (26 page)

“You must be Tabitha Nelson,” said the man, raising an eyebrow.

She clenched the blanket to her chin. “And you are ... ?”

Averting piles of clothing and popcorn bags, he slid in flip-flops across Gabe's floor. He bent down and put out his hand. “I'm Richard Goodman.”

Cambridge coughed out a hello and shook his hand. Then the man looked right at me and said, “I'm Bethany's father.”

He must've seen something funny in my expression, because he laughed a laugh I didn't remember forgetting. “Guess you weren't expecting me.”

I hoped my voice worked. “You couldn't
fax
your signature?”

What dimension had I wandered into here? Last I checked, my father lived in Ellicott City. His wife, Penny, grew roses in terracotta pots and wore T-shirts with airbrushed pictures of her kids on them. How exactly did he get here? To Utopia?

Gabe looked just as confused. “This is your dad?” he asked.

“I'm the rent,” my dad embarrassingly answered. “Bethany needed me.”

Correction
, I thought,
I needed your signature
. “Am I out of Utopia?” I asked, as images of broken shackles cropped up in my brain. “Am I free?”

My dad sat down backward in Gabe's chair, ready to reason. He'd gained twenty pounds since I'd last seen him. Maybe thirty. “Well, not exactly,” he said. “You ladies are in serious hot water here.”

“Why is that?” asked Cambridge

“You're both minors, for one.”

Cambridge peeled a rubber band from her wrist. “Today happens to be my birthday,” she said, and secured her ponytail. “My eighteenth birthday.”

Now was probably not the best time to wish her happy birthday, but I did anyway. She winked then collapsed back on her pillow. She was off the hook.

When Richard Goodman's brown eyes zeroed in on me, I knew I wasn't. “But it's not your eighteenth birthday, right, Bethany?”

“Not like you were ever very good at remembering them,” I said coolly.

My dad sighed. You could tell he was used to temper tantrums. “What do you say we take a little walk, Bethany? Talk things over?” He shook a greasy paper bag. “I brought bagels.”

Question: What do you do when your father shows up at your door? With bagels? I didn't know either, so when I walked past the second guy to kiss me, I had no clue whether I was making a new mistake or correcting an old one. As my dad led me by the elbow past computer geeks peeking out their doors, down the stairwell, and out into the morning, my emotions flipped over and over like one of those calendars in a movie: Shock. Denial. Then humiliation. Much as it hurt to admit it, all the resentment that marched out so easily in my e-mails evaporated in Richard Goodman's presence.

In silence, we walked past the library, cut over the footbridge, and crossed the stadium's turf. We wound up at a picnic table by Lake Pacifica. No naked people swimming now, though. Only a crew team dragging equipment from the very boathouse Cambridge'd hurled in. My dad reached into the paper bag. “Do you like poppy?” he asked.

Only in that surreal moment, one I never could have imagined, I found I did not know.

48

DUNK

FOR SOME REASON I remembered my father being taller. Thinner. Younger. My dad, middle-aged, not ugly, but not especially memorable either. Do you remember what your librarian looked like the last time you visited your local branch?

My point exactly.

His face and arms were pale, like he didn't get outside too often. His hair occupied the spectrum between dark blond and brown; it was uneventful, and thinning around the temples. Behind glasses, his eyes were brown, and sad, like the eyes of most grown-ups and basset hounds everywhere.

Initially I'd thought we'd head directly to MontClaire Hall, where the fabled form awaited his signature. But it was barely sunrise. If a signature was what I wanted, then apparently a cross-campus tour and poppy seed bagel were a preliminary part of the bargain.

At the picnic table, my back faced the lake. My father sat opposite me, a bag of bagels between us. He surveyed the rowers tugging their vessels toward the water. “Did your mother ever tell you the story of how I rented a rowboat at the Inner Harbor when I proposed to her?”

I'd heard the story before, but I wanted to hear if he remembered it the same way she did. “It was so hot and I was so nervous, I passed out on the dock before we even got in the boat. They had to carry me to Phillip's Crab House and rub ice cubes on my temples. And when I came to, your mom had already found the ring in my pocket and put it on.”

Same story. Only in my mom's version, she told it like a cautionary tale.

“My overtures were always so grand and romantic in my imagination,” he explained. “It's the execution that always tripped me up.” That sure sounded familiar. I turned toward Pacifica, and we both regarded the crew boys balancing their skinny boats on their heads and wading into the water.

“Anyway,” my dad said, placing another still-warm poppy seed in my hand, “it's good to see you, Bethany.”

A knot rose in my throat.

“I did read all your e-mails, you know.” I concentrated on the sound of paddles dipping behind me, boatmen shouting commands. “You have such a way with words.”

Somehow the phrase “I know” crowded my mouth, but I locked it in.

“I wish I could go back and change everything between us.”

“Well,” I said reasonably, “you can't.”

“True.” He removed a tub of schmear from the bag. “But I could rescue you today,” he said carefully. “I could sign you out. That has to count for something.”

We have confirmation
, I thought.
Richard Goodman just agreed to sign me out. I just received my get-out-of-fat-camp-five-and-a-half-weeks early card. Huzzah!
Only before I could stop it, my thoughts traveled to sleepy, smoky Cambridge and then to Gabe—his paper airplanes, his warm kisses. I wasn't sure why my emancipation didn't feel as good as I'd hoped, but I had an inkling it had to do with those two. “We can fly back to Baltimore tomorrow. Belinda and Hank will meet us at MontClaire at eight.”

“What time is it now?” I asked.

He tilted his wrist. “Six.”

“If we start walking now, we can make it to MontClaire in twenty minutes.”

My plump librarian father looked a little disappointed that I wanted to speed up the process. Maybe he assumed I'd want to sit here shivering by the water, catching up on old times. He shoved the schmear and bagel back in the paper bag, then he walked over to a skinny canoe facing down in the sand. He turned the boat over with his flip-flop, a move so natural I'd sworn he'd rehearsed it. “Or,” he said. “I could row us to MontClaire Hall.”

“Are you joking?”

Even though he smiled, he said, “No. It'd be a waste to come all the way to California University and not see the Pacific.” He began sliding the boat toward the water.

“That's not the Pacific.”

“What's one extra letter?”

My father yelled out in the general direction of the crew oaring on the lake. “Guys, my daughter will be a freshman here next fall. Mind if we test the waters?”

“Suit yourself,” some delirious crew member yelled back. “There're life jackets in the shed.”

“What are you doing?” I asked. My father, who had disappeared in the boathouse, must've been suffering from some deranged form of jetlag. He returned and began dragging the rowboat into the lake. You could see the determination on his face as he rolled up his shorts and tucked the ball cap low on his forehead. He adjusted his glasses. “I'm a Marylander,” he said. “Sailing's in my blood.”

“I'm pretty sure there's no sail on that thing.”

“Humor me, Bethany.” He shook the paddle. “You can eat your bagel, and I'll do all the work. We made it this far. Let's get some perspective from a schooner.”

“A schooner?”

The boat rocked hypnotically on the tiny waves. “This,” he said, “is a schooner.”

He fitted the oars into their little holes, and made a painful animal noise before flinging himself inside the boat. He waved me toward him. “Come on.”

I shook my head. Under no circumstance would I get in that boat. This went beyond the call of duty. I agreed to breakfast with the man, not some bonding experience that risked a heart attack, drowning, or hypothermia.

“Come on, Bethany.”

I dug in my heels.

He shielded his eyes with his palm. “It's perfectly safe.” Somehow I knew he'd had this discussion with Caleb and Cullen about a plate full of lima beans. “It will be fun,” he urged. “It's your last day in Utopia, after all.”

I held the bagel bag and my flip-flops above my head and waded up to my knees in the frigid water. My father steadied the boat as I lumbered in. Balancing on the wooden slat that served as a seat for people with a much smaller butt than my own, my knees seemed to rest against my ears.

“It's California!” my father roared dorkfully. “The Pacifica!”

Please, God
, I thought.
Don't say it
.

“I'm the king of the world!”

And … he said it.

How we managed to squeeze more than four hundred pounds into a boat as lean as a tampon was nothing short of a nautical miracle. Some grace of buoyancy kept us afloat as my dad rowed once, twice, thrice.

“Did you really think I'd try to talk you into going back to Utopia?” Wheeze. Cough. “You made it sound like they were torturing you there. Jeez Louise.”

Did he just say
Jeez Louise
? “Why else would you fly all the way from Baltimore and knock on Gabe's door at six in the morning?”

“Because I haven't seen you in a year.”

“Two.”

“Because you needed help.”

“But how did you find me?”

“I got a tip.”

“A tip? From who?”

“Whom.”

I hesitated. “Whhoooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm.”

“I'm not at liberty to say.” He held out his hand for a bagel. When I dropped a pumpernickel in his palm, he made a face. I exchanged it for an onion. “It doesn't matter. I'm here to sign you out. End of story.”

Rowing us farther away from the shore, I watched the campus wobble on the horizon. I feared if I moved, the boat would topple over. So I sat there, still as marble. I wondered at exactly what point my life had taken this turn, landing me here, rowing a boat with my father.

Something about his presence unnerved me too. I wondered if my mom was behind it or Jackie or if he was a last ditch effort sent in by Hank and Belinda to reason with me. He'd mentioned the Costco pool earlier. The e-mails. And now he'd tracked me across the country. Why this sudden interest in me, I wondered, from the man so genuinely disinterested most of my life.

The stadium shrunk as my dad continued rowing. The oars squeaked and swooshed in rhythm. Mist unrolled down the edges of the footbridge. The campus was quiet save for the grunting crew ahead of us. The graceful curved backs of the campus hills appeared soft and inviting. If it wasn't for my dad and fat camp, I could see how you'd think this place was paradise.

“Well, this is going well,” he said, then laughed that infernal laugh. “Couldn't ask for better scenery.” He pondered the other boat ahead of us by at least a mile. “The crew team must practice this early every day. Can you imagine?”

I could not.

He sniffed deeply. “And that air. It's so humid back in Maryland. Everyone puts their trash out, and the whole neighborhood smells like rotten fruit, bananas, and car exhaust. It feels good out here. Nice.” I wondered when he'd resume rowing. I really wanted to get this over with. He leaned carefully back in the vessel and examined the library building. Without looking at me, he said, “So that kid. Gabe. Is he like, well ...” He took a bite of bagel. “Should TJ be worried?”

“About what?” I snapped.

“Gabe. He seemed to like—“

“Why do you care?” It came out harsh, wicked. “I don't want to talk about Gabe, or TJ.” I pulled another bagel from the sack. “Or the weather either.” If he really was here to sign me out, then could we please get a move on it? If he expected me to sum up the last twelve or so years of my life, this wasn't the time or place.

We both watched the tiny waves with interest. The oars slapped the water. My dad started to say something, then he stopped. He tried again.

“I suppose it's best not to lie to each other, Bethany.”

“So tell me why you're really here.”

“I wanted to sign you out of camp, for one,” he replied. “And …” He tore apart the onion bagel. “I also wanted to talk about your forgiveness jar.” He chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. “The salad bar. When I said I didn't see you.”

“You flew all the way here to tell me you never saw me that day?” He sure wanted to make a point, I guessed. “Fine, Dad. Can we move on?”

He rubbed the knife over the bagel without spreading any cream cheese. “I didn't fly three thousand miles to tell you I didn't see you.” He folded his hands in his lap and twisted his gold watch so it faced him. “I flew across country to tell you that I did.”

I knew it! I knew I hadn't been crazy. Even TJ'd picked up on it that day in February at Chuck E. Cheese's. So Richard Goodman flew all the way here to tell me he wasn't blind. He was fully sighted when he ignored me. When he ignored me. On purpose. Obviously my vindication didn't last long because of what trailed right behind it. My dad journeyed to California to tell me he saw me at Chuck E. Cheese's? To confirm what I never doubted? That he was too embarrassed to approach his fat daughter? Didn't want to introduce me (again) to his wife? His bratty kids? His Ellicott City neighbors?

Knowing I'd been right didn't make me feel better. It made me feel worse. The sharp truth skewered my heart like a kebab. I felt sick. So sick that when I dropped my bagel into the water, I didn't even care. My dad looked up quickly to say, “I'm so sorry.”