I Fall Apart

Nora

I can't believe I'd let Dad talk me into this. I crossed my arms as I sat on a tree stump with the rest of the campers. There wasn't one kid I'd be friends with if I had the choice. I'd never felt lonelier in my life. When dad was saying goodbye, I didn't want to let him go. Just wanted to hop in the car with him and go back home. It seemed kind of babyish to be fifteen and want to stay home with your parents, but I did.

I was a city girl, so all this nature stuff was not my style. We were sitting on chairs made of dead tree stumps. They were more uncomfortable than the chairs at school. Already, I was getting bitten by bugs. Luckily, Vanessa had packed me some bug spray and sunscreen. Smart woman.

We started by going around the circle to introduce ourselves and tell what parent we had lost and when. And if we wanted to, how. I gave the shortest spiel possible. All the counselors were actual therapists. There would be group therapy sessions every day, along with frequent one on one time.

The rest of the first day was spent doing stupid trust exercises. I played along, but I didn't like it. I didn't have to like it.

That night when the lights went out, it was darker than it had ever been. I guess when you get out of the city and into the woods, it's really dark and night. It was kind of creepy, honestly. I tried to fall asleep to the sounds of cicadas instead of traffic noise.

I hated it, but I started to tear up, holding my pillow tight. I really missed my family. I didn't want to be here. Finally, I fell asleep.

The next morning, we got straight into the group therapy sessions. Some kids started off sharing how their parent died. Some kids' parents had a long disease, others had died in accidents. There were two other kids whose parent had died from a drug overdose. I'm glad I wasn't the only one. It seems kind of a less respectable way of dying.

Mostly, I didn't participate. I only contributed when I was asked directly. Some of the other kids were chatty, so it was easy to just sit back and let them lead everything. By the end of the day, I just wanted to crawl up on my bed and disappear. After dinner, I found a quiet spot near my cabin and tried to FaceTime with Dad. The connection was crap though. I could barely understand him. It was reassuring to his face, and he had Francisco with him. He had his arm and was making him wave to me.

By the end of the call, I was crying because I missed everyone so much. I'm not sure if Dad could tell or not I was having a hard time due to the connection. Was this how it would be for two whole weeks? Trapped in this rustic, reception black hole, cut off from the world? Suddenly, I was angry at Dad. He insisted I do this. He'd tricked me into coming.

I went for a walk to calm myself down. I guess the peace and nature was somewhat nice. No one out here to bother me. No homeless people begging for change or tourists slowing down the sidewalk traffic. Once I had calmed down, I found another spot, away from a lot of trees, and tried just regular calling. Dad picked up.

"Hi, Nora," he said, his voice clearer.

I immediately felt like bursting out crying. I tried to compose my voice, but it wasn't much use. Plus, I knew I didn't need to hide my emotions from Dad.

"Daddy," I cried, putting my hands over my eyes.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" He asked. I could hear Cisco yelling in the background. I longed to be in my bedroom, trying to do my homework to the sound of his babbling.

"I want to come home," I told him.

"Here, Cisco," he gently told my brother. "Did something happen?"

"No, I just don't like it. All the other kids are lame."

"Have you given them a chance?"

"I don't want to," I admitted. I knew I had a bad attitude, but I just didn't care right now.

"Baby, you're homesick," he told me gently. "And that's okay. But you shouldn't just give up. You just got there."

"It's a wooded hell!"

He laughed a little at me. "I wasn't fond of camp as a kid either. You should see the letters I wrote home to my parents."

"So why'd you send me?"

"Because I know it'll do you good," he said. "It did me good too, but I didn't like it at the time."

"That doesn't make sense."

"I think when you're an adult you will," he said. "Now take some deep breaths. Do you still write?"

"I haven't for a while," I admitted. It was a habit I had stopped doing when I reached high school and got really busy.

"You packed a notebook right?" He pointed. "Go down to the lake and let it all out. You're like me. When something's bothering me I have to write about it."

"Okay," I said quietly, still trying not to cry.

"Good girl," he said. "Call me back later if you need to, okay? I've gotta go. Cisco's trying to climb the drapes. Love you."

"Love you too."

The call ended and all of a sudden it was silent again. Just the sound of the breeze and the birds. Sounds that were quite often covered up in New York City. I took in a deep breath of the clean air, letting it fill my lungs. I closed my eyes and let the sun shine on my face. The leaves were beautiful. The foliage was in full bloom - reds and oranges and yellows.

I went to my bed and pulled my notebook and a pencil out of my backpack. Then, I hiked down to the lake, which looked beautiful because the sun was setting. I opened to a fresh page. New pages had so much promise - all that white space, just waiting to be filled up with your ideas. Ideas that no one else knew existed until you scribbled them into existence. I put my pencil to the paper and I didn't stop.

Beautiful trees - how long have you been here?

I could cut you down to find out

But then what good would that do?

How many autumns have you shown us the magic of your changing leaves

How many lost girls have stared at you, wondering when their pain would go away

How many tears have slipped into the ground to water you? Grow you?

How many campers have cried for their parents?

The trees in New York are different

Do they listen like you?

Have they tuned out the whispers, the complaining?

Are there too many complaints to take in?

Or are people just too busy to even notice them?