The Clover Girls Read online

  I look up, my heart racing. Mrs. Dickens waves yet again at me.

  I see this as a privilege. There should be a dignity in the way we age and die, and to care for someone at the end of his or her life, as they did for us when we were babies, when we were growing up, when we were ill, is a blessing. I also believe it shows the character of who we truly are.

  I text my daughter, Lisa.

  With grandma. Can’t get your dry cleaning. Have a showing after this. Are you coming out to see her this week?

  My heart begins to race as little moving dots on my phone show Lisa is already texting.

  Can’t. Too busy.

  More dots.

  And you know Dan and I don’t want the kids to see her like that.

  Like what? I think. Like an old woman who still needs love?

  Why do I still ask? Why do I do this to myself?

  They have never come to visit. Ever. Not to see the woman whose back was bent like a peony stem because she spent decades sewing overalls in a factory. Not to see the woman who saved pennies so I could go to camp and be the first in our family to go to college. Not to see the woman who helped raise you and who cared for your children countless nights. Not to see the woman whose sacrifices helped you have the life you have now, the one that is better than the one she ever had, which is all she wanted in this life.

  How dare you!

  My voice echoes in the little room, and I jump. I have yelled this out loud.

  “Everything okay?”

  Tammy peeks her head in the door.

  I nod.

  She leaves, and I stand and walk into the closet. I shut the door and cry.

  I know my mom knows. Deep down, she knows her family has not come to see her. I think that’s a reason she holds on. To see them one more time.

  But I have already come to the saddest realization of all: not only will they never come to see her, but they will not come to see me either.

  What keeps me up at night, what makes my soul shudder is not the question—because that was answered long ago—but the reality: my children will not be there to care for me when I’m old. They’ve already proven it.

  They will shuffle me off, and I will be forgotten. They don’t even want the heirlooms I have—my handwritten recipes, Grandma’s hutch and cameos, my desert rose dishes and charm bracelets—the things that tell the story of our family, the things that have been passed down for generations. They are already boxed away, useless, like my memories. Things of the past—elders, heirlooms—are no longer valuable. We want new and fresh. To be reminded of the past means we are not immortal, and today’s generation does not like that. If we are not in the moment, if we are not current, we are useless.

  My phone trills, and I reach for it reluctantly.

  I smile.

  Another sale in my Etsy shop. For a pair of the plastic geometric earrings I make.

  And yet, I think, everything old is new again because no one remembers our past.

  I open the door, and Tammy is staring at me.

  “I thought you’d left. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I got stuck,” I say, “putting up my mother’s gowns.”

  “It’s okay to cry,” she says kindly. “I do it every night on my way home.” She winks. “Buy you a cup of free coffee?”

  I smile. “I have to run to a showing,” I say. “Next time?”

  She nods.

  I take the back roads to my office, located in downtown Holland, a quaint historic district filled only with independent businesses that feels pretty much like it did when I was growing up. The streets still bustle with shoppers, and the sidewalks are heated, so that—in the winter—the snow melts. Downtown is a throwback, but real estate prices are not. I park and get out of my car. In fact, half-acre lots alone on the lakeshore run a million dollars today.

  I should have bought lots of lots in 2008, I think.

  My agency sits on the second floor of an old brick building above a coffee shop. I’ve spent more than one of my commissions on lattes, but it’s a luxury I love and the smallest of comforts for me these days.

  “White chocolate latte,” I say to the young barista with purple bangs and cat-eye makeup. “Coconut milk, please. And three shots of espresso.”

  “Whip?” she asks.

  “No. Yes. No. Yes. No.”

  She laughs.

  “Maybe I should ask the Magic 8-Ball.”

  A puzzled look covers her face. She has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “I’ll write light whip on the cup? How’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  “That’ll be four-fifty,” she says.

  I should have taken Tammy up on that free coffee, I think.

  I grab my latte and head upstairs. My agency is small. I am a boutique real estate agent representing fine homes on Lake Michigan and historic cottages on Lake Macatawa and Castle Park, which inspired the setting for The Wizard of Oz. I have only one other agent, but I’m the town elder, and I know who owned what and when and where before most of the other agents in town were even born. In fact, I grew up playing in a lot of these homes before I started going to summer camp every year.

  “Lots of calls,” my assistant, Annie, says.

  “People want to take advantage of these low mortgage rates,” I say.

  “And lots of people just want a slice of Pure Michigan,” she says.

  I sip my latte. Annie looks at the side of my cup.

  “Sure you need three shots?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And should I start calling you ‘Light Whip’?”

  I laugh. “I’ll be in my office.”

  I turn, and Annie says, “Oh, wait. The mail.”

  She hands a stack to me. “There’s a weird letter in there, too. No return address.”

  I hold it to my head and start to do a Carnac the Magnificent impression, just like Johnny Carson used to do with an unread envelope. But Annie is only slightly older than the barista, and I know she wouldn’t get it much less know who Johnny Carson was.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I head into my office and close the door. I take a seat in my swivel chair with a big sigh and take an even bigger sip of my latte. The caffeine jolts me, and I feel emboldened enough to tackle my calls. When I finish a half hour later, I turn my attention toward the letter.

  I open it warily. It has the look and feel of letters I receive from passive-aggressive clients who are upset after the fact—often years later—that a water pipe has burst or the dishwasher has gone on the fritz, and they want me to know how disappointed they are in me.

  The letter is thick, and I steel myself for what awaits.

  I open it, and a friendship pin—screaming E-V-E-R!—tumbles forth, and I immediately know who the letter is from: Emily.

  How sweet, I think. A letter from Em. She loves writing them. I bet she’s on vacation.

  ...I thought of something in bed, while I was holding that four-leaf clover I found when we all first met. Like forever, you can’t spell forgiveness without our initials either.

  Forgive, Liz.

  Start with yourself.

  After all we went through, why did The Clover Girls end up losing touch? I know, I know, we tell ourselves that’s just what happens when we grow older and become adults. And I know how deeply we hurt each other. But are those the only reasons? Or does pride have something to do with it, too? We all know the truth.

  I stop, my heart catching. I take another deep breath and continue:

  I think of you and your mom often, Liz. You are as kind and wonderful as she is. And I hope that you will never give up on your dreams of being a designer. Thanks for sending me all of those friendship bracelets you designed a few years ago. Where did you EVER get such an idea? Ha!

  Th
e last few years have not been easy. I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer two years ago, and though I underwent treatment, I’ve decided not to fight any longer. I’m sorry I lied to you about my health all this time. Believe me, it wasn’t easy. But I know how overwhelmed you are, Liz, and I just didn’t want to add any more stress to your—or V’s or Rach’s—life. As you know, I never married or had kids, so I got used to being alone. But being alone isn’t so great when you’re sick. So, while I was still feeling okay, I opted to spend my last few summer weeks at camp. I guess I just wanted to be surrounded by friends, at least in spirit.

  I jumped in the lake and screamed like a girl when my body hit the cold water. I made s’mores over a campfire. I painted watercolors of beautiful white birch, I hiked the dunes, and I watched the sun set. And on an evening walk back to camp, I found a four-leaf clover. I knew it was a sign, a sign of hope, a sign that paradise still exists and a sign that perhaps—just perhaps—The Clover Girls could be whole again.

  I finally realized it’s the little things that are the biggest things in life.

  Like friends.

  Mostly, I realized that life is as short as one blink of God’s eye, and it’s what we make of that single blink that matters.

  My friendship with The Clover Girls was what mattered most to me.

  Though I’ve long been the stem that tenuously held the four of us together, I know deep in your heart—despite everything that happened—you still consider Rach and V to be your best friends. And do you know why? Because we were all our best when we were together. We felt like we could be anything we dreamed.

  I have one final request: I’ve written to ask the three of you to scatter my ashes at Camp Birchwood. Toss me into the summer sunset, and let the wind carry me onto the lake. Scatter me over the field of clover so I can rest forever with the FOUR-evers. I’m already there. You just have to show up. The funeral home has delivered my ashes to Camp Birchwood. I will be sitting at the entrance to our old bunkhouse waiting for you.

  Don’t worry. No one will disturb me. Camp Birchwood is for sale. Did you know that? It hasn’t been a camp for a few years now. Family has it in their estate, and the kids are fighting over what to do with it. I stayed a couple of nights in Pinewood Bunk. It was just me, the owls, a few mice, a couple of raccoons, some curious deer and a nosy bear. It wasn’t scary at all. In fact, I’ve never felt safer. I thought a lot about my brother, Todd, and how nice it will be to see him again. I wonder if he’s still the same little kid. Like we used to be. I also thought a lot about my parents. They’re the reason I met all of you. And you’re all the reason I became strong again after Todd’s death.

  Now I want you all to be strong again after mine.

  I love you, Liz, and I always have. More than anything. Whenever I hear “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” I dance. And whenever I hear “That’s What Friends Are For,” I cry. And whenever I hear girls giggling with their best friends, I smile.

  If you, or The Clover Girls, decide not to come, I understand.

  I’ll still be there.

  Waiting for you.

  Until we meet again.

  xoxo,

  Em

  I am crying so hard that my tears are staining the letter.

  She didn’t forget. She never forgot. I chide my kids for forgetting, but what have I done? I hid my memories away just like all of those Polaroid pictures.

  I hook the friendship pin onto the lapel of my jacket, grab my binder about the home I’m showing and walk out.

  “Who was the letter from?” Annie asks as I scurry past so she won’t see my puffy eyes. “Who writes letters anymore?”

  We do, I want to say. Us old people. When words—and friendships—meant something. When we wanted to say something deeper than a four-word text.

  I don’t answer. I speed to the old shingled cottage with my For Sale sign in front, unlock the front door, and rush from room to room, turning on lights and opening windows. It is a stunning late summer day. The wind is from the east, and the lake is as flat, shiny and iridescent blue as a piece of beach glass. After years of living and selling on Lake Michigan, I know this is the main selling point. And a day like today is the reason we all want to live on the lake. I head out the sliding doors and down the winding beach steps to the deck overlooking the water. The lake looks drenched in diamonds, and on this cloudless day, you can see for miles, the shoreline arcing its back like a sleepy dog, the dune grass its fur blowing in the breeze.

  Boats zip by in the near distance, the smell of gas on water. I shut my eyes, and the sun on my face transports me back in time. The lapping of the water moves in sync with my heart. The waves sing a song I packed away long ago like an old mix tape, but—like a favorite old tune—I still remember every word, no matter how much time has passed.

  Blue lake and rocky shore,

  I will return once more,

  Boom, didi, boom, boom,

  Boom, didi, boom, boom,

  Boom, didi, boom, boom... Booooom.

  PART TWO

  Candles on the Lake

  Summer 1988

  “Where’s Rachel?”

  Liz ducks her head and quietly takes a seat on the beach in front of Birchwood Lake.

  “Do you know, Liz?” V asks innocently, sitting down in front of Liz, who’s uncapping a lipstick tube.

  Liz shrugs.

  “No clue,” V says. “She can be a total space cadet. Not reliable at all. Right?”

  Liz nods and applies brick-red lipstick to V’s bee-stung lips.

  “We can’t wait any longer,” the photographer says. “The light is already fading.”

  It is dusk, and an entourage from Life magazine mills about the lake. Each has a specific task: one mans the lights, one holds a light reflector, one is lighting candles and setting them onto the lake, one is even herding fireflies to move closer to the shoot.

  “Ready, V?” the photographer asks. “Just you now.”

  V stands and moves toward the shoreline. A young woman hands her a candle. Lights pop on.

  “Act like no one is around,” the photographer says. “It’s just you. At camp. Leading the ceremony.”

  V holds the candle to her face. Its flame flickers in the breeze off the lake. She smiles, slightly, as if she’s holding a powerful secret, and angles her face back so the light shimmers in her eyes. V slowly moves into the water, until she is waist-deep, and the green camp T-shirt she is wearing—which Liz has torn to fall down over one shoulder—is wet at the bottom.

  V places the candle on the surface of the lake. She gives it a little push with her hands and then raises them as if she is saying a prayer, water trickling off her fingertips.

  The candle drifts into the middle of the lake, along with all the others the crew has already released. Fireflies blink, and as if by magic, one lands on the tip of V’s perfect little nose and flashes.

  “We have our cover!” the photographer yells, his voice echoing over the lake. “V, you’re a natural!”

  V emerges from the lake, and a woman instantly wraps a cushy towel around her body.

  “Are you chilled?” she asks, her voice alarmed.

  “No, I’m fine,” V says.

  “We can’t have you get sick,” she says, drying her off and rubbing her shoulders to warm her body. “We need you tomorrow. You’re our star!”

  The words warm V’s body even more than the towel, and she can feel herself leave her body and drift high above the camp where she can see not only the entire world but her whole future in front of her.

  “Sorry I’m late!”

  Rachel rushes onto the shore.

  “Where do you need me? What do I need to do?”

  The photographer looks at her and shakes his head.

  “Timing is everything in this business,” he says. “Time is money.”r />
  “But there was a note on my bunk,” she pleads. “To meet on the point of the big lake instead. I waited. On my way back, I saw all the lights.”

  “We’re already done for the night, sweetheart,” an assistant says. “V handled it all. Beautifully.”

  Rach looks at V, who shrugs innocently.

  “We won’t need you tomorrow either.”

  The photographer’s voice is void of emotion.

  “That’s a wrap for tonight,” he says.

  Rach’s eyes fill with tears.

  “It’s a wrap,” another assistant calls. “We need some music to celebrate!”

  “If You Leave” by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark from the movie Pretty in Pink begins to play.

  “I love this song!” someone yells.

  Rach looks from V to Liz and back again, her face shattered.

  She takes off running.

  No one moves.

  “Dance, V!” someone yells.

  V moves in the twilight, the words of the song breaking her heart.

  Summer 2021

  Veronica

  “What are you watching?”

  “A John Hughes marathon.”

  “Who’s that?”

  I sigh. My daughter is standing in the doorway watching me watch The Breakfast Club, an expression on her face that is partly bemused and partly concerned.

  How do you explain your childhood to your children? How do you explain what these seemingly silly comedies meant to you growing up? It’s like explaining rotary phones, TV antennas, Walkmans, mood rings, typewriters and handwritten directions.

  They meant everything.

  And even more now.

  You know what I hear when I discuss idols from childhood—John Hughes, Erma Bombeck, The Go-Go’s? Crickets. You know what I see? Blank stares.

  I sneaked into a Starbucks the other day, and when the barista asked a young man for his name, he said, “Walter.” I replied, “Oh, wow! I haven’t heard that name in forever. I adored Walter Cronkite.” Crickets. Blank stares. From both the young man and the barista. I babbled, explaining who he was, but when I left, I became angry. I understand pop culture changes. I understand that there are massive differences between generations. I understand that kids are kids. But, with a world of information at our fingertips, why aren’t we more curious? I mean, I knew who Frank Sinatra was growing up. I knew the Beatles, just as I knew Madonna. It almost seems lazy that there is so little intellectual curiosity despite everything just a Google search away.