Page 3 of Camp Help Falling

“Mom?”

Her unmistakable laugh fills the speaker. “Yes, Oliver, it’s me. I just wanted to check on you. I haven’t talked to you in awhile.”

It’s like she knows I’m messing around on her fancy furniture when I shouldn’t. That’s the only explanation for this weirdly-timed call from my mom after the crap day I’ve had.

Actually, scratch that. She can probably sense that I need her with her weird mom magic or something.

“We talked last week.”

Mom laughs like oh how silly of me, of course we did, and I can perfectly picture her waving her hand in front of her face to brush my comment aside. “It’s no crime to check up on my only son, you know. I am your mother; I want to know how you’re doing. At least I’m not one of those moms who tracks your location.”

We both chuckle. If she were one of those moms, she would know that I’m at her house, and with those mom senses, she’d know that I’m contemplating putting my wet feet up on the coffee table. (Something I absolutely shouldn’t do, for the record.) But, speaking of location…

“What phone are you calling from?”

“The camp phone.”

“Camp phone?” I sit up, leaning my elbows on my knees, like that’s going to help me better understand the words coming out of her mouth.

“Yes. Remember that summer camp your dad and I bought this last winter?”

Vaguely. I have a fuzzy memory of Mom raving about the gorgeous scenery while Dad spoke about the numbers during one of our family dinners around the holidays. At the time, I was also swamped with my own projects at work. I spend a weekend every few months volunteering with the Evans Youth Foundation, but I don’t have the mental capacity to remember everything my mom and dad do with their philanthropic efforts.

“Well that’s where we are right now!” Mom’s obvious excitement is infectious, and I can’t help the small smile I give to the empty room. “The summer camp program starts in just a few days, so we flew out last week to get things set up.”

I glance around the dim and empty living room as my brain runs through the facts it digs up from the conversation I had with my parents last fall. Something about a small camp in the western US where Mom and Dad are hoping to expand their youth program that has been successful over the past several years here in Virginia.

“So you don’t mind if I crash at your place for the foreseeable future?”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Mom’s voice immediately fills with worry, and I can picture the wrinkle that’s probably forming right between her eyebrows.

“My apartment flooded.”

“Oh no!”

“And Reese broke up with me.”

“What?” Mom’s voice rises in pitch.

“And I was let go from Woolsey-Marshall.”

“WHAT!”

I have to pull my phone away from my ear so Mom doesn’t blow out my eardrum with all of her yelling. The reality of everything that happened today finally settles on my shoulders, and I slump back on the couch, running a hand over my face.

“Yeah, it’s been quite the day.”

Muffled sounds come through my phone’s speaker, indicating that Mom has likely pressed the phone against her stomach to talk to someone. I can only assume it’s Dad, and that she’s relaying all the information I just told her.

“Why don’t you come out here?” Mom’s voice reappears as suddenly as it vanished a moment ago. “If you need a place to get away for a bit, this camp is perfect. It’s away from the city, and the air is so fresh. It will help you get out of whatever funk you’re in.”

“I am not in a funk,” I protest, but Mom’s silence feels weighty, like she’s waiting for me to agree with her. Because she’s right, even though I don’t want to admit it. I already feel like my body is too heavy to pull off this couch.

“Oh, alright.” I pull my phone away from my ear and switch it to speaker so I can look up this camp. “What’s the name of the camp? Bartlett? Browning?” Both of those names pull up Boy Scout camps in the area, which are clearly not the one Mom and Dad bought.

“Brower,” Mom says. “Camp Brower. Are you looking it up? It should pop right up.”

“Got it.” I zoom in on the small camp located just north of the Utah-Idaho border. It hardly looks like much, but then again, satellite views never really do things justice. “Kinda small isn’t it?”

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