Before I Forget by Tory Henwood Hoen - 9

Over the next few days, we settle into something of a rhythm. When my father asks about Nina, I try out an array of responses. “She moved to Stockholm” proves too jarring for him, so I experiment with “She’s on a trip” and “She’s out for a bit.” Those explanations land better, and I see that my job is to find answers that will satisfy him without telling outright lies. I am the filter through which his reality now flows.

In addition to getting reacquainted with my father, I am also reacquainting myself with the home and the land I once knew so well. Everything is smaller than I remember: the house itself, the lawn, the pond, the sky. I remember it all stretching on forever, huge and wild and a little bit treacherous. But now, everything feels scaled down and approachable, like I’m living in a miniature of the past.

Our days are long and slow. I have plenty to do, but nothing is urgent, and I have time to revisit my old haunts. There is the lean-to, where we often slept as kids—sometimes six or eight of us in a row of sleeping bags, crammed together like cigars in a box, our giggles echoing over the water until the last of us fell asleep. There is the guest cabin, which I always avoided, believing it haunted. There is a patch of blueberry bushes where I once “ran away” at the age of seven. Using a dishcloth and stick to fashion a bindle, I took off up the driveway until I reached the bushes, which were still within earshot of the house (I wanted to observe the eruption of concern once my family realized I was gone). Waiting in the warm soil, I could hear my parents talking about the car needing work; hear them say something about “that jackass Rod Seavey”; hear them go silent as they turned back to their preoccupations; but I did not hear them mention me. Not only were they not frantic with worry, but they hadn’t even noticed my absence. After an hour (which felt like three days, by my count), I grew bored. I grabbed a handful of damp dirt and smeared it across my cheeks. I mussed my hair so I would look like a proper runaway. I gripped my bindle and limped back toward the house, throwing the door open so they could not possibly miss my dramatic return. I remember my mother saying something like, “Cricket, I need you to clean up your art supplies. They’re all over the porch.” She didn’t notice my dirt-smeared face, my knotted hair, or the fact that I had been away for years . In that moment, I realized that my mother never noticed me when I was good, or even when I was gone. She only noticed me when I made a mess that somehow inconvenienced her. But my father caught on and indulged me: “What do we have here, a little orphan in from the cold?” Validated, I dropped my bindle and ran into his arms.

Then there is the narrow boathouse where our aluminum boat still bobs, knocking lightly against the dock. Mostly unused these days, its eight-horsepower engine is small but capable. My father taught me to drive it when I was only eight, which horrified my mother, but she did not intervene. On more than one occasion, I went for a spin by myself when I was barely old enough to see over the bow. Only once did I run out of gas in the middle of the pond and need to be rescued by Nina, who towed me back with the canoe. That summer, my mother only stayed at camp for six days, and I missed her. To combat that feeling, I took a jar of her fancy face cream and smeared it on the door of the boathouse. I still remember the sensation of my fingers digging into the thick cream and then dragging four long streaks, like oil paint, across the chipped paint. The streaks are still there on the door nearly two decades later—waxy, hardened, but unmistakable.

When I was nine or ten, some trees were cleared in the wooded area behind the house to afford a better view of the pond. A series of dry stumps remained, and from them, I created a world. I transformed the clearing into a fast-paced animal hospital, where stumps became operating tables and recovery rooms. Someone was always in crisis, and as head surgeon, it was up to me to save them. Though I specialized in treating exotic mammals (ocelots, lemurs, reindeer), I would take any patient who came through the door: ponies, stoats, dragons.

The hospital was well-equipped. In the hollow of a tree, I had hidden the receiver of an old rotary phone, whose curly wire hung loose, not connected to anything. A large rock functioned as the front desk, where frantic patients explained their plights. I had somehow acquired a vintage doctor’s bag that I stuffed with supplies (bandages, string, kitchen tongs, knitting needles). A crumbling rock wall was my office, where I was not to be disturbed, except in the case of emergency—and there was always an emergency. A skunk might need stitches, an alligator might need a C-section, or a zebra might need a tail amputation. There were quieter days, too: routine checkups for dogs and cats, the braiding of horses’ manes, the clipping of lions’ claws. I did it all while managing a sizeable imaginary staff, who were all incredibly deferential. All but Alex, my promising but unruly protégé who happened to be a squirrel.

“For Christ’s sake, Alex,” I would bark into the tree phone. “This is the third time you’ve been late this month. I see so much potential in you, but I can’t work with potential alone.”

Alex hated to be held accountable, but it was necessary. I spent long hours in the hospital, high on my own authority.

Now, when I visit the clearing, all I see are stumps. I miss my imaginary world, just as I miss my childhood self.

One morning after I give my father his breakfast and morning medication, I find myself wandering the shoreline. Catwood Pond being long and narrow, there is only one other property that is visible from our house. Directly across the water, I can make out the shapes of the now-empty Seavey camp: the two-story boathouse, the vast lawn, the sprawling main house. It all sits, hot and still, as if waiting for something. I place my hand on a tree, thick as an elephant’s leg, and run my fingers over the bulging sap bubbles. Although I know better, I can’t resist pressing my nail into one that is big as a grape. Its viscous insides burst over my finger and slide down the bark, leaving a lazy trail. I press the tips of my fingers together and indulge in the sticky resistance as I try to pull them apart. A dormant feeling begins to stir. It’s more than a memory; it’s like a portal. Suddenly, I remember exactly what it felt like to be sixteen. My senses have held on to this version of me—the self who thrummed with a chaotic mix of optimism and defiance and fear and brazenness. The self who, one summer, collided with a boy named Seth.