We follow her out of the Lodge, down a zigzag trail, this time with less trees, plastic garden trolls and metal signs that remind us to get our “groove on” and make ourselves at home. Apparently, we’re looking for our rental cabin, something Rainbow doesn’t seem to have a map to. I hope Momma’s a hippie, too.
I stay ten steps behind, taking long breaths of daytime campfire smog, marshmallow and pine. Kids laugh and call “you’re it!” in an above-ground pool, bouncing on blow-up animals so giant I don’t know how there’s room for water. I decide, right then and there, that I’m going to love it at Happy Endings Resort. In fact, this may be the best vacation ever.
Rainbow stops to pick a wilting dandelion. She puts it close to her lips and blows its fragile seeds across the sky. I want to catch them, too, like Pappy’s smoke rings. Instead, I pick one of my own and make a wish. I wish Momma would come home. I reckon she’d love a place like this. And Grandma and Pappy could get on with their lives.
“Everyone gets a hammock and a grill. Check out is at noon, ya’ll. We don’t mind, though, if ya sleep in a bit. Besides, you’re here a week, so you don’t have to worry about it. Worry about nothing, doll. No worries, here. It’s cool, ya’ll. Breakfast is in the Lodge, in the back room. But only for guests, not residents.” Rainbow twirls, arms straight out to each side, like she’s hoping to catch the sun, and smiles. “Any questions, ya’ll?”
“We’re here to fish,” Pappy growls. “We ain’t got any interest in a tour or free breakfast. We’ll eat what we catch. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Okay then. Let’s get ya’ll settled,” Rainbow says. “Follow me, dolls.” She winks at me again. I hope it means she won’t tell Pappy when I sneak over the Lodge come morning time for breakfast. I hate fish.
We turn twice—first left, then right—down the twisty path before we arrive at our fuchsia-stained log cabin. It waves at us between pine trees and a stump carved into a lively totem pole. I push my fingers in its jagged grooves, touching its rough, square belly and poking it in the nostril. Pappy tells me to hurry up and “stop screwing around.” I suck bitter sap off my hands, jogging to catch up.
My Hello Kitty backpack bounces, dancing to woodpecker drums playing from somewhere up above. I wonder if they, the birds I can’t see, saw the bubble smoke rings and dandelion seeds. I wonder if they could hear my wish. I plop down in the hammock, kicking off my flip flops. I swing side to side, tuning out Pappy’s mumblings about perch, “no such thing as gator-free freshwater,” bass and missing home. Little do I know, I’m already here. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll catch a fish. John can eat it.
Present Day
Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that was nearly twelve years ago. It seems like yesterday that John and I first visited Happy Endings Resort on a last-minute fishing trip with Pappy. It was a trip that never would have happened, had Grandma not wanted us out of her hair for a while, while she worked on her pottery “in silence without that miserable man around to tell me I’m making a mess of things.”
I still miss Rainbow and how she recognized us each year when we returned—always with Grandma after that first trip—for the annual fishing derby. Each Labor Day weekend, as we packed our things to return to Raleigh, she’d say, “Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?” She never did tell Pappy how I managed to stay alive on a diet of spat-out catfish and marshmallows. Hippies don’t kiss and tell. I reckon he figured it out, eventually, but never thought to ask about it until now.
Grandma told me once that it was Bess, the nosey lady three trailers down from Bear’s that finally drove Rainbow out of here. “She was always getting into everyone’s business,” Grandma said. “You have to avoid people like that. Up to no good. Drama, drama, drama. Just like your momma, dear. Bless her heart. Remember: Keep your nose to yourself and mind your own business, ya hear?”
It never occurred to me that Grandma wasn’t much good at minding her own business either. She and Maggie—we’ll get to her soon enough—had their own share of gossip sessions. They talked in hushed voices over campfires. They whispered about smoldering love affairs on Maggie’s front porch for hours, until the sweet tea got warm and Pappy and John were due for supper. Later it was moonshine. Thinking back, maybe Grandma was talking to herself, reminding herself. And, maybe it’s also why my grand momma loved this place the way she did—that it never was about the “gator-free lake” at all. I reckon that was just her way of getting Pappy there, year after year. I wish I could ask her now, but I can’t. She’s been gone for just about two years.
My name is Callie, short for Callalily. Apparently, my momma was a hippie, like Rainbow, too. I wouldn’t know, even still. Now that I’m older, it doesn’t seem so cute. She left my brother and me when I was a toddler. John and I were raised by Pappy and Grandma. They say Momma, whose name is technically Suzanne but I wasn’t allowed to refer to her that way, ran off with “the first guy who caught her eye.” They, my grandparents, called her a “gypsy” and “a problem child.” They called her a lot of other things, too, but I don’t care to think about it anymore. A lot has changed since then. So what if I was left at Grandma’s house by a flower child? People have bigger problems than that. It’s easy to get over something you don’t really remember. At least, that’s the way it was for me. I’m not so sure about my brother. I guess that’s neither here nor there now.
Mostly, I’ve had a great life. Aside from Grandma and Pappy dying—him of cancer, her of a broken heart—my biggest struggle was when my mutt, Peanut, died. I think I cried for three months straight and remember wanting to punch the cashier at the Dollar General—bless her heart—when she told me to “have a good day” without even looking up to see the expression on my face.
I picture Momma off “finding herself” in the clunky blue Volkswagen van she called Martha—the very thing she encouraged me to do in a letter she sent home the year I turned ten. “Do what makes your heart sing. Don’t listen to anyone but yourself, Lily. You only have one life and you should live it to the fullest,” she’d written. “And, for the love of the Goddess, travel. There’s more to life than the Carolinas.” I haven’t heard from her since, so I guess she’s sort of irrelevant. And me, to her, too. Oh well. I wish her the best.
Anyway, back to Happy Endings, the place where my—our—story really began. Like I was saying, a lot has changed since those first few summers with Grandma and Pappy. Rumor has it that Rainbow ran off some woman with a fancy guitar and the voice of an angel. Her not being at the Lodge to greet people is probably the biggest change. There was just something about her. Grandma always said she was “happier than a dead pig in sunshine.” Can’t argue with that. I just wish she could be here now. This place could use a little sparkle. I’d love to have her back for the wedding. I guess you can’t have everything you want. But still…
The log cabins we once summered in are now used as storage sheds for Brice, the park’s lead handyman. One is used as storage for his long-lost daughter, also named Callie. Others were knocked down when new owners came in. They were replaced with trailers for year-long residents so Rory—the owner—can collect a check in December. The place just looks, well, sadder somehow. Bright colors are muted by neutrals to give it the rustic feel currently in demand by summer-only residents. I miss it the way it once was before everything seemed so serious and people stopped wishing on dandelions.