assure you that unless you look like Brad Pitt, you are safe from him.”
Gay ? Ann stared while a murmur ran around the group, most likely part relief, part disappointment. She never would have guessed in a million years.
“Hi, ladies.” He stood next to Betsy, smiling, confident, body posture loose but still commanding, his face glowing in the firelight.
Him ?
“Let me tell you a little about myself. I come from a pretty bad place, an abusive childhood in Iowa, teenage addictions, a couple of young-adult brushes with the law. Not healthy.
Five years ago I was beaten and left for dead in Miami by someone I owed money to. I recovered over the next year, As Good As It Got
57
working harder than I’d ever worked at anything, physically, emotionally, spiritually, with the help of a dedicated physical therapist who never gave up on me, no matter what. I loved him.” The smooth voice thickened. “He gave me my life back. Then AIDS took his.”
Another murmur through the crowd. Sympathy, understanding.
Ann frowned. Gay? Seriously?
“I had to leave, put as much distance as possible between myself and memories of him. I went to Thailand, lived with monks, stripped my life down to essentials. I spent five months there, learning, growing, finding peace.
“But I wasn’t one of them. So I came back to the States, still drifting, but determined not to choose a bad road again.
And then one night in L.A., down to my last ten bucks, I was ready to say to hell with it and spend it all on booze. I took a step toward the bar, and I swear this is true—a flyer for City University flew up and hit me in the face. The admis-sions people saw something in me and took a chance with a full scholarship. I worked my ass off and got my degree in psychology. I’ve been accepted to the University of Minnesota master’s program this fall, and I hope to go on to get my Ph.D.
“If I could turn my life around from addiction, self-destruction, loss, physical wounds, hopelessness, and poverty, I guarantee all of you can turn your lives around too. Welcome to Camp Kinsonu. If there’s anything I can do to help you while you’re here . . . ” His eyes flicked to Ann’s briefly, then away. “ . . . you let me know. Thanks.”
An awed silence, then warm applause that lasted well beyond a polite interval. The breeze blew. The fire crack-58 Isabel
Sharpe
led. The waves lapped at the shore, farther and farther away as the tide went out. More staff members were introduced.
The cook, the massage therapist, the kayaking instructor, the art teacher. Each told matter-of-fact stories of pain that had led them to this place and inspired them to stay on to help others.
Ann fidgeted through it all, uncomfortable with people tossing off casual stories of suffering and redemption. She looked around at the stricken faces of her fellow Kinsonuites, traces of tears glistening on cheeks. Okay. Maybe she was just an unfeeling bitch.
Patrick the Wild Boy had scored the most dramatic tale.
That much pain. That much alone time. That many risks, to travel to the other side of the world and immerse himself in a culture he didn’t belong to. Her whole adult life she’d stayed comfortably rooted in her culture, in her social class, in the world she’d created. And so had Paul.
“Now, here’s Pamela to lead us in a few songs before bed,”
Betsy announced. “I’m sure you’re all exhausted. This air is good for sleeping, but if you have trouble, come to the main cabin. Our nurse on duty has warm milk, holistic and herbal remedies, and over-the-counter tablets that can help for the first nights if you need them. Okay, Pamela.”
Pamela hauled out her guitar and tuned, strumming and smiling. She had gorgeous thick auburn hair and straight white teeth, and Ann caught herself reflexively peeking at Patrick, the way she used to peek at Ethan Rosner in tenth grade history to see if he was checking out Betsy’s tight sweater when she got up to give an
Gay ? Ann stared while a murmur ran around the group, most likely part relief, part disappointment. She never would have guessed in a million years.
“Hi, ladies.” He stood next to Betsy, smiling, confident, body posture loose but still commanding, his face glowing in the firelight.
Him ?
“Let me tell you a little about myself. I come from a pretty bad place, an abusive childhood in Iowa, teenage addictions, a couple of young-adult brushes with the law. Not healthy.
Five years ago I was beaten and left for dead in Miami by someone I owed money to. I recovered over the next year, As Good As It Got
57
working harder than I’d ever worked at anything, physically, emotionally, spiritually, with the help of a dedicated physical therapist who never gave up on me, no matter what. I loved him.” The smooth voice thickened. “He gave me my life back. Then AIDS took his.”
Another murmur through the crowd. Sympathy, understanding.
Ann frowned. Gay? Seriously?
“I had to leave, put as much distance as possible between myself and memories of him. I went to Thailand, lived with monks, stripped my life down to essentials. I spent five months there, learning, growing, finding peace.
“But I wasn’t one of them. So I came back to the States, still drifting, but determined not to choose a bad road again.
And then one night in L.A., down to my last ten bucks, I was ready to say to hell with it and spend it all on booze. I took a step toward the bar, and I swear this is true—a flyer for City University flew up and hit me in the face. The admis-sions people saw something in me and took a chance with a full scholarship. I worked my ass off and got my degree in psychology. I’ve been accepted to the University of Minnesota master’s program this fall, and I hope to go on to get my Ph.D.
“If I could turn my life around from addiction, self-destruction, loss, physical wounds, hopelessness, and poverty, I guarantee all of you can turn your lives around too. Welcome to Camp Kinsonu. If there’s anything I can do to help you while you’re here . . . ” His eyes flicked to Ann’s briefly, then away. “ . . . you let me know. Thanks.”
An awed silence, then warm applause that lasted well beyond a polite interval. The breeze blew. The fire crack-58 Isabel
Sharpe
led. The waves lapped at the shore, farther and farther away as the tide went out. More staff members were introduced.
The cook, the massage therapist, the kayaking instructor, the art teacher. Each told matter-of-fact stories of pain that had led them to this place and inspired them to stay on to help others.
Ann fidgeted through it all, uncomfortable with people tossing off casual stories of suffering and redemption. She looked around at the stricken faces of her fellow Kinsonuites, traces of tears glistening on cheeks. Okay. Maybe she was just an unfeeling bitch.
Patrick the Wild Boy had scored the most dramatic tale.
That much pain. That much alone time. That many risks, to travel to the other side of the world and immerse himself in a culture he didn’t belong to. Her whole adult life she’d stayed comfortably rooted in her culture, in her social class, in the world she’d created. And so had Paul.
“Now, here’s Pamela to lead us in a few songs before bed,”
Betsy announced. “I’m sure you’re all exhausted. This air is good for sleeping, but if you have trouble, come to the main cabin. Our nurse on duty has warm milk, holistic and herbal remedies, and over-the-counter tablets that can help for the first nights if you need them. Okay, Pamela.”
Pamela hauled out her guitar and tuned, strumming and smiling. She had gorgeous thick auburn hair and straight white teeth, and Ann caught herself reflexively peeking at Patrick, the way she used to peek at Ethan Rosner in tenth grade history to see if he was checking out Betsy’s tight sweater when she got up to give an
Similar Books
