this was one of the most fun parts of camping. My mom refused to let me go a whole weekend without taking a bath, but she did allow me to take baths in the lake. We’d soap up, swim a while and wash it all off, and then dry off, and we could call ourselves clean.
I’ve been taking a bath in the lake almost every day since I got here, and that was about a month ago. My little duck goes with me, and he paddles around and ducks his head over and over while I get clean. Today is no different, even though I know Abigail is here now. She’s here, and no one else is. The campground looks like a hollowed-out skeleton with all the empty campsites, the closed-up cabins, and no one using the beaches. Occasionally, people come and fish off the dock, but even that is sporadic in the off-season.
I step onto the sand and squish my toes into the fine grains that line the lakebed. Some lakes have bottoms that mush under your toes, but this lake has been used enough that the lake bottom is a fine silt that’s more sand than mud. I squish my toes around in it, and then walk into the lake wearing my bathing suit, carrying my soap and shampoo.
The water is getting cooler, and I can tell that fall is here. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to do this, once it gets too cold to swim. The Jacobsons close the bathhouses once it gets cold enough that the pipes could freeze. By then I’ll have to have a place to stay, somewhere out of the weather, but for now I like the life I have.
I wash my hair, dunking my head to get my hair clean, which is really long right now, longer than it has ever been. It hangs well past my collar and if my mom saw me, she’d give me shit until I cut it. I rub shampoo into the full beard I’ve let grow for years, then I go under the water to wash it all out. The lake is peaceful and calm, and I can’t help but think that this place contributes to my mental health.
My mom was afraid, when I first got here, that I’d have trouble acclimating to the real world. But this place is so far removed from the real world that I’ve had no trouble acclimating at all. It’s only when I go into town to get groceries that I get harsh stares. People know who I am, and they know what I did, and they know where I’ve been and why I was there. That’s when it’s hard, because I know that I’ve already been judged and found guilty.
And guilty is what I am. I know it. They know it. I’m resigned to it.
I finish my bath, swim across the lake and back, and slowly walk out of the water. The night air is cool against my skin, so I dry my hair with my towel and hang it around my shoulders. My duck toddles along behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement on the dock, and I realize that Abigail has walked down to the end of the dock, and she’s standing looking out over the water. Those riotous curls that I’ve always loved so much dance in the wind, and she scoops them up in her hand to keep them away from her face. I stand there and watch her. I know better than to go and talk to her. One, I don’t want to lose my position here, and two, I don’t want her to know who I am. I don’t want her to know what I’ve done. I don’t want her to know about my past, because if she finds out, she’ll look at me the way the other people do. She’ll either hate me or pity me, and I don’t know if I could stand either.
Suddenly, she turns and looks in my direction. She goes completely still and stares, and then she lets her curls go to lift her hand and wave in my direction. She doesn’t smile or call my name, because I’m pretty sure she can’t associate the me I am now with the me I used to be. She just lifts her hand and holds it there for a second. I don’t reciprocate. Instead, I pick up my shampoo and walk back