Good Things

By Ruthie Rayburn

Forty year old Elaine is a single mom. This summer, Elaine and her twelve year old daughter, Savannah, are spending a month apart. It's Savannah's idea. She thinks she depends on Elaine too much, and she's insistent that she needs to develop independence. So, Elaine reluctantly agrees to let her daughter go off to camp for the last month of summer. While Savannah spends a month at camp with no cell phone or computer access, Elaine stays at a beach cabin. Both of them discover unexpected adventures during their time apart, in a novella that shows you can "come of age" at any age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruthie Rayburn
• Release date: Oct 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958269015

Book preview

Chapter 1

Elaine

S avannah. You’re spacing out. Stop spacing out. I need you to be present for at least fifteen minutes.

It's your fault I space out so much, Mom, my daughter counters. Why’d you have to name me Savannah, anyway? My name literally means 'treeless plain.' Space is like, my vibe.

A treeless plain doesn't have to be empty space, I point out. There can be grasses. Streams. Ponds. Entire ecosystems. I don't think your name has anything to do with it.

My eyes are on the road, but I know Savannah is executing a fierce eye roll. The thing is, I'm worried she's right. Not about her name, exactly. But I wonder if it's my fault that she’s able to disappear so completely. One minute she's there, the next minute she's not.

I can always feel the shift in her, like her soul has some internal system of twisty stairways, all leading down and away from the present moment, from normal consciousness. Vanishing in plain sight is her superpower.

Did I teach her how to be that way? And is it bad for her? Will she disappear some day in some situation where what she really needs is to be present and fight? Was there something I should have done differently? These questions plague me constantly.

During the twelve years of my daughter’s life, I've often been preoccupied. Worried about keeping a roof over our heads, and keeping us fed and clothed. It's only been within the last couple of years that our financial situation has changed for the better. Since then, I've been able to pay more attention to Savannah. But she's growing up, and I often feel as if she's starting to slip out of my hands before I can make up for lost time.

Do you really hate your name? I ask her.

She lets out a loud sigh. Mom. Stop worrying about everything.

That's her go-to answer these days. No matter what I say, I'm worrying too much.

We're almost at the drop-off point for her summer camp. They’ll confiscate her cell phone once she checks in. They want to encourage the kids to learn to relate face to face, and I support that idea in theory. But it also seems like a way that bad things could happen, and for the kids to have no way to ask for help.

This is why I triple checked everything about the camp, hunting for crime and incident reports from the last thirty years. I talked to the camp administration ahead of time. I needed to be certain that if anything did happen, Savannah would still be able to contact me. I asked them tons of questions about hypothetical scenarios. When I was satisfied, I enrolled my daughter at the camp. Even so, I'm terrified.

She isn't. She can't wait to go. She's practically bouncing on her seat with anticipation. Her dark curls, always unruly, are jiggling with excitement.

Going to camp this summer was her idea. She came to me one night and said, Mom, I think I rely on you too much. I need to learn to take care of myself.

I reminded her that she was eleven years old, and that if I threw her out of the house at her current age, I'd get arrested.

But she made a good case. She pointed out that when summer rolled around, she'd be twelve, not eleven. She reminded me she'd never been away from home for more than two consecutive nights, and that both of her closest friends had already been to camp, at a much younger age than eleven.

She told me she was getting close to being a teenager, and if she had no practice standing up for herself before then, how would she even handle the pressures she would surely face in the next several years?

I didn't want to give in to her. But in the end, I did, because what she said made sense. And also, I know I hold on to her too tightly. I don’t want to damage her by being overprotective.

We're almost at the camp now. Savannah's humming to herself. It's what she does when she's excited about something: food, or a TV show, or a trip somewhere she likes. These are all things we usually do together. But now, she's humming because she's about to leave me behind for a month. That makes me feel kind of sad.

We pull into the crowded drop-off area at the camp. The space, in a clearing among evergreen trees, is swarming with kids carrying their bags and camping equipment. The minute I stop the car, Savannah pops the door.

Wait a second, I say.

She's not a super rebellious kid, so she stops.

I want you to call me if anything goes wrong, I tell her. There's a phone in the camp's main office you can use. Call me anytime you need to.

Okay, Mom, Savannah says. I can tell she’s trying to be patient with me.

Don't let anybody push you to do anything you don't want to do, I add. Whether it's girls, or boys. And try to make sure you eat the vegetables they provide, even if they don't cook them well.

Anything else? She's losing her patience.

Don't let the bedbugs bite?

"Mom."

I think that's it! I smile widely at her, to show her I'm reasonable. I'm not going to keep her here for the next two hours, rattling off warnings and advice.

Then, she surprises me by putting her hand on my arm. You have a good time too, Mom. Okay? You need a break.

Okay, I say, a bit startled. I'll certainly try my best.

We have a moment then. Looking at each other, I feel the strength of our bond as mother and daughter. For so long, it's been her and me against the world. We've always been a team. And for just one moment, we're a team again. Then she pushes her door open, and says, Can you open the trunk?

I help her get her stuff out, then hug her, which bugs her. I can tell. Other kids can see. But she's my only child. There's no way I'm not going to hug her goodbye.

Do you know where the registration area is? I ask. I already formally registered her online. The in-person registration is just to make sure she’s actually here.

Yeah. She points. I can see it over there.

Do you want me to help you carry your things?

Mom. No. I'll be fine. Okay? She's both firm, and pleading. If she was the parent right now, she'd order me to get in the car and drive away. But since she's not, she just fixes me with her steely dark eyes, willing me to go.

It's just a month. Okay sweetie, I say. Go forth and conquer!

It's just summer camp, she mutters. She starts lugging her bag and camping roll toward the registration desk. Her thin limbs seem to struggle under the weight. Then she turns around. Have a good time, Mom, she repeats. Then she resumes shuffling forward. Slowly but surely.

I know she doesn't want me to stand there and watch her, so I get in the car. From there, I watch until she reaches the registration desk. I want to stay until she’s done. Until I can’t see her anymore. But there are other cars behind me, waiting to drop off their kids.

With a big nervous lump churning in my gut, I pull out of the drop-off area, and