I, too, resume walking, feeling a little bit frightened and a lot foolish. The mood persists as I reach Dogwood. Because that’s when I notice something out of the ordinary as I reach for the doorknob.
A light. Tiny and red. Flaring like the tip of a cigarette.
It glows from the back wall of the cabin in front of ours. Red Oak, I think. Or maybe Sycamore. I aim the flashlight at it and see a black rectangle tucked into the nook where the two sides of the roof connect. A slim cord drips down the wall to the ground.
A surveillance camera. The kind you see in the corners of convenience stores.
I turn off the flashlight and stare at the camera’s lens, which shimmers slightly in the darkness. I don’t move a muscle.
The red light snaps off.
I wait five seconds before waving the flashlight over my head.
The red light flicks on again, triggered by the motion. I assume it does this every time someone enters or exits the cabin.
I have no idea how long the camera’s been doing this. Or why it’s there. Or if there are others scattered throughout camp. All I know is that Franny or Theo or someone involved with Camp Nightingale decided it was a good idea to keep an eye on the cabin.
The irony of the situation unsettles me.
Fifteen years later, I’m the one being watched.
11
Inside, I’m unable to go back to sleep. I change into my bathing suit and a brightly patterned silk robe bought during a long-ago trip to Cozumel. I then grab a towel from my trunk and slip quietly out of the cabin. On my way out the door, I will myself not to look at the camera. I don’t want to see its red light switch on. Nor do I want to face the lens’ prying eye. I walk past it quickly, face averted, pretending I don’t know it’s there, just in case someone is watching.
As I make my way to the lake, I sneak glances at the other cabins, checking for cameras on those as well. I don’t see any. Nor do I see any on the handful of light poles that dully illuminate the pathway into the heart of the camp. Or in the trees.
I try not to let that worry me.
At the edge of Lake Midnight, I place the towel on the cracked dirt of the shore, drop the robe, and step gingerly into the water. The lake is cold, bracing. Not at all like the heated pool at the local Y where I swim each morning. Lake Midnight is murkier. Although the water’s only up to my knees, my bare feet look blurred and slightly greenish. When I scoop some into my cupped hands, I see swirling specks of feathery algae.
Steeling myself with a deep breath, I dive under, kicking hard, arms extended in front of me. I emerge only when my chest starts to tighten, lungs swelling. I then start to cut my way across the lake. Strands of mist hover just above the surface, breaking apart when I burst through them. In the water, yellow perch flee my path, startled.
I stop once I reach the middle of the lake—probably a quarter mile from shore. I have no idea how deep the water is here. Maybe thirty feet. Maybe a hundred. I think about how everything below me used to be dry land. A valley filled with trees and rocks and animals. All of it is still down there. The trees rotted by water. The stones fuzzy with algae. The animals stripped of their flesh by fish, now nothing but bones.
Not a comforting thought.
I think of the story Casey told me. The village still at the bottom of the lake, its skeletal inhabitants tucked in their beds.
That’s even less comforting.
Paddling in place, I turn back toward camp. At this hour, it’s quiet and still, bathed in pinkish light from the rising sun that peeks above the mountains to the east. The only activity I see is a solitary figure standing at the dock’s edge, watching me.
Even from this distance, I know the figure is Becca Schoenfeld. I see the splash of color from the scarf circling her neck and can make out the shape of her camera as she lifts it to her face.
Becca remains on the dock as I swim back to shore, her camera poised. I try not to feel self-conscious as the staccato clicks of the shutter echo across the water. Instead, I swim harder, increasing my strokes. If Becca’s going to watch, then I’ll give her something worth watching.
That’s another, different lesson I learned in this lake.
I get to my feet a few yards from shore and wade the rest of the way. Becca has left the dock and is now directly in front of me, gesturing for me to stop. I indulge her, standing shin-deep in the water as she clicks off a few more shots.
“Sorry,” she says once she’s finished. “The light was so perfect, I couldn’t resist. Such a beautiful sunrise.”
She holds the camera in front of me as I dry off, scrolling through the photos. Of the last one, she says, “This one’s the keeper.”
In the picture, I’ve risen from the lake, water streaming down my body, backlit by the sunrise. I think Becca was going for something fierce and empowering. A woman emerging victorious from the surf, now determined to conquer land. But instead of fierce, I simply look lost. As if I’ve just woken up in the water, confused by how I’d gotten there. It makes me feel so self-conscious that I quickly reach for my robe and wrap it tight around me.
“Please delete that.”
“But it looks great.”
“Fine,” I say. “Just promise me it won’t end up on the cover of National Geographic.”
We settle onto the grass and stare out at the water, which reflects the pinkish-orange sky so perfectly it’s hard to tell which is which. At least Becca was right about that. The sunrise is indeed beautiful.
“So you’re an artist,” she says. “I read about your gallery show.”
“And I’ve seen your photographs.”
Having stated the obvious, we settle into an awkward silence. I pretend to adjust the sleeves of my robe. Becca fiddles with her camera strap. We both keep an eye on the sunrise, which has now gained a few streaks of gold.
“I can’t believe I’m back here,” Becca eventually says. “I can’t believe you’re back here.”
“You and me both.”
“Listen, I’m sorry for acting weird yesterday. I saw you in the mess hall and momentarily freaked out. I don’t know why.”
“I do,” I say. “Seeing me brought back a hundred different memories. Some of which you weren’t prepared to face.”
“Exactly.”
“It happens all the time to me,” I admit. “Almost nonstop. Everywhere I look, a memory seems to be lurking.”
“I’m assuming Franny lured you back,” Becca says.
I nod, even though it’s not entirely the truth.
“I volunteered,” Becca says. “I mean, I already knew Franny was going to ask. She somehow managed to track me down during one of my rare returns to New York and invited me to lunch. As soon as she started talking about Camp Nightingale, I knew what she had planned. So I jumped at the chance.”