FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“Wake up, sunshine.”
It was just past eight when my mother crept into my bedroom, her eyes already glazed from her morning Bloody Mary. Her lips were curled into the same smile she always wore when she was about to do something momentous. I called it her Mother of the Year smile. Seeing it never failed to make me nervous, mostly because there was usually a gaping chasm between her intentions and the end result. On that morning, I tightened into a ball beneath the covers, bracing myself for hours of forced mother-daughter bonding.
“You all ready to go?” she said.
“Go where?”
My mother stared at me, her hand fumbling with the collar of her chiffon robe. “Camp, of course.”
“What camp?”
“Summer camp,” my mother said, stressing the first word, letting me know that wherever I was headed, it was going to be for more than just a day or two.
I sat up, flinging aside the covers. “You never told me about any camp.”
“I did, Emma. I told you weeks ago. It’s the same place me and your aunt Julie went. Jesus, don’t tell me you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.”
Being told I was going to be ripped away from my friends for the entire summer was something I would have remembered. It was more likely my mother had only thought about telling me. In her world, thinking about something was close enough to doing it. Yet knowing that didn’t lessen the feeling of being ambushed. It reminded me of those extreme interventions in which parents hired rehab centers to abduct their junkie children.
“Then I’m telling you now,” my mother said. “Where’s your suitcase? We need to be on the road in an hour.”
“An hour?” My stomach clenched as I thought of all my summer plans being snatched away from me. No lazing around with Heather and Marissa. No secret, unchaperoned train ride to Coney Island like we had planned in study hall. No flirting with Nolan Cunningham from next door, who wasn’t quite as cute as Justin Timberlake but still had the same swaggering confidence. Plus, he was finally starting to notice me, now that my braces had come off. “Where are we going?”
“Camp Nightingale.”
Camp Rich Bitch. Talk about a surprise on top of a surprise.
That changed things.
For two years I had begged my parents to send me, only to be told no. Now, after having given up hope, I was suddenly going. In an hour. That totally explained the Mother of the Year smile. For once, it was justified.
Still, I refused to show my mother how pleased I was. Doing that would have only encouraged her, subjecting me to more attempts at making up for lost time. High tea at the Plaza. A shopping spree at Saks. Anything to make her feel better about having zero interest in me for the first twelve years of my life.
“I’m not going,” I announced as I laid back down and pulled the covers over my head.
My mother ignored me as she started to root through my closet, her voice muffled. “You’ll love it there. It’ll be a summer you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”
Under the covers, an anticipatory shiver ran through me. Camp Nightingale. Six weeks of swimming and reading and hiking. Six weeks away from this stuffy apartment and my mother’s disinterest and my father’s eye rolls when she poured herself a third glass of Chardonnay. Heather and Marissa were going to be so jealous. After pretending to be pissed at me for abandoning them the whole summer, of course.
“Whatever,” I say, following it up with an indignant huff. “I’ll go, even though I don’t want to.”
It was a lie.
My first in a summer filled with them.
4
The drive to Camp Nightingale takes up most of the afternoon. Almost five hours when counting in rest stops. Most of it a straight shot north along truck-clogged I-87.
The length of the trip is something I’d forgotten from my first visit, when I had spent the drive huddled in the back seat while my parents blamed each other for not telling me I was going to camp. This time, I’m once again in the back, although the driver of the private town car Franny hired for me hardly says a word. But my nervousness is the same. That butterfly-trapped-in-the-chest feeling. Back then, it was because I didn’t quite know what the camp would be like.
Now I know exactly where I’m going.
And who I’ll see while I’m there.
In the months leading to my departure, I didn’t have time to be nervous. I was too consumed with applying for a temporary leave of absence from the ad agency and finding someone to sublet the loft while I’m gone. The leave was approved, and I eventually found an artist acquaintance to stay in the loft. She paints trippy starscapes with wax melted in scalding-hot aluminum pots. I’ve seen her at work, each colorful pot bubbling like a witch’s cauldron. I hope she doesn’t burn the place down.
While all that was taking place, I received weekly emails from Lottie that filled in various details of my stay. The debut summer of the new Camp Nightingale planned to have roughly fifty-five campers, five counselors, and five specialized instructors made up of camp alumni. Just like in the past, none of the cabins had electricity. The camp was monitoring the threats of Zika, West Nile, and other mosquito-borne illnesses. I should remember to pack accordingly.
I took that last note to heart. When I was thirteen, the sudden notice about going to camp delayed our departure for hours. First there was the matter of finding my suitcase, which ended up being in the back of the hall closet, behind the vacuum cleaner. Then came the arduous task of packing, with me not knowing what to bring and my lack of preparation necessitating a trip to Nordstrom’s to pick up the things I lacked. This time around, I went overboard in the sporting goods store, snapping up items with the whirlwind intensity of a romantic comedy heroine in a shopping montage. Much of it was necessary. Several pairs of shorts. Heavy-duty socks and a sturdy pair of hiking boots. An LED flashlight with a wrist strap. Some of it was not, such as the waterproof case that fits over my iPhone like a condom.
Then there was the matter of my parents. Neglectful as they were when I was growing up, I knew they wouldn’t like the idea of my returning to Camp Nightingale. So I didn’t tell them. I simply called to say I’d be away for six weeks and that they should contact Marc in case of an emergency. My father half listened. My mother simply told me to have “such a wonderful time,” her words slurred from cocktail hour.
Now there’s nothing left for me to do but quell my growing anxiety by sorting through all the things I thought I’d need to help my search. There’s a map of Lake Midnight and the surrounding area; a satellite view of the same thing, courtesy of Google Maps; and a stack of old newspaper articles about the disappearance collected from the library and printed off the internet. I even brought along a dog-eared Nancy Drew paperback—The Bungalow Mystery—for inspiration.