Always Watching

waiting in our old pickup truck, while Robbie and Levi approached a pair of teenage girls as they rested on the front steps of the store with their backpacks, drinking Dr Peppers in the sun. Their lives had probably changed forever when they decided to climb into the back of our truck and come out to the commune for a swim. I tried to think of their names, but they just blended with the other young women at the commune, all tanned with long hair, blissed out on pot and freedom. The only one who ever stood out was Willow. I wondered how she came to be at the commune, tried to think back, but nothing came to mind. Then I remembered that the community museum was just around the corner. After I paid for my gas, I parked my car in front of the small yellow building, thinking that I’d just pop in and see if they had any photos from the sixties.
    The door jangled as I pushed it open. A woman, maybe early thirties, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, was sitting behind a glass counter covered with calendars and postcards. Below in the display case, logging tools, a railway spike, and books rested on red velvet. Behind her on the wall there was a framed artist-drawn map of Shawnigan Lake. There were also some photos of the Kinsol trestle, one with the old train crossing, steam billowing out from behind.
    The woman set down the book she’d been reading and smiled. “Welcome to the Shawnigan Lake Museum.”
    I smiled back. “Hello.” As I browsed around, I focused on some black-and-white photos hanging on the wall, rich people summering at the lake. Lost in thought, I heard her say something but didn’t catch the words.
    I turned. “Pardon me?”
    She said, “Are you visiting Shawnigan for the first time?”
    “No, I grew up here.”
    “Oh, yeah?” She studied my face. “Where did you live?”
    “Out toward the trestle—but it was a long time ago. I live in Victoria now.”
    “It’s being rebuilt.” I’d already noticed all the photos of the Kinsol trestle, happy to see they were fixing it up. It had been one of my favorite places when I was growing up, somewhere I went for comfort. It was the largest wooden trestle in the Commonwealth and one of the highest in the world. Years ago it had been burned in the middle by some students, and it came with its own tragic past. A young man had committed suicide by hanging himself from a beam.
    I said, “Actually, maybe you can help me. There used to be some hippies living out by the river.…”
    “You mean the commune?” She cocked her head, waiting for the rest of my question.
    Fear crawled down my legs, the sense of opening doors that should be left closed. “Do you know anyone in town who might remember them?” Other than me, who wasn’t sure she wanted to remember.
    “Hmm. Don’t know.…” She wrinkled her nose.
    I glanced down at the book in her hand—it was a book on the history of the Malahat and Shawnigan Lake.
    Noticing the direction of my gaze, she said, “I’m obsessed with history.” She smiled guiltily and shrugged.
    “Well, there are certainly plenty of stories and legends about Shawnigan.”
    She leaned over the counter, her eyes wide. “You mean like all the drownings?”
    Growing up, I’d heard that the First Nations refused to come anywhere near the lake, saying it was cursed. Legend had it that there’d been a war between two tribes that took place in the center of the lake. The boats had capsized, drowning everyone, but their bodies had never been recovered. When we were young, and our parents took us to Mason’s Beach to swim, I’d been terrified, thinking the weeds touching my legs were ghostly arms reaching up from below. I assumed that was what she was referring to now, but I said, “The First Nations drownings?”
    She nodded. “Those, and two others as well. One couple was killed in a speedboat accident. And there was a logger who drowned waterskiing. They couldn’t find the bodies, so they had to dynamite the lake … then they floated up.”
    We looked at each other. I imagined bloated white bodies drifting up from the deep, felt the skin tingle at the back of my neck.
    She added, “There’ve been lots of suicides too.”
    I thought of my mother, wondered if the locals considered her death one of the tragedies or one of the suicides. The museum walls pressed in on me, my chest tightened, and I felt hot all over. I had to get out of there.
    Take a moment, relax your throat. You are not your panic.
    After a