Always Watching

by Chevy Stevens

  She glanced over at me, and I saw a flicker of something in her eyes, like she wanted to say something, but she looked away, and the moment was lost.

  After she was cleared to go home, I wheeled her out to my car. I held out my arm for her to brace against when she climbed in the passenger seat, but she ignored it. We were silent during the ride home, both of us exhausted, though my head was spinning with questions. I wanted to know where she’d been living, how she’d been living, what happened the night before, was she using again, did she still want to quit? Nothing I could ask, but I also couldn’t bring myself to chatter about nonsensical things either. As the silence mounted, I turned the radio on.

  When we pulled in the driveway and got out of the car, Lisa stood for a moment, admiring the house.

  “Wow, Mom. This is gorgeous.”

  My mood lifted at her casually calling me “Mom” and liking my house. It was unrealistic to expect it might mean she’d be willing to stay longer, but still, I hoped. I grabbed her packsack out of the trunk. Whoever had called 911 had left it behind with Lisa. I wondered if it was the same person who gave her the drugs. Did they even consider staying with her before leaving her in the alley like a piece of garbage? I shook off the anger. All I could control now was this moment.

  As we passed by the box where the stray had been sleeping Lisa said, “Is this for Silky?”

  “No, she passed away in the summer—a few weeks after I was attacked.”

  Her mouth pulled tight, and I wondered if she was upset I hadn’t told her about the cat—she used to sleep with her when she lived at home.

  I said, “I would’ve told you, but…”

  “S’okay.” But I had a feeling it wasn’t okay at all.

  Inside, I showed her the guest room. She stood in the middle and surveyed the room, the white duvet and pillows, the bamboo bed frame, dropping her packsack onto the floor and tossing her coat on the side chair. “It’s nice.”

  Again, I was inordinately pleased. “I’m so glad you like it.”

  She walked over to the bed, spotting the stuffed white dog I’d bought for her. Her back was to me as she picked it up.

  I said, “I saw it and thought of you.… It was for your birthday.” On that weekend, I’d lit a candle, blew it out, and made a wish for my daughter.

  “I’m going to take a nap, okay, Mom?”

  Her voice was thick, like she might be crying.

  “Are you okay? Do you want some—”

  “I’m fine.”

  It was a clear dismissal. I slowly closed the door behind me. When I peeked in later she was sound asleep, but there was rapid movement behind her eyelids, making me wonder what demons chased her dreams. I’d meant to read on the couch while waiting for her to wake, but I also fell asleep. I woke hours later with her standing over me. I sat up with a start. “Are you okay?”

  The house was dim, but she’d turned on a couple of lights. Outside it was almost dark, so it was probably early evening. Wind coming in from the ocean pushed the bamboo against my windows as rain tinged against the glass panes.

  Lisa said, “You can stop asking me that,” and sat in the chair across from me, pulling the wool throw off the back and wrapping it around her body. I noticed she’d made herself toast. There was also a plate on the coffee table in front of me, with a steaming cup of tea, and she’d turned on the fireplace. I was pleased at the cozy domestic scene, the scent of burned bread in the air, that she remembered I like honey on my toast. I took a sip of tea, eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Her hair was a tangled mess, the crease of a pillow in her face. I smiled, remembering how when she was a child, she used to be afraid she was getting wrinkles. But she never cared much about her looks, or fashion, sometimes trying on my things, but she’d preferred to dress me. She’d carefully apply my makeup and brush my hair, her hands gentle, loving. She’d say, “Here, let me, Mommy.” As though she were the adult and I the child. Sometimes I’d wonder if that’s what happened. Did I treat her too much like an adult?

  Feeling my gaze on her, she turned away from the fire and looked at me as she said, “Do you think there’s life after death?”

  The question shocked me, but I tried not to show it as I slowly set my cup back down and mentally prepared my response. It wasn’t something I could easily answer, and a question that I’d asked myself in the days after Paul died. But I didn’t think that’s what Lisa wanted to hear now. Her gaze was intent, her body ready for combat. I chose my words carefully.

  “I hope there’s something beyond this life, yes.”

  “You hope, but you don’t believe it.”

  Another challenge. One I decided to ignore. Keeping my voice neutral, I said, “What do you think? Do you believe there’s life after life?”

  She glanced back at the fire, her face reflective, then she looked up at the photo of Paul on the mantel, of us as a family. She focused on me. “When I was in the hospital, right before I woke up, I could feel Dad, like he was in the room with me. And then I heard that song he used to always sing.”

  She didn’t have to say anything further for me to know what song she meant. When Chinook’s health started to fail, Paul would play “Fields of Gold” over and over on the stereo, singing it as he went about his day. Sometimes in the evening we’d look at photos together of Chinook as a puppy, of all our years with him, both crying, knowing we were losing our beloved dog soon, neither of us knowing that cancer would also claim Paul’s life less than a year later.

  Now I softly sang, “You’ll remember me…”

  Lisa picked it up. “When the west wind moves…”

  We drifted off, our minds filling in the rest of the words in a silent chorus.

  After a moment, Lisa said, “When I opened my eyes, I saw him. He had a hand on the back of your chair, and he smiled at me, then he disappeared.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she swiped at them, a quick angry motion. I remembered the flash of fear in her eyes when she’d first woken up, how she’d been looking at something behind me. She was probably hallucinating from the GHB in her system, or there was some other physiological explanation, but I didn’t think for one moment that Paul’s spirit had truly been there. I did, however, recognize that Lisa thought he was and that her vision was very real to her. I didn’t want to take that away. She was waiting for me to say something.

  I smiled and said, “That’s a lovely thought. I’d like to think that your father still visits us.”

  “You don’t believe me.” Her voice was flat and resigned, like she’d expected me to let her down. The thought saddened me.

  “Lisa, that’s not what I—”

  She said, “I didn’t overdose.”

  I didn’t know how to answer, suspecting that she had overdosed but in the ensuing amnesia from the drug had forgotten taking it, so I simply said, “Okay.”

  “I didn’t—someone gave me something.”

  “Who? Was it one of your friends?” I tried not to sound accusing, but the tone was there, and my daughter, always intuitive, especially when it came to any censure from me, picked it up immediately.

  “You still think I’m taking drugs. I told you, I quit.”

  I took a breath, started again. “You’re my daughter—I love you and I want you to get well. I’m afraid that if you’re still living on the streets, hanging around people who are doing drugs, you might start using again. Seeing you tonight, like that…” I cleared my throat. “I’m scared I’m going to lose you.”

  I tried to will her to look at me, but she was pressing her thumb hard against crumbs on her plate and licking them off. Quick, angry motions.

  She said, “I was doing fine until last night. I have it under control.”

  I waited for her to elaborate, but she was staring into the fire again. I decided to drop it, hoping that over the next few days I’d be able to revisit the conversation. I changed the subject. “I saw Garret recently.”

  She took a bite of her toast, chewed hard a
s she kept staring into the fire. Her face unreadable, she said, “Yeah.”

  She didn’t say it as a question, or like she wanted to know more, but I still added, “I gave him your father’s tools—I didn’t think you’d want them.”

  No answer.

  “He’s got a photography studio now.”

  Still no answer.

  “And he was asking about you—he said we should stop by sometime.”

  Now she turned. “Did you tell him where I was?”

  Thrown by the heat in her voice and confused about the source of it, I said, “I didn’t know where you were—but I did tell him that I’d run into you at Fisherman’s Wharf. He was worried about you.”

  This time she dropped her mug on the side table with a thump, her plate following after. “Why can’t you just stay out of things?”

  “I don’t understand what the problem is with my telling Garret about you. You used to be so close, and he misses you. He’s your brother and—”

  She stood up. “He’s my half brother. And we were close when we were kids, until the two of you started to gang up on me.”

  “Gang up on you. You mean when we were trying to help?” Was that what this was all about? She felt like Garret and I had joined forces against her?

  She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, you were real helpful, Mom.”

  “Lisa, can you please just sit down and explain why you’re so upset?”

  “Don’t discuss me with him, or anyone. This is my life.” And with that she stalked off, leaving me staring at my half-eaten toast, my own fear growing. She’d almost died the previous night, and she still wasn’t taking responsibility for the problems in her life—next time she could end up brain-damaged, or lying beaten or raped in an alley, if she didn’t just die from the overdose. I followed her down the hall to her room, but when I knocked, all I heard was the shower.

  Hours later, she still hadn’t come out of her room, and it was obvious she planned to stay there all night. I left her alone, deciding it was probably better to wait until morning before we had another talk—hopefully we would both be more relaxed. But in the morning she was gone, having taken only the stuffed husky with her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Expecting to be home with Lisa, I’d booked the next day off, which I now spent cleaning obsessively while I mentally went over our argument the night before. I still wasn’t sure what had caused it. Obviously, she’d been angry about my relationship with Garret—a surprise. Jealousy between siblings was common, but they’d been close, only growing apart after Paul died, when Lisa was pulling away from everyone. Did they have a fight I didn’t know about? Or, perhaps, while I was struggling with the loss of Paul, I’d put too much responsibility on Garret. Lisa, not liking authority at the best of times, would’ve resented that.

  While I was dusting, I noticed my purse had been moved. With a sickening feeling, I went through my wallet. I was missing fifty dollars.

  The first time Lisa had stolen from me, I felt angry, betrayed, and worried. This time I just felt grief and sadness—and fear soon followed when I wondered what she was doing with that money. What if she bought more drugs and overdosed again? The thought almost derailed me, but I mentally pulled up my socks and tried to think about what I was going to do about all of this.

  First, I went to the spare room and sat in the chair beside the bed, trying to think like Lisa and connect with her. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, let my mind settle. Lisa had been hurt by something I’d said, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Also, she was upset that I doubted her, though in my defense she hadn’t given me much reason to trust her. Why had she stolen the money? I heard her voice in my head: You expect the worst from me, you’ll get the worst.

  Saddened by the thought, I was about to leave when I noticed a corner of a paper sticking out from under the bed. I reached over and pulled it out.

  It was a pamphlet for The River of Life Spiritual Center.

  I stared at the brochure in disbelief. How did she get this? Did someone give it to her? My gaze fell on their final slogan: “We Heal Your Body, Mind, and Spirit.”

  Lisa was the perfect target: transient, estranged from her family, and at the moment, extremely vulnerable. I remembered her question the night before about life after death. She was looking for answers, and I hadn’t given them to her—not the ones she wanted to hear. If she was already in the commune, would I be able to convince her to leave? She was an adult, so the police weren’t going to help. Then the thought crossed my mind that Aaron might’ve specifically targeted my daughter. I’d made a report, and I’d been talking to former members. I’d also told Mary and Tammy that my daughter lived on the streets. What if they contacted someone on the inside? Would he use Lisa to manipulate me?

  I made myself calm down. Just take it one step at a time. All I’d found was a brochure, which Lisa might’ve picked up anywhere. Before I projected too far in the future, I needed to find out if she was even at the commune or back on the streets. I considered phoning the center, but decided to contact Tammy first.

  She picked up after a couple of rings. I launched into my story. When I was finished, I said, “Did you by chance tell Nicole about my visit?” I was careful to keep my tone polite and not accusatory.

  She said, “No, I told you, I haven’t talked to Nicole in years. No one’s allowed to have cell phones, or e-mail accounts. If they want to call out, they have to use the phone in the main room—and they need permission. Even if I left a message, she probably wouldn’t call back. I didn’t tell anyone you were here.”

  So Mary wouldn’t have been able to call anyone in the center either.

  Thinking out loud, I said, “If I call the registration office, would they tell me if she’s staying there?”

  “No, they’re serious about protecting the privacy of the members.”

  “If she enters the commune, I don’t know what might happen. She just got out of the hospital.” I thought about Aaron’s view of modern medicine. If Lisa had any aftereffects from her recent overdose, would they get her help? I said, “She’s not well and needs to be with someone who has medical training.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I wish I could help.”

  “Thanks, but the only thing that will help is if we can just shut the whole place down. I don’t know how we’re going to be able to do that either.”

  A sound on the other end of the phone, air exhaling. Then, “I’ve been thinking lots since you were here.”

  “And?”

  Her voice became stronger as she said, “I want to make a statement.” Then weakened again, “But if we do this, do I have to testify? I don’t want to have to look at him when I’m talking about what he did. And when I first left the center, I was pretty messed up and did lots of drinking. I don’t want some lawyer making me feel like a piece of crap or the press ripping me apart. I have a kid now.”

  “If the Crown decides to lay charges, they might be able to work something out so you don’t have to go court.”

  Another deep breath. “I’m going to do it, but I need to tell my husband first. He’s working out of town right now, so I can’t talk to him for a few days. I’ll let you know when I’ve gone to the police.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.” I let out my own breath. We were finally moving forward.

  “Good luck finding your daughter.”

  I was going to need it.

  * * *

  Even though Tammy had said that the center wouldn’t tell me if Lisa was there, I looked up their number on my iPhone. The woman who answered was polite but said they weren’t able to give out information on their members. Next I checked my voice mail at the hospital, hoping against hope that Lisa might’ve left a message, but there was just one from Kevin, asking how I was. I called him back, and when he heard my voice he said, “How are you? How’s your daughter?”

  “I don’t know. She just—” I was mortified when my voice broke.

  Kev
in said, “What happened?”

  I told him about our argument, then about finding the brochure.

  “I’m really sorry. Is there anything I can do to help? I have some time this afternoon. Do you want to go for a walk and get some fresh air, talk it out?”

  “Thanks, but I’m just going to drive around and see if Lisa’s shown up at any of the shelters.”

  “If you need to talk later, you let me know. Meanwhile, hang in there.”

  I said, “I’ll try,” and took a breath, blowing the air out of my lungs. “I just pray that she’s not at the commune already. She’s so vulnerable right now.” I told him what Tammy had said, about going to the police. “But I don’t know how long it will take to move through the legal channels, or if they’ll even arrest him.”

  “If Lisa is at the center, you still have some time before she becomes too integrated. She could just be at one of the initial retreats, which she might not even enjoy. And if Aaron is arrested, Lisa will probably leave.”

  I thought of Heather, how she’d gone to that first retreat and ended up staying for months, leaving her life, her friends, and her family all behind.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  I took a drive but didn’t see Lisa. Later in the evening, I headed out again, hoping some of the street folk had come back to the shelter. Though it was a sketchy time of night to be walking around, it was a risk I was willing to take. It was cold, so I bundled up and positioned myself at the edge of the building, with Lisa’s photo in hand. When a group of youths clustered about the front steps, one young man with facial piercings and a skateboard noticed me. He looked friendly, so I smiled tentatively and started toward him. He left the group and met me.

  “You looking for someone?”

  I held out the photo. “Yes, my daughter, her name is—”

  “Lisa.” He nodded. “We’ve hung out a few times. She’s cool.”

  “Do you know where she might be?” I held my breath. Please, God.