Always Watching

CHAPTER TWELVE

I went home after work that night, pulled on my overalls, threw my hair into a careless topknot, and worked in my potting shed for a while. Normally I loved the snip, snip of my pruning shears, keeping beat with Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” playing in the background—it was my therapy. But today tears dripped down my cheeks as I thought about Heather, my daughter, and Willow—all the lost girls of the world. I rubbed at my face, leaving streaks of dirt behind, and stared at the bonsai tree I’d been trying to shape. I gave up and went inside for a shower, but first I checked the cardboard box I’d left under the back steps for the cat, noticing that there was a fine coating of black hair on the blanket.

After watching some TV for a while, I talked on the phone with Connie about how I was starting to overidentify with Heather’s emotions, which was making it harder to remain a compassionate observer. Being there when she was given the news about her parents had also reminded me of the agony of telling Lisa her father had passed. I felt more at ease by the time I went to bed. I’d grown fond of Heather over the last couple of weeks and was glad she was doing better, but it would be good for both of us when she was released.

I read for a while, then I switched off the light. My heart started pounding, but I continued with the calming self-talk—You’re okay, just keep breathing, this won’t kill you—until the panic eased.

Though it was still early, I drifted into a sound sleep.

Two things happened at once: There was a loud clatter like the garbage can had been knocked over, and the phone rang. I bolted up in bed, my heart crashing into my rib cage as I tried to figure out what was happening. I heard a couple of cats screeching and realized they were fighting. The phone shrilled again. I turned on the lamp and grabbed the handset on my night table, noticing it was nine forty-five.

It was Michelle. She was trying to tell me something, but she broke off crying. Still half-asleep, I was confused for a second, thinking my worst fear was coming true, and she’d phoned to tell me Lisa was dead.

Then Michelle gathered herself together long enough to say, “Heather Simeon committed suicide tonight.” My blood roared in my ears as Michelle tried to describe the brutal scene, but she kept dissolving into tears, and I’d only catch snippets of phrases. “There was blood everywhere—we didn’t know she was in the utility room. I called code. But it was too late. She was already dead.”

“What happened? How did she get in there?” My own voice sounded high and strained as I tried to make sense of what I was hearing.

Michelle, calming down a little now that she was being asked direct questions, explained that a fight had broken out among some patients on the ward when they were having their evening snack. All the nurses were needed to break it up, and the janitor, in the middle of gathering supplies, had left the utility room unlocked while he went to clean up the dining room, where some trays and drinks had been thrown. In that brief fifteen-minute span, Heather had entered the utility room and, finding a coffee-can lid on the janitor’s cart, which he’d been about to take downstairs with some other items, had slashed her wrists. Perhaps remembering that she was interrupted before completing her last attempt, she then drank cleaner. When that still didn’t work fast enough, and she’d vomited liquid, comprised of bile and tissue from her burning esophagus, all over herself, she shoved rags down her throat. She had finally suffocated to death, her body’s last struggle for air drowned out by the sounds of the fight on the floor.

Michelle said, “Everything happened so fast—after I found her. I just saw the blood. It was awful.” Her voice changed from a frantic, shocked tone to a hushed and eerie resolve. “I’m never going in that room again.”

As soon as I got off the phone with Michelle, I pulled on some clothes and rushed to the hospital, where the nurses were trying to calm the patients down. Michelle was sitting in the nurses’ station, pale and shaking, as another nurse handed her a mug of tea. Until the coroner had finished his initial investigation, Heather’s body was still in the utility room. Noticing that the door had been left ajar, and not wanting anyone to peer inside, I went to close it. Before I got it shut all the way, my eyes were assaulted with the brutal image of Heather’s body on the floor, her back still leaning against the wall, and her thin, pale legs and arms all akimbo, like a broken doll. Her face was to the side, so all I could see was her hair. Thick, red blood pooled around her wrists, a bucket was kicked over by her feet, and there were smears of blood over her nightgown.

Then my eyes were drawn to the wall above her head. Written unevenly in blood were the words: He’s watching.

I quickly closed the door.

The coroner was already interviewing everyone, including me. I sat through his questions, numb, my mind spinning. How had this happened? There’d be an inquest and a quality care assurance, as there always is when there’s a death on the floor. I would have to call MCAP, my insurance provider, and they’d advise me on what to say and how to say it. There’d also be group grief-counseling sessions in the coming days, but I didn’t care about any of that right now.

All I could think was: How am I going to tell Daniel? I would rather have done it in person, but I couldn’t risk Daniel arriving in the morning before anyone had a chance to tell him. There was still too much chaos on the ward, so I walked over to my office at Mental Health, delaying for a few more moments. Then I sat at my desk, staring at a photo of Lisa, thinking that at least Heather’s parents were spared this call, feeling sad that so much tragedy had befallen one family. I couldn’t stop going over my last conversations with Heather. What had I missed? Was I clouded by my own feelings about the commune? Should I have referred her to someone else? I remembered seeing the utility door unlocked weeks before, remembered thinking I should mention it to one of the nurses. But I’d been so upset after hearing Aaron’s name that I forgot.

If I’d said something, she might still be alive.

Finally, I looked up Daniel’s number, took a deep breath, and made the call. As I dialed, I realized my hand was shaking.

His voice was husky from sleep but also tinged with fear. He must’ve seen the hospital name on his call display.

“Hello, Daniel, this is Dr. Lavoie…. I…” I was at a loss for words, my head aching and close to tears myself. How was I ever going to tell him that his wife had died? I had assured him she was safe—assured him.

“Dr. Lavoie?” Daniel sounded more alarmed. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m calling to talk about your wife.” I had to say this as gently and as swiftly as possible. “There was an incident on the ward tonight, and Heather was found unresponsive. We tried to revive her, but it was too late. We don’t know the exact cause of death, but it appears to be self-inflicted. I want you to know that we tried everything we could to save her.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, like he was strangling for air.

“I don’t understand. What happened?” His mind was grasping, spin wheeling. The weight of my words hadn’t hit home yet.

“We’ll know more when the coroner finishes his investigation.” I took a breath and steadied myself. I didn’t like that I couldn’t give him details, but the potential for a lawsuit was too high. The hospital would appoint someone to handle all future communications.

“How did she die?” His voice was horrified, shocked.

My mind filled with visceral images of Heather, writhing in agony on the floor, clawing at her throat. Her esophagus burning.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have that information right now.”

“I just don’t understand. I saw her this morning. She was better than she’d been in days—she kept telling me how much she loved me.”

His tone was heartbroken confusion. The mind tries to reason, to find a justification: One plus one equals two. I did the same after Paul’s diagnosis. He just had to eat right, get chemo, and think positive. He would beat cancer. But life doesn’t work like that. Good men die before their time, and patients, despite getting our best care, still find a way to destroy themselves.

“Yes, she did seem to be doing better.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s when suicidal patients start feeling better that they sometimes complete the process—they now had the energy to follow through. Even though she’d told me that she wasn’t thinking of hurting herself, she’d likely had a plan for a while and was just waiting for an opportunity. She’d been so convincing, and seemed so genuine, but I regretted believing her. I thought about how desperate she must have been to choose such a painful way to die.

I flashed to an image of her face the last time I saw her, the wistful smile. You’re a good doctor. Was she trying to make sure I didn’t blame myself for what she was about to do? I also thought about Kevin, how she had thanked him that day. Even her loving words to Daniel could now be interpreted as a good-bye.

Daniel’s voice turned hard and accusing. “You said she was safe—you promised that nothing would happen to her.”

Anger and blame were the next steps. I had expected it, but I still felt the blow, ached with my own guilt and regrets.

“I realize this has been an incredible shock, and you’re upset—”

“Upset? My wife just died—when you were supposed to be watching her.”

I chose my words carefully, struggling with my need to comfort him and my need to protect the hospital. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. Someone will be in touch with you soon. They’ll help you with the next part of the process.”

I was glad I didn’t have to go through it step by step with him, didn’t want to brush past her death and move on to the particulars: picking up her personal belongings, her remains. My eyes stung when I thought of everything he was going to have to face in the coming days. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?”

This time there was no anger in his voice. He just sounded hollow and defeated as he said, “Heather was all I had.” Then he hung up.