Always Watching

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The next day, Saturday, I was still trying to shake off the events of the afternoon before. I spent the morning going through some moving cartons that I hadn’t dealt with yet, unpacking, rearranging, storing the boxes in the basement, wishing it was that simple with memories. I stirred up some more when I opened a box from Paul’s office. I picked through his favorite pen set, medical books, the model plane that he’d wanted to fly one day. I remembered that I still had his old tool set. They hadn’t interested Garret at the time, but I’d kept them, thinking he might want them when he was older. He’d be thirty-two now. The last time we spoke, when I first moved to Victoria, he mentioned that he was house-hunting as well. It reminded me that we’d also talked about going for lunch in the New Year.

We’d kept in touch at the holidays after Paul died, but when Lisa moved out, the calls dwindled. I’d sent Christmas cards for a while, but then they started coming back with Return to Sender scrawled across the front. His mother had been a nightmare—moody, histrionic, passive-aggressive, and controlling. We’d tried to take Garret as often as possible, and Paul always made sure he was still part of his life. I’d also tried to bond with him, remembering my own longing for a family. But Garret was a temperamental child, and he hadn’t made the transition easy. He’d resented Lisa terribly, and with seven years between them, they hadn’t had much in common. But when Garret was around eighteen they’d finally developed a friendship and become quite close. That’s why it was so sad when she also stopped communicating with him after their father died. Garret had tried a couple of times to find her when she moved back to Victoria, but she’d cut both of us out of her life. I’d also missed Garret. Then, finally, when he hit his late twenties, he started calling me once in a while to chat, and we’d go for lunch or coffee when I was in Victoria, and we’d talk about his dad and Lisa.

When I’d done all I could in the house, I headed outside to get my bike, holding my breath when I spotted the black cat perched on the roof of the shed. She was still, her body tense, watching me. She looked thinner than last time, one ear missing a chunk. A battle scar from the fight? I went back to the house and got some food from the kitchen. Then I cautiously walked to near where she was sitting, eyeing me. I reached up and set the little blue bowl on the lowest edge of the roof. We stared at each other. I blinked first, then backed up, but stopped halfway to the house, still partly in the driveway.

If you want it, kitty, you’re going to have to eat it when I’m here.

The cat nimbly made her way down the roof, then strolled over to the bowl, head high, saying, I’m not scared of you. She gobbled up the food but still stopped every once in a while to stare at me, tail flicking. After a few moments, when I continued to talk soothing nonsense, telling her how pretty she was, what a good kitty, the tail flicking slowed to a calmer rhythm, and toward the end, a low purr at the back of her throat. When she was done, she sat, licking a dainty paw. I may be a street cat, but I’m still a lady. Then her head snapped up, she stared over my shoulder, streaked across the roof, leaped over the fence—and was gone.

I spun around, wondering what had startled her. I didn’t see anything at the end of my driveway, or at the front of the house. I frowned, all my nerves standing at attention as an edgy feeling of being watched spread over me. Was someone there? Ever since I’d made my police report, I’d been jumping at every sound. Then a man called his dog from the end of the street. So that was what scared her—a dog running by. I let out my breath.

I grabbed my bike off the back deck, where I now stored it instead of the shed, tossed my purse in the front basket, and pedaled down to the waterfront walkway along Dallas Road. I paused to watch the winter waves against the breakwater. In the summer, enormous cruise ships docked at Ogden Point, and the Inner Harbor teemed with camera-happy tourists and the clip-clopping of horse-drawn carriage rides. Victoria came alive with music and arts festivals, concerts in the parks, fireworks celebrations, float planes zooming in and out of the harbor, boats from all over the world dotting the water. I was looking forward to the summer season, but I also enjoyed these last few days of winter, when Victoria still mostly belonged to the locals.

I took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, glad I’d decided to get out of the house. After a moment, I continued on to Fisherman’s Wharf. Paul and I had often taken the kids there to feed the harbor seals—you could buy a bucket of fish for a dollar. Lisa had been obsessed and talked about becoming a marine biologist for years. She’d loved animals ever since she was little, begging to come to the clinic with her father, sitting up with a sick animal. Many nights we had to drag her home. We’d been sure she’d become a vet of some kind, but that was another dream that had fallen by the wayside. I still liked to go down and see the seals myself, though it was lonelier now.

I grabbed a London Fog tea at the Moka House, then wheeled my bike down the ramp to the wharf. The fish-and-chip place was boarded up for the winter, but I was happy they were still in business—we used to take Garret and Lisa there, but Lisa would feed half her chips to the seagulls and the other half to the seals, so we had to keep an eye on her. Still lost in my thoughts, I noticed a young woman sitting on a picnic table, wearing a faded green cargo coat, a thick black knit scarf wrapped around her neck, tight jeans with ripped knees, old black Doc Martens with the top laces removed, and wool socks pulled up over the bottom of her jeans. Her face was turned, looking down at a seal bobbing in the water in front of her, so I couldn’t see her features. Then the woman glanced at me.

I was staring into my daughter’s face.

There was also instant recognition in hers. I fought the urge to rush forward and gather her in my arms, knowing she would just push me away. We were silent for a moment, assessing each other, collecting ourselves. I was happy to see that her skin was clear, with no sores—and no makeup, but she’d never needed it. I’d hated it when she circled her eyes and lips with black, never understood why she was hiding her beauty. Her eyes, the same blue as mine, were ringed in black eyelashes, but her facial structure was more angular, like her father’s. She’d grown her dark hair out and it was thick and wild around her face, ending far past her shoulders in light auburn tips; whether from sun or bottle, it suited her.

I smiled. “Lisa, I’m so glad to see you.” I felt a stab of grief that I should be talking to my daughter like a stranger, followed by bitter irony that I’d been searching the streets for her but never thought to look at one of her favorite places.

“Hey.” She turned back to the seal, reached into the bucket beside her, tossed a fish.

I stood awkward. She hadn’t told me to go away, but she hadn’t provided an invitation either. Now that I finally had her within my reach, contact I’d craved for months, I was unsure of myself. I inched forward, standing near her but still maintaining some distance, nervous about saying anything that would make her bolt. A pulse fluttered in her neck, and though her face was calm, I wondered if the pulse belied her own inner turmoil. My head was filled with anxious questions. Where are you living? Do you need food? Are you still doing drugs?

She twisted slightly, glanced at me.

I pretended to watch the seal, smiling at her antics.

She said, “They can live up to thirty-five years, you know.”

I did know, but I said, “Really? I wonder if she’s the same one we used to feed.”

She shrugged. “Not like she’d remember us.”

I waited for a beat, hoping she’d elaborate, but she was focused on the seal. I said, “I didn’t know you still come here.”

She looked at me, one brow raised. The message was clear: You don’t know anything about my life anymore.

“I’ll have to visit her more often. I live in Victoria now….” Throwing out a hook.

She glanced at me again, pulling her coat tight around her body as the wind came off the ocean, her hair picking up at the ends, her cheeks pink. I ached at how beautiful she was, seeing Paul’s and my love in every cell of her body. Her long hands: his. Her coloring: mine. Her legs that went on for miles: his. Her love of the earth and animals: ours. Her pain: mine.

I said, “You look well.”

It was meant as a compliment, but she caught the tone of relief.

“You mean I don’t look like an addict.”

“That’s not what I meant.” But it was.

She snorted, turned back to the seal. “Why did you move down here?”

“I got a job at the hospital. And I wanted to be closer to you.” She didn’t say anything. But her cheeks flushed. Pleasure or anger? I added, “It’s your birthday coming up. Would you like to go for dinner? Anywhere you like. Or you can come see my new house.” I gestured toward Fairfield. “I have a potting shed in the back. I’ve been trying to grow bonsai trees, but I suck at it.” Did I really just say suck? What was I trying to prove? That I was cool? That she should love me? But I still couldn’t help adding, “There’s an extra room if you ever need a place to crash.” I was disgusted with my desperate attempts to relate.

“I’m doing okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”

I laughed, trying to ease the tension. “It’s hard for a mother not to worry about her child, even if the child is grown-up and making her own decisions.” She didn’t smile. I changed my tone. “But I’m happy to hear you’re doing well.”

She tilted her chin back, looking at me with those soulful blue eyes that had lied to me so many times, and said, “I’ve been clean for a couple of weeks.”

I was a psychiatrist, trained to say the right things at the right time, but now my mind spun with the worry of saying the worst thing: sound too encouraging and risk sounding patronizing; ask the wrong question and risk angering her; don’t say enough and risk sounding uncaring.

I settled on, “That’s great. Are you in a program?” The last part had slipped out before I remembered what a hot topic it was for her, how much she’d hated the rehab I sent her to as a teen. She’d called, crying, but I’d refused to pick her up, telling her she’d made a commitment. She broke out. Garret and I had found her hitching, just about to climb into a truck with three guys. I sat frozen in the car, terrified about what could’ve happened to her, wanting to lock her up for life, knowing that anything I said would just make it worse. Garret got out and talked to her until she finally got in the car. She hadn’t spoken to me for weeks, only telling me she’d stopped doing drugs, only to start again a month later.

“I don’t need a program. I’m doing it on my own.”

“I’m proud of you—that takes a lot of discipline.” And rarely works. “If you did ever want to get treatment—” Her jaw tightened, and I quickly added, “On an outpatient basis, of course, you could stay with me. I’d be happy to pay for it.”

She stood up. “You just can’t stop yourself, can you? You think you’re so helpful—you don’t help anything.” And with that, she grabbed her packsack and stormed off. I stood there for a while afterward, my face hot with embarrassment, my eyes stinging with tears, and my heart full of regret.

I looked down at the seal. She turned and dove under the water, only the ripples on the water showing that she’d ever been there.