Always Watching

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I’d hoped that I’d hear from Tammy soon, but as a day turned into a week, I began to accept that she would likely never pursue criminal charges against Aaron. I couldn’t blame her; it was a difficult process. I’d called Corporal Cruikshank and told her what I’d learned, but she said that it was all hearsay, so they couldn’t act on it unless it came from Tammy. She suggested she talk to her, but I had a feeling Tammy would shut down if she felt pressured and asked that she wait a few more days. I also didn’t want to call Tammy again without any additional information, or upset her, but I was worried about how she might be feeling since our visit. It might have opened a lot of pain for her, and I wasn’t sure how much support she had from her husband. I was still debating my options when my worst nightmare came true.

I was sound asleep when one of the nurses in emergency called.

“Sorry to wake you, Dr. Lavoie, but your daughter, Lisa, was brought in unconscious tonight. You’re listed as her emergency contact in her records.”

I bolted awake. “Is she okay? What happened?”

“A witness reported she was vomiting and, as he said, ‘jerking around’ before collapsing, then losing consciousness. There’s no evidence of head injury, so we need to know if she has any allergies or takes any medication.”

“No, no allergies, but—” I hesitated, remembering Lisa saying, I’m clean. “She has a history of drug abuse.”

I remembered her first overdose on methamphetamine when she was sixteen. She’d been hallucinating and started to hit me while I was driving, nearly killing both of us. There might have been more occasions when she was an adult that I never found out about. If she was treated and released quickly, they would have no reason to notify me. But this time they called, which meant it was serious.

The nurse was still talking. “We haven’t been able to ascertain why she lost consciousness, so we’re treating her with supportive care.”

“Is she awake?”

She lowered her voice. “She’s in a coma.”

I sucked in my breath and stood up so fast the room spun. My heart thudded fast and frantic. A coma, my daughter was in a coma.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After I pulled on some clothes, I grabbed my keys and ran outside to my car, startling the cat, who’d been hiding in her box, and sending her fleeing. My hands gripped the wheel all the way to the hospital, my knuckles white. I had no awareness of any other cars on the road, or even what route I took to the hospital, my mind filled with terrifying thoughts. Why had Lisa overdosed? Did seeing me send her into a downward spiral? My stomach sickened at the idea.

When I got to the hospital, I spoke to the doctor, who told me they’d moved Lisa upstairs to Intensive Care. There was no change in her condition. When I found her, she was on one of the beds, a curtain pulled around her, with only an IV and a ventilator keeping her company. Nurses floated around the unit, checking on various patients, speaking in hushed voices, while monitors beeped. Lisa’s eyes were closed, her skin pale. I held her hand in my own, feeling shaky from the adrenaline pumping through my blood. She’s okay. She’s right here. She’s going to be fine. I repeated the mantra over and over, but I still couldn’t make my heart believe the words. How much drugs had she taken? Would she live only to have brain damage?

I pulled a chair close and sat beside her, studying her hand in mine, the long fingers, the short nails. They were filed, and I wondered at that small bit of vanity. She was taking care of herself, which she didn’t do when she was actively using drugs. Her skin was also clear, no acne. Again, I wondered what had happened to cause her overdose. I studied her sleeping face, the rise and fall of her chest, praying for the first time in a long time to a God I wasn’t sure existed.

Please don’t take my baby. Give her another chance.

Two hours later, I was still sitting with Lisa’s hand in my own, when I felt her thumb twitch. Then her eyelids flickered. Was she starting to regain consciousness? Lisa’s eyes shot open. She stared at me, pupils dilated, eyes terrified. She focused on something just over my shoulder, and her heart rate went wild, the monitor beeping rapidly as she yanked her hand away and tried to pull her ventilator out. I stood and grabbed her arm, saying, “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself,” but she thrashed around and pulled her arm free. She managed to rip the IV out, spraying me with fluid. When I finally got a grip on her, she fought harder, making guttural moans through the ventilator. I lost my hold, and she lashed out, her forearm hitting hard across my nose. Then behind me, footsteps.

Two nurses rushed to Lisa and held down her arms while she moaned and grunted in panic, her eyes rolling back in her head, the whites flashing. I backed away from the bed, my adrenaline still pumping and my blood roaring in my ears as I watched them fight with the madwoman on the bed. My daughter.

It took them a few minutes to calm Lisa, saying, “You’re in the hospital and you were brought in unconscious. There’s a tube down your throat so you can breathe, but you’re safe. We’ll let you go when you calm down.” She finally stopped fighting and nodded, signaling her understanding. They relaxed their grip. She was still breathing rapidly, but she was also looking around the room with more awareness. The nurses shut off the supportive breathing, then monitored Lisa’s oxygen levels while they asked her to squeeze their hands, or move her eyes in response to a question. They told her that they had to leave the tube in for a little while longer, until they confirmed she could keep breathing on her own.

A half hour later, the doctor came in with the respiratory technologist, and once they confirmed that Lisa was ready, they removed her breathing tube. The doctor then asked if she was okay with my being there while he talked with her.

Her gaze flicked to me, and I thought she’d refuse, but she said, “S’okay,” her voice still raspy from the hose.

He then proceeded to ask some basic questions, and she answered them all fine. But when he asked what drug she’d taken, she looked confused again.

“I didn’t… I didn’t take anything.”

The doctor made a note. “What’s the last thing you recall?”

Her face began to pull and twist as she struggled to remember. “I don’t know… it was earlier in the day. I was at the wharf, then it’s all blank.”

The doctor said, “We ran a drug screen when you were first admitted, and it didn’t show the usual suspects. But the sudden arousal, aggression, and memory loss all fit with GHB, which isn’t one of the things we generally test for. We’ve seen a few cases of it recently with the street kids, though….” He paused, with his eyebrows raised as he waited for her response. I knew what he was getting at.

When Lisa first started using drugs, I’d done some research and was familiar with GHB, or gamma hydroxybutyrate, which is a central nervous system depressant, popular with people frequenting nightclubs and raves. Also called liquid ecstasy, or liquid x, in small doses it was a stimulant and aphrodisiac, known to create euphoria. In high doses it could cause dizziness, agitation, visual disturbances, depressed breathing, amnesia, unconsciousness, and death. It was also nearly impossible to detect in a urine sample, so we’d never know for sure.

Lisa also knew what the doctor was insinuating. Her face was flushed and angry-looking as she said, “I’m clean.” She glanced at me, her expression saying, I know you told him.

The doctor made a note, his own face expressionless. “Do you remember anyone handing you a drink?”

I didn’t understand why he’d asked that, until I remembered that GHB was also known as a date rape drug. Had Lisa been raped?

While I was putting it together, so was Lisa. Warring emotions crossed her face. First confusion, then fear, and soon anger. Her eyes filled with tears as she said, “No, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

I said, “Lisa, if someone hurt you—”

The doctor interjected. “There was no sign of sexual trauma.”

Lisa said, “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

It was clear she was hiding something, probably remembering meeting with her dealer or a friend, but I didn’t want to press. There was no point.

The doctor finished his exam, during which Lisa remained mostly mute, then explained that they’d like to keep her in overnight for observation.

She nodded her assent, then turned to stare at the wall.

I said, “I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back, okay, Lisa?”

She didn’t answer.

When I came back into the room, Lisa had fallen asleep. I sat beside the bed, taking her hand in mine again, knowing that as soon as she woke, these little affections would be refused. I studied the small half-moon scar on her pinkie finger that she’d gotten as a child when she’d caught her finger in the door of our camper. She’d screamed and cried, and never slammed that door again. Maybe this time she’d finally hit rock bottom, a terrifying close call, which might just give her that final push to seek proper treatment. I wanted her to come home with me and focus on getting better, but I couldn’t push her into that decision. I smoothed her hair back, noticing it was soft and silky, so she’d been taking care of that as well. I gazed down at her, my eyes filling with tears.

What happened to you?

I sat beside her for a while, then asked one of the nurses to inform the psychiatric unit that I wouldn’t be able to come in the next day. The head nurse brought me a blanket, and I nodded off in the chair. Hours later I heard a movement in the bed and startled awake. Lisa was watching me.

I said, “Hi, baby. How you feeling?”

Her voice still raspy, she said, “My throat’s sore.”

“I’ll get you some water and ice chips.”

As I handed her the cup, she said, “When can I get out of here?”

I waited while she swallowed some of the water and rested her head back on the pillow, then I said, “You’ll probably be released tomorrow.” I glanced at my watch. It was already three in the morning. “Just a few more hours.”

I approached the next part carefully. I didn’t want to ask her what happened—it would put her on the defensive. I also couldn’t demand she come home with me. I longed for the days when I could just scoop her up and carry her in my arms. But I had to allow her to come to the decision on her own. I said, “Would you like to stay with me for a little while?”

She looked like she was considering it, her eyes thoughtful, but there was something else in there. Fear? I resisted the urge to alternately insist, cajole, force, argue, and beg.

She whispered, “Okay.”

My body flooded with relief. Before I could get too optimistic about our progress, she said, “But you can’t ask me a bunch of questions.”

I nodded, accepting her terms, then asked if she needed anything. She wanted to go to the bathroom, so I helped her out of bed, then we watched TV until she fell back asleep. Though it was an awful situation, I was happy to be with my daughter. Even this little time with her was more than I’d had in years. Mentally, I prepared for the next few days. It wasn’t going to be easy. If she’d started to use again, her moods would be erratic. She was likely to lash out, and if the past had proved anything, I would be her favorite target.

When she was little, she’d been so sweet. Though never a chatty child, she was very affectionate, always tucking her hand into mine, or crawling onto my lap unbidden, snuggling in bed between Paul and me. She was also kind, caring for all our animals, but also her friends, often inviting one who she didn’t think was happy over for dinner. For a while she kept losing clothes. When I finally asked her about them, she said that she’d been giving them to a friend at school whose parents were having a tough time. I’d been proud of her thoughtful, loyal nature, but I worried that someone might take advantage of her giving ways. I’d said to Paul one day, “I’m scared she’s going to try to save the world.” He’d stopped what he was doing, and said, “I wonder who that reminds me of.” I’d laughed, and had also been thrilled that she had some parts of me in her.

That was a long time ago.

I fell asleep myself for a couple of hours and woke when I heard Lisa stirring. While she had a shower, I went up to the ward to make sure they were able to find someone to cover me. Michelle was at the desk, her gaze sympathetic as I approached. I wondered how much she knew.

Michelle said, “Is everything okay? I heard your daughter was sick?”

Though I liked Michelle, I didn’t want her to know about Lisa’s problems, so I said, “She’ll be okay—I’m taking her home now.” Then I picked up a binder and started going over a few things about my patients, making it clear that I wasn’t going to share anything else. Michelle was cheerful, but I could sense the curiosity in her, and a hint of hurt that I wasn’t confiding more. I felt bad, but I wasn’t going to talk about my personal issues at work. I’d just finished up and was walking by Kevin’s office when he stuck his head out.

“Thought I heard your voice.”

“Hi, yes, I’m just leaving though.”

He cocked his head, studied my face. “You all right?” His eyes were so concerned that I found my own stinging. I blinked hard.

“It was a rough night. My daughter was admitted.” For some reason the words that had been so hard to share with Michelle fell off my lips. “She overdosed, probably on GHB. She’ll be okay, but I don’t know for how long….”

“Oh, no.” He opened the door. “Come in.”

“Thanks, but I have to get her home.” By the time we checked out it would be late morning, and I was exhausted from my night spent in a chair.

He stood there, the door still open, his expression kind. “You sure?”

“Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”

“Absolutely. Here let me give you my cell number.” He quickly pulled a business card out of his wallet, handing it to me. “Call anytime, okay?”

“Thanks.”

He gave another reassuring smile. I tried to smile back, but exhaustion was making me weepy, so I quickly turned away.

In her room, Lisa was pulling on her boots, her face pale from the effort. She paused to catch her breath.

I said, “Do you need some help?” and reached for her feet at the same time as she bent down to try again. Her hand brushed mine. We both stopped. She held my hand for a fraction of a second before releasing it. For the second time that morning, I had to fight to hold back tears. I sat in the chair beside the bed as she finished pulling on her boot and laced it up.

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 as 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.