Always Watching

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.

Kevin 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.

He squinted back at his group of friends, who were starting down the road. “Last time I saw her was a couple of nights ago—she showed up down the alley, said she was going to crash at the Monkey House.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s down on Caledonia. The big white house. Careful how you go in there, though. You don’t want them to think you’re a social worker or a cop.”

“Thanks. Why’s it called the Monkey House?”

“Because everyone in there has a monkey on their back. Good luck, lady.” He started to walk away.

If Lisa was there, did that mean she was using drugs again? I called out, “A couple of nights ago, she overdosed. Did you know that?”

He turned around. “Last I heard she was clean.” He shrugged. Just another day on the streets. Then he dropped his board and skated off to join his friends. So he thought she was clean too. Was Lisa telling the truth?

I drove down to the house on Caledonia and sat outside, wondering if I should’ve asked Kevin to join me. The problem was if Lisa saw him, she’d know something was up and would be gone in a heartbeat. I walked up to the house, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. I was hit immediately with the scent of unwashed bodies, chemicals burning, and cigarette smoke. I made my way down a dark hallway, trying not to panic in the enclosed space. I faltered in one section, where someone had piled garbage outside a door, making the hallway a tight squeeze. Don’t think about it, just focus on finding Lisa. I counted my breaths until my heart rate settled, then pushed on. I noticed that most of the rooms had only a bare mattress, where people were sleeping, or sitting up with glazed eyes. Garbage covered the wood floors. One woman glared at me, her face and arms covered with open, weeping sores. I quickly glanced away. In the next room a young First Nations woman, decorated in homemade tattoos, looked up and said, “Who you looking for, sister?”

“My daughter, Lisa Lavoie.”

She narrowed her eyes, like she was thinking. “There’s a Lisa at the end of the hall. She’s cute.” She grinned.

I hurried the rest of the way, nearly gagging on all the odors. The room at the end had a door. I debated whether I should knock, and then just pushed it open. Lisa sat huddled on an old mattress with no sheets, the cover stained. Old wallpaper hung down in big strips, and a cold wind pushed through the cracked window, the sill dark with rot and mold. Empty pizza boxes and take-out containers littered the room. She was wearing the clothes she’d left my house in: faded black jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the hood pulled over her head. With her coat wrapped around her for a blanket, she leaned against the wall, with her eyes closed and her packsack in her lap. Her face was so pale that I caught my breath, until she muttered something and shifted her body.

I said, “Lisa?”

She started awake, staring at me. Her pupils were dilated, and she grabbed at her packsack and pulled it close, her jaw working and her gaze zipping around the room. She was high as a kite. I fought the urge to drag her out by the scruff of her neck and lock her in a room at home. Underneath my anger, I could taste my fear for her, my sorrow and despair. How could she do this to herself?

She said, “What’re you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the brochure you left at my house—the one for The River of Life. How did you get it?”

She avoided my gaze, just rubbed her arms, her body, jerky movements, scratching at her legs.

“These people aren’t what they seem. You don’t know how they can—”

“You’re unbelievable,” she snapped. “You’re always trying to get me into a treatment center—now I’m trying to get help, and you’re still not happy.”

She was right. I’d been pushing Lisa for years to get help for her addiction, but I’d never expected that she’d seek it from the center. I had to be careful here, had to make my point subtly. “Lisa, I knew the leader when I was a child. They start off saying they want to help you, but in the end they hurt people. Especially girls. Their leader—”

“You want me off drugs, don’t you? They helped some other kids I know from the street. Why can’t you ever let me do things my way?” Her voice broke. She stared down at her knees, her face flushed and angry. She’d always hated crying in front of anyone. When she was little, I was the only one allowed to hold her when she was sobbing. She’d push everyone else away.

I knelt on the floor in front of her. “Lisa, I want to support your decisions. But I also want you to know everything about these people first.”

“Now you want to protect me. Where were you before?”

“I’ve always been here—”

She started laughing, a high-pitched sound. “You were so busy learning how to help all those other people, you didn’t notice—you didn’t protect me.”

My blood whooshed in my ears, everything slowing down, her words coming at me from a distance. My psyche was already bracing itself, sensing I was about to hear something that was going to hurt.

“Protect you from what?”

“Someone screwed around with me, Mom. God, are you really that blind?”

I sat back hard on my heels. My mind trying to wrap around what she had just said. Did she mean someone molested her? I met her eyes, her belligerent glare daring me to deny it, and saw the shame and hurt underneath her angry words. It was true. I tried to speak, to say something, but my pulse was beating hard and fast, my thoughts crashing together. Finally, I grabbed at one, my breath coming out in a rush as I said, “When? When did this happen?”

“Little late to pretend to care now. I’m too far gone in case you haven’t noticed.” She dropped her head back, her laugh bordering on hysteria.

My heart thrummed in my chest. Who’d hurt my baby? I was almost in tears, near to panicking, but I grasped at some control. “How did… Was it one of your teachers?” Her expression was blank, resigned. She’d already decided I was going to fail her. I thought back to all the times she’d stayed late at school, the weekend camps with friends and their fathers. Then I got it.

“Did a counselor hurt you at the treatment center?”

She shook her head but then stared down at her packsack, zipping and unzipping one of the pockets. As a child, whenever she was hiding something, she’d always played with her zippers. I was right. Everything fit.

She said, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“It does matter—of course it matters.”

She looked at me. “Get out, Mom. Just go home.”

“I’m not leaving you now—”

“You okay, Lisa?” A large man, with tattoos up and down his arms and long, dark hair in frenzied curls, stood at the door. His eyes had a wild look that signaled he was also high on something.

“My mom’s just going.”

I turned to look at Lisa and wondered who’d replaced my daughter, because I didn’t know the angry woman staring back at me with hatred.

She said, “I don’t want to see you again. Get the fuck out of here.”

I heard the hurt in my voice as I said, “Lisa—”

The man stepped toward me. “She doesn’t want you here, bitch. You better get out of here fast, or I’ll help you out.”

I stood up. “Don’t threaten me. I’m talking to my daughter.” He took another step toward me. I looked back at Lisa, wondering if she’d call him off. But her head was lolling back, her shoulders twitching. She was already gone.

When I got home, I sat on the couch with my coat still on, staring at my unlit fireplace. I was cold, but I couldn’t find the energy to get up and flip the switch. I’d let Lisa down in the worst possible way. I remembered her words: You didn’t notice—you didn’t protect me. She was right. How could I let this happen? How did I miss the signs? I was a doctor, her mother. I was sure that it was a counselor at the treatment center who’d abused her. She’d been young, maybe too young to be in a center. Had I been in such a rush to get her in a program that I didn’t stop to consider whether it was the right one for Lisa? I was a fraud, all these years trying to help women, and I hadn’t seen the truth of my own daughter.

It sickened me when I remembered one young counselor at the treatment center, how familiar he’d seemed with Lisa. He’d told me to be strong when she called crying that time—not to enable her—and then she’d run away. She’d been trying to escape, and I’d stopped her. Why had she never said anything? Did she think I wouldn’t believe her? It hadn’t been that long after her father died. Maybe she didn’t want to upset me.

I wanted to go to the treatment center and rip the place apart trying to find who’d hurt my child. The idea of some man’s hands on her, of her feeling alone and scared, tore me to shreds. But without Lisa exposing her abuser, I couldn’t do much. I wondered about calling the police, but they couldn’t do anything either. I didn’t even have a name. Finally, I took a hot bath and made myself go to bed.

I was still awake hours later, listening to the wind as it roared in off the ocean, when I heard a crash in the backyard. I sat up, heart pounding, straining my ears to focus on the sound. I pulled on my housecoat, grabbed the bottle of mace I keep in my night table, and crept out into the body of the house. I padded into the kitchen, then peeked outside. I saw the problem right away. The wind had blown over the patio umbrella, and it was now rolling around, knocking into everything. I threw on some clothes and headed outside, braced against the storm. I’d wrestled the umbrella into the shed when the wind slammed the door behind me. The shed was black.

I tried to find the cord for the light while adrenaline pumped through my blood. I can’t breathe. My shin slammed against something hard and I backed up a few steps. I have to get out of here. I knocked into some planters, sending them down around me. In a blind panic, I launched myself in the direction of the door, my hands grasping the knob. Wind and rain hit my face as I sprinted back to my house.

After I’d closed the door, I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath, my heart still beating loud in my ears. Rain dripped down my face, mixing with tears. What had happened back there? My claustrophobia had been triggered, obviously, but there was something more to the panic, an intense terror, even stronger than the time I’d tried to get my bike out of the shed. I hadn’t been able to use any of my coping mechanisms. There must’ve been something about the shed.

Of all the memories that had come back since I’d met Heather, the reason for my claustrophobia had yet to be explained. I’d assumed it was related to the barn, but maybe it had been something else. I thought back but couldn’t remember there being a shed at the commune. I contemplated going out to the shed with a flashlight, making myself stand there until the fear abated. Exposure therapy was effective in treating numerous phobias. But when I opened the door, the yard was pitch-black, and all I could see were the eerie shapes of trees and plants moving wildly in the wind. I closed the door and locked it.

That night it rained hard. In the morning I surveyed my backyard, checking for damage from the storm, picking up fallen branches. That’s when I saw the footprint near the shed in some soft dirt. I stared down at it. Was it mine? It looked larger, but it was hard to tell, rain had blurred the edges. I crouched down, took a closer look. There almost seemed to be a faint tread. My shoes had a smooth sole.