Always Watching

CHAPTER TWO

When I was twenty-five, I’d decided to go back to school and was attending the University of Victoria for a degree in science. I’d learned ways to deal with tight hallways and stairwells, mostly by avoiding them, but during final exams, all the outside lots were full and I’d been forced to park underground. I’d been overwhelmed by panic in the dark space and hadn’t been able to step into the elevator. I had to walk the long way around, while hyperventilating in big gasps of air, my hair soaked with sweat, earning me stares from every student I passed. I’d missed the beginning of my exam and the door was closed, so I failed the course. It had been a humiliating experience, and I began therapy soon after.

While discussing my childhood with the therapist, I shared that my mother had run away with my brother and me to a commune when I was thirteen. The commune, led by a man named Aaron Quinn, had been built beside the Koksilah River on the outskirts of Shawnigan Lake, which is a small community about thirty minutes north of Victoria—on the southern tip of Vancouver Island. We lived there for eight months until my father came to get us.

My therapist had found this period in my life fascinating and wanted to explore it further. Especially because I’d been unable to pinpoint when my claustrophobia had developed, but I had more distinct memories of it interfering with my life after we’d moved back home. I slept with a night-light and my door open—I couldn’t even clean the barn without hyperventilating, and Robbie, my brother, had to take over the chore for me.

Believing that my claustrophobia was linked to suppressed trauma, from something that had happened while at the commune, my therapist had suggested we try hypnosis as a way to unlock my memories. Recovered Memory Therapy was a popular treatment at the time, and he felt it was the best way to recover any lost memories. I’d been hesitant at first—I had enough painful memories already.

My family life hadn’t been easy growing up. My father, a strict German, was hard to please but easy to anger. His temper often turned violent, and we spent much of our childhood hiding while he was on a drunken rampage, smashing his huge fists into the windows or knocking our mother around. If we intervened, she’d just scream that we were making it worse. He worked on a fishing boat, and my mother, who was unbalanced when he was around, became downright dangerous when he was away. She was either on top of the world, buying us gifts we couldn’t afford and taking us on trips all over the island, or shut in her room for days, the curtains pulled down and the door locked. She’d often threaten to kill herself, the pills in her hands as we pleaded with her until she finally handed them over. Other times she’d take off in the truck, drunk or high on medication, not returning until the morning. Now I would diagnose her as manic-depressive, but back then all we knew was that my mother’s moods were a slippery slope and we never knew where she would land.

The only person I could depend on was Robbie, my older brother by three years, whom I followed everywhere. He was my first best friend, my only friend growing up on a ranch where all our school friends lived miles away. Though we were very different, me with my love of books and school, he with mechanics and carpentry, we’d spend hours in the woods, building forts and playing army. Robbie wanted to join the army as soon as he turned eighteen, but I secretly hoped he’d change his mind. I didn’t know how I would survive without him.

One February, just before I turned thirteen, my father was away on the boats, and we were at the local corner store with my mom. Robbie was waiting in the truck. Mom was in one of her down phases, which meant she’d barely eaten for days—neither had we—and she was listlessly picking up items: Kraft Dinner, tomato soup, bread, peanut butter, wieners, hot dog buns, cereal. Her hair, normally a glossy, shiny black, was dull and limp. Mom’s hair started going gray in her thirties, though she never lived long enough for it to turn completely silver. When I also started going gray young, I dyed my hair for years, wondering sometimes if it was more out of fear of becoming my mother than vanity.

That day there were a couple of young men in the store, wearing faded bell-bottoms and loose, caftan-styled shirts, ponchos for coats, strange knit toques, their hair almost as long as my mother’s. Back then, in the late sixties, it was common to see hippies in town, but I still thought them fascinating. I flipped through some magazines at the counter while I watched my mom talking to the earnest young men. I was used to men paying attention to my mother, with her pale blue eyes and long dark hair, her body slim from working on the ranch; she always attracted attention, but something seemed different about the tone of this conversation. Though it was cold out, the men were wearing sandals, and I couldn’t stop looking at their feet.

I don’t know what they had said to my mom, but by the time we drove home, she had switched to her up phase. Laughing as she careened around corners, her eyes too bright, teasing us kids, who were terrified, for being “scaredy-cats.” Robbie tried not to show his fear, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the truck door, his other arm around my shoulders, holding me in place. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken us on one of her wild rides.

Years later, when I was twenty-six, my mother was killed in an accident. She’d slid on wet roads and lost control, hitting a tree doing a hundred. But I’d read the report, there were no skid marks: She never tried to slow down. She wasn’t trying now either.

When we finally made it home, Robbie climbed out, and I slithered after him on wobbly legs. Mom had already leaped out, slamming the door behind her. We followed her into the house, a small rancher with cedar-shake siding, a sloping floor, and so many leaks we had buckets all over the house when it rained. Mom was in her bedroom, throwing clothes into a suitcase.

Robbie said, “Mom, what are you doing?”

“We’re getting out of here. Grab your things.”

Robbie said, “Are we going on a trip?”

“Pack everything—we’re not coming back.”

Robbie’s face was scared. “We can’t just leave Dad—”

She stopped and turned to us. “He leaves us alone for months—I can’t live like this anymore. We’re going to stay with some people out by the river.”

A kaleidoscope of confusing thoughts spun through my mind. Was she going to divorce our dad? What people? Did she mean the hippies we’d met?

She said, “They’re a revolution, and we’re going to be a part of it. We’re going to change the world, kids.”

Both Robbie and I knew that she wasn’t going to change anything, except probably her mood in another day or so, but we also knew it was best just to go along with her. She would come down eventually, and then we’d go home.

Now she pulled some old suitcases out of the closet and handed them to us. “Pack your clothes and anything else you want to bring.”

Robbie and I looked at each other, then he nodded: Just do as she says, it will be okay. I was scared, but I trusted Robbie.

All I brought were some clothes and my books. When we were finished, we found Mom outside by the truck, her suitcase and bags full of food already thrown in the back. Our dog, Jake, a black border collie mix with one blue eye, followed us out of the house, his tail wagging in concern, and an anxious whine leaking from his throat. Terrified she was going to leave him—we had two cats, Jake, and a couple of horses—I said, “What about the animals?”

She paused in the middle of throwing some of Dad’s tools in the truck, a confused expression on her face, like it was the first time she’d even thought about our pets. After a moment, she said, “We’ll take them. They should be free too.” She turned to us, her eyes lit up with frantic energy, her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat. “You kids don’t know how lucky you are. You’re going to experience something amazing. Your lives are going to change forever.”

The commune was in a clearing alongside the river, hidden from the logging road, which leads up to Glen Eagle Mountain, by a thick wall of forest. The river wrapped around one side of the clearing and glimpses of jade green pools were visible through the trees. As we came into the center of the camp, the forest opened up beside the river to reveal a sandy beach, with the odd dead tree from winter runoffs littering the shore. One tree made a makeshift clothes hanger as a woman did her laundry in the water, soap bubbles frothing in the current. Across the river, the high bank was a sheer dirt wall, trees and ferns clinging to the earth as it eroded from underneath their roots.

There looked to be at least a couple of dozen people living at the site, the women dressed in loose dresses and skirts, their hair long. The men wore cut-off jeans, their chests bare, also with long hair and beards. Cats, dogs, chickens, and kids were roaming free, and there was a tangible air of excitement in the air. It was cold, and it had snowed the week before, but some of them were living in tents. Two old yellow school buses had been converted into sleeping areas, and there were signs that they were building more cabins. A couple of horses grazed in a meadow to the right of the main clearing. I also noticed a tractor, and pens with goats and pigs. A group came to greet us, pulling us in for hugs, touching and stroking our hair as they welcomed us to their camp. One blond woman, smelling of cedar and smoke, turned to my mother.

“Peace, sister. What’s your name?”

“Kate. These are my children, Nadine and Robbie.”

The woman smiled. “Welcome, Kate. I’m Joy.”

A tall kid with red hair and freckles, who looked about the same age as Robbie, came over and introduced himself as Levi. He clasped Robbie on the shoulder. “Welcome to our camp, man. Want to meet some cool chicks?”

As they walked off, I said, “Robbie, wait.” But he was already out of earshot, moving toward a couple of teenage girls, who looked happy to see Robbie. Since he’d turned sixteen, girls had been flocking to him—tall, with lean muscles from working on our ranch, shaggy black hair framing his face, and a perpetual tough-guy scowl, he looked like a moody rock star.

Mom was following Joy toward one of the cabins and gestured for me to come along.

I said, “You said we had to unload the horses from the trailer.”

Over her shoulder, she said, “We’ll do it in a minute.” She turned back to Joy. “Nadine’s my little rule follower.”

It was true. I did crave the comfort of rules, of science and math. With a mother as mercurial as mine, I was constantly searching for absolutes. I stood near the truck, wishing Mom had left the keys. I didn’t like the camp, the way it smelled, a bitter, metallic scent. The scent my mother gave off in her manic phase.

Then I saw an attractive young man, maybe early twenties, sitting on a log at the side of the clearing. The winter sun slanted down through fir trees and made his hair, a thick mane of chocolate brown, glow with rich tones and bathed his face in light. His dark brown eyes, with long eyelashes, had an almost sleepy look to them, and his cheekbones were high, creating shadows and hollows on his face. His mouth was full, the lips perfectly symmetrical and turned down at the corners. He also had a full beard, even darker than his hair, and he was wearing jeans, a tan corduroy jacket, and a string of leather tied around his neck. He was watching me as he held an old guitar, the embroidered strap across his chest. He smiled and motioned me over. I wanted to stay near the truck and shook my head. He shrugged, gave a wink, and started to strum the guitar, softly singing.

Jake, who’d been guarding my feet, sauntered over. The man paused his singing and ruffled the fur around Jake’s neck. Jake didn’t like anyone normally, but he rolled onto his back, wiggling on the ground. The man laughed and rubbed his belly with his foot. I was a cautious, distrustful kid by nature. But when the man lifted his head and said, “What’s his name?” I left the safety of the truck.