Always Watching

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The rest of the way back to the city, my breath was tight in my throat and my hands were shaking on the wheel, my stomach sick with nerves. I drove straight to the police station. The officer I spoke with said they would talk to Aaron and Joseph, and that they’d also bring Garret in for questioning, but I already knew he’d deny everything.

Once I got home, I finally let myself cry. Now that I knew it was Garret who’d stolen Lisa from me, who’d sat at my dinner table smiling night after night, I felt betrayed, and even angrier at myself for not seeing the signs. So much was clear now. Her moodiness after each time he’d visited, her increase in drug use. I was hurt and disappointed that she hadn’t confided in me. It had been such a chaotic time, trying to finish my residency, Paul getting sick. Had I really been there for her? I’d tried, checking in with her daily, asking how she was doing, spending time with her, going to grief counseling together, in which she’d sat mute, but had I truly been present for her? Was I just so blindly trusting of Garret that I didn’t see him for what he was? I was also hurt—I’d loved him like he was my own child, opened my heart and life to him. Now I wanted to kill him myself, but I had to let the police deal with it.

It wasn’t until later, when I was huddled in my housecoat on the couch, that I also let myself cry about the fact that my daughter was so lost to me that she’d been the one who attacked me. I thought of her visiting me in the hospital in Nanaimo, how she had turned away. Would we ever be able to get past this?

The police called early in the morning. They’d spoken with Aaron, who had claimed that I’d shown up, pushed my way in, and had been abusive to some of his staff members. They also spoke to Lisa, who’d denied that Garret abused her. I attempted to defend myself to the police, but I knew how weak my justifications sounded, and, worse, how it must look to them: the Crown wasn’t going to pursue my case, so now I was making things up. The officer said, “They’ve made it clear you’re not welcome back. We understand that you’re upset your daughter is living there, but it seems like she wants to stay. It would be better if you just kept away in the future.”

They were right. There was nothing left for me to do.

That day at work, I threw myself into my patients’ care—following up on Brandon’s meeting with a career counselor and consulting with Jodi’s dietician. Francine was stable, but still depressed and slightly agitated. I sat with her for a while. She called me Angela again, giggling about the nude painting she was working on and how we had to visit Mexico again soon. When it was time for me to go, her expression grew frightened, and she said, “I don’t like this hotel. I want to go home.” I reminded her that she was at the hospital, and she began to cry.

I rubbed her back, trying to soothe. When that didn’t work, I spoke of Mexico, the clear blue water, the white sand, the tropical wind blowing and grabbing at your dress and hair as you walked on the beach, gliding across your sunburned skin in a caress. Finally, she fell asleep, a small smile on her sad face.

Later, Kevin stopped by my office briefly, saying, “I got your message last night, but it was too late to call back. Everything okay?”

I said, “Yes, I was going to ask you something, but I sorted it out myself.” I had already decided that I didn’t want him to know what had happened at the center.

He gave me a questioning look. “You sure?”

“I just have a lot going on at the moment.” I made a motion with my hands, pointing to all my paperwork. “And trying to play catch up.”

He nodded and said, “Well, have a good day.” There was a bemused expression on his face, and I wanted to explain further, but before I could say anything else, my phone rang. He gave a wave and left my office.

The following evening I was brewing tea in the kitchen, thinking about Francine, who’d finally been placed in a good nursing home with an art program, one bit of bright news, when I thought I heard a noise outside. I peeked out the window but couldn’t see anything. Wondering if it was the cat, I pushed open the door. It fell closed behind me. I paused, calling “Kitty?” as I looked into the backyard. There was no meow in response, nothing moved in the grass. I glanced to my left. The motion sensor light in my neighbor’s yard blinked on, casting odd shadows. Had the cat set it off, or something larger? I strained my ears, listened for footsteps. In the distance I heard a vehicle start up, then drive away fast, its tires squealing.

That night I slept fitfully, waking every hour or so, my heart palpitating at the slightest creak in the house. The next day, I called another psychiatrist at the hospital to cover me, then phoned Corporal Cruikshank in Shawnigan. She told me that the officers had contacted her the previous evening, after they went to the commune to speak with Aaron, so she already knew what had happened.

I had a hard time not raising my voice in frustration when I told the officer that I had not made these events up. She was very professional, careful to keep her own voice neutral, and said that someone in Victoria would still be speaking to Garret. But she warned me it likely wouldn’t come to anything unless Lisa was willing to make a statement, which we both doubted. She then also suggested I stay away from the commune and let them handle it from now on. I was just making things worse and potentially damaging my case. I agreed.

I had also told her about the noise in my backyard, and the vehicle driving off. She suggested that I have a security system installed, for peace of mind. It wasn’t a bad idea. After we hung up, I made a few calls to alarm companies and arranged to have one installed as soon as possible. I tried to busy myself around the house for the afternoon, but I kept stopping and staring into space, Lisa’s words haunting me: It started when I was thirteen.

When I thought about Garret’s hands on Lisa, every time I remembered leaving them alone, guilt tied my guts into knots. I couldn’t stand thinking he got away with this—thinking he could do this to some other little girl.

I grabbed my purse and drove to his studio. When I got to his house, a young mother was walking her preteen daughter to their car, waving and smiling good-bye to Garret. What would’ve just seemed like a friendly return smile on his face before now disgusted me. I waited until the car drove off, then got out of mine and walked down to his studio, where he was framing some photos. When he heard my footsteps, he spun around, smiling when he recognized me.

“Nadine! You came to see the studio. Perfect timing. I just—”

“I know, Garret. I know what you did.” I’d come there in anger, wanting to confront and rage, but now I wanted to cry. This was a boy I’d watched grow up, a boy I’d held when he cried at his father’s funeral. How did this happen?

He looked confused. “What’s wrong?”

“How could you?” My words were a plea, begging him to make me understand, though I never would. “How could you do those things to Lisa?”

He stepped back, his hand out in defense. “I don’t know what lies she told you—”

“I know you abused her.”

I searched his eyes, hoping for a sign of shame—some remorse. But he’d recovered now, and his face was just angry.

“Lisa’s a drug addict and a thief. She’d lie about anything.”

“She wouldn’t lie about this. I know you did it—and that you drugged her last week. Your father would be ashamed of you.” Paul would have been devastated to find out his son was a child molester, one who’d abused his own sister.

“My father would know that I didn’t do anything.” His voice was almost a yell now. “My father loved me.”

“I loved you too—and so did Lisa. You took advantage of that.”

Garret was trying to get himself under control, taking some breaths, running his hand through his hair. “Nadine, you know me better than this.”

“I thought I knew you.”

“I would never touch her—she’s my sister. But she’s messed up on drugs, and she lies when she’s stoned. She was just saying this crap to hurt you.”

For a moment, I faltered. Was he right? Then I remembered the look in her eyes. No, Lisa may have lied about many things, but that wasn’t one of them.

Garret leaned back against the table, pushing a frame to the side as though clearing a spot for his hand, but something about the movement didn’t seem natural. Then I saw the photos on the table. One caught my eye. Anyone else would’ve just seen the shape of a woman’s back as she huddled on a mattress. But I knew my daughter, knew every curve and bump of her spine. It was Lisa. I stepped around Garret and pulled it out from under the others, studied it in shock. It looked like the same room I’d found her in. When had the photo been taken?

Garret quickly said, “She signed the release.”

Thoughts crashed into my mind. Did he take the photos after he’d drugged her? What else did he make her do? Is this what had pushed her to join the commune? Rage and helpless anger at how my family had broken apart swept through my body. I thrust out the photo, “What is this?”

Garret said, “It’s a project I’m working on. Lisa needed money.” He sounded defensive but also nervous. His gaze kept flicking to the photo.

“What else did you do to her, Garret?” My voice was steel, my body stiff.

“Nothing. I told you, she wanted money. She was still doing drugs. She lied to you about that too. She’s sick, Nadine. She’s an addict.”

He was lying again, blaming Lisa for everything, each word out of his mouth making me think of Aaron, of how they justify the evil things they do. And Garret was going to keep lying, to the police, to other little girls, to their mothers.

Still holding Lisa’s photo in one hand, I spun around and ripped Garret’s photos off the studio wall, hurling them to the ground, frames smashing and glass shards flying everywhere.

Garret was trying to grab my wrists as he yelled, “What the hell are you doing?” I yanked free. He lifted me from behind, dragging and pushing me out of the studio, while I clawed and kicked at him. I landed a good wallop across his mouth.

He dropped me on the ground, stumbled backward, his hand coming to his lip and touching blood. He looked at it, like he was stunned that I’d actually hurt him. “I’m calling the police, you crazy bitch.”

I stood up on shaky legs, still vibrating from adrenaline, brushing dirt and broken glass off my clothes. “No you’re not.”

Our gazes locked. He looked away first.

I left him standing outside his ruined studio, while I walked with my head high to my car, still carrying Lisa’s photo.