It was obvious my talks with Heather about the center were bringing back my claustrophobia, but I just wished I knew why, so I could face the fear head-on. I decided to bike down to the seawall to clear my mind. I’d paused at a red light, when a pickup truck idled up beside me. When I glanced over, I noticed an older man with a baseball hat, long nose, and dark, bushy eyebrows, like my father’s. There was an empty rifle rack in the back window. The light turned green, and he roared off, but I was left frozen in a memory.
As we drive away from the commune, I glance back through the rear window. Aaron is staring after the truck, with hatred in his eyes like I’d never seen before in my life. My breath lets out in a gasp. Robbie turns to look, but by then Aaron’s expression is blank again. He watches until we are out of sight.
A car pulled up beside me, the radio blasting, and I was snapped back into the present. I continued on my way down to the seawall, but I couldn’t shake the pall my memory had cast over me. I’d forgotten that look on Aaron’s face the day we left, how badly it had scared me. Now I remembered all the fear I’d felt as we drove off, that somehow Aaron would make us go back and that we’d be in trouble, but I was also happy to see my father, my mother sitting beside him again, all of us crammed into the front seat of the truck. We were going home.
We tried to settle back into our lives, and I’d tried to fit back into my school. One of the members had been a former teacher so we’d had some classes, but I had to work hard to catch up or risk being put behind a grade. I never really connected with my friends again. I’d changed. We’d all changed. Robbie had come back sullen and distant, getting in fights at school and drinking. Worse, he’d barely speak to me. Even our animals were different. The cats, half-feral now, moved out to the barn and wouldn’t let anyone near them. Jake would run off, coming back days later stinking of carrion, his eyes wild and his fur matted.
Nothing was the same again.
* * *
The next couple of times I saw Heather she was more communicative, and Michelle told me she was starting to come out on the floor during the day, interacting with other patients, and had even joined a group session that Kevin was teaching on relaxation. Daniel was still visiting every day after work. Because Heather was on the step-down floor, and there didn’t seem to be any risk of her running away, she was allowed to wear street clothes. She usually dressed in jeans and sweaters, the sleeves pulled down over her wrists, and they were expensive brands. I wondered how she’d fare if her parents ever cut her off financially.
Now that Heather was taking better care of herself—her hair always tidy and pulled back into a ponytail—she looked like a fresh-faced college student. Though she was often apologetic and insecure, she also had a really sweet side to her, asking how I was, expressing concern over another patient, and I could see why Daniel was drawn to her. I had come to like her myself, finding something about her sensitive, empathetic nature endearing.
* * *
I ran into Kevin one day in the hall outside his office.
He said, “So how’s it going with Heather?”
“She’s coming along. I’m glad I stayed with her.” I was thrilled that she was doing better. Too often we see people who are chronically suicidal, hell-bent on destroying themselves no matter what. It was nice to treat someone like Heather, who was actually listening and willing to participate in her care plan.
“Good. I’m happy it worked out.”
I didn’t tell him that it was having the opposite effect on me. My patient was getting better, but I was sinking. Now that Heather had opened the gates to my memories, I needed the light on at night again, or I’d toss and turn for hours, listening to every sound. At the hospital, I’d stopped being able to use the elevator and had to take the stairs. Even driving through a tunnel would leave me nauseous and shaking. After work, I couldn’t stand the idea of going home to be alone with my thoughts, the walls pressing in on me, so I drove the streets, looking for Lisa.
When I’d first moved back to the city, I’d gone to the apartment building where one of Lisa’s friends had told me she was living. But the landlord, a nasty piece of work, had evicted her. A young man told me she was staying with some people downtown, but that turned out to be a dead end. She had crashed on their couch for a while, then disappeared. When I asked if she was still doing drugs—meth used to be her poison of choice—they told me that she was trying to get clean and had mostly succeeded. But I knew that without following a program, her chances of success were slim, something we’d battled about many times before.
While her father was sick—Paul was diagnosed during my last year of residency—Lisa, fourteen at the time, had also started slipping away from me, barely speaking, dressing in baggy clothes, bleaching her hair, ringing her eyes in black, and hanging out with kids I didn’t trust. Then, after Paul died, those dark days when part of me died with him, she grew even quieter, refusing to talk, staying out all night, sleeping all day, skipping class. Even her half brother, Garret, then twenty-one, couldn’t pull her out of her shell. He’d only been five when I started dating Paul, and not too happy about it, though he’d come around eventually. When Paul was sick, Garret spent a lot of time with Lisa, taking her out for hamburgers, making sure she was occupied while I was at the hospital. When I’d get home she’d pick fights over everything. My heart ached for her, knowing how desperate she was for her father. But I was also angry at her for battling me when I was barely getting through the days, for doing drugs and destroying herself when I was doing everything I could to keep my family together.
I’d caught on quick: the mood swings, the bad skin, the agitation and paranoia. I hated the demon that was stealing away my sweet daughter, who used to foster animals and friends, who wanted to be a vet one day like her father. And I despaired when I saw her falling apart in front of me, her cheeks growing hollow, life disappearing from her eyes. When she was a toddler, she’d been a chubby little thing with round-apple cheeks. I used to pretend to nibble them, which would make her squeal with laughter, and her eyes were always her most expressive feature. Now I couldn’t even get her to make eye contact.
I’d ransacked Lisa’s room one day, finding the locked metal box in the back of her closet. I threw everything away, the little baggies, pipes, straws, ashtrays, and mirrors, and when she came home, threatened rehab. She’d begged for a second chance. I gave it, and within weeks, she was staying out all night again. Finally, out of sheer desperation, I sold our house and moved up to Nanaimo, hoping a smaller community might mean less trouble. Even there she found ways. In her last year of school she ran away three times. Still, she managed to graduate, albeit at the very bottom of her class. Now, I thought. Now she’s turning her life around. But my relief was short-lived. The day school ended, she threw some things into a backpack and stormed out of the house. I later learned she’d moved back down to Victoria.
Since then, I’ve tried to keep tabs on her through parents of her friends. She came home one Christmas and spent most of it on her cell phone, while I tried to re-create the magic of her childhood. She’d promised to come home the next Christmas, even phoned a few days early to confirm, but then never showed up. She hadn’t been home since. I’ve kept every present from every Christmas and every missed birthday. But I couldn’t stop missing my daughter.
There wasn’t a night that went by when I didn’t wonder where she was, if she had enough to eat, if she was cold. I tried not to think about how she might be damaging her body, the things she might be doing to get more drugs. Mostly I struggled with guilt. Was it because I was so consumed with my own grief? I should have talked to her more, should’ve found out what was going on earlier.
And underneath that was the shame at my failure as a doctor. When she first started doing drugs, I thought I could help her. I was a psychiatrist, of course I could help my own daughter, but then, when every attempt failed, and she ran away, I thought, What kind of doctor am I? How can I hold myself out as a professional whe
n my drug-addicted daughter is living on the streets?
Sometimes I wondered if the problems started even before Paul became sick. He was a veterinarian, and after we had Lisa I stayed home for a year, then worked part-time at the clinic. When she was five, I decided to become a psychiatrist, a long-held dream that Paul supported, so I went to medical school in Vancouver. Lisa lived with me and also started school. Paul would visit on the weekends. We moved back to the island when Lisa was ten, and I completed my residency at St. Adrian’s. I did my best during those years to balance everything, to be a good wife and mother, but now I’d remember all the times I’d been short with Lisa when I was rushing to class, or told her to be quiet when I was studying—and her disappointed face.
The last time I saw Lisa was eight months ago. After I was attacked outside my office, one of my friends, Connie, had finally tracked her down through some of Lisa’s friends. She’d visited me in the hospital. I’d been thrilled, had wanted to hold and hug her so hard that she could never run away again, but she was edgy, dark circles under her once-gorgeous blue eyes, her tall frame, so like her father’s, painfully thin. Reminding me of Paul before he died. She could barely look at me and only stayed a few minutes, saying she had to meet a friend. I lost track of her after that, her friends changing as fast as her location.
After I moved down to Victoria and discovered that the trail stopped cold for Lisa, I visited the Victoria New Hope Society—they run three shelters for the homeless—with a photo of her, but they wouldn’t give me any information. I wondered if I’d know my own daughter if I saw her. I didn’t even know what color her hair was now. The first time she’d bleached it, I’d tried to understand that she was finding her own way, tried to applaud her individuality, but I’d missed the little girl who wanted to grow up to be just like her mother, who used to ask me to braid my hair like hers so we looked the same. We were never the same, though.
She was quiet, and I was communicative, always trying to get to the bottom of things, always wanting to know why people felt the way they did. I wondered if that was one of the many ways I’d gone wrong. Living in a family where nothing was discussed, I’d wanted openness with Lisa, encouraged her to talk about her feelings, to share her thoughts, but she’d always kept her own counsel. That had frustrated me when she was younger, as much as it scared me. It wasn’t until after she moved out I realized that I’d wanted her to share her feelings so I could guide them and control her, so I could keep her safe.
Once in a while on my evening drives, I’d stop and show her photo to some street kids, wondering if Lisa would hear that I was looking for her, worrying that my attempts to find her might just push her away again.
I shouldn’t have worried. It was always the same thing: just another group of kids, with their hoodies, baggy pants, and skateboards, not one of whom had ever laid eyes on my daughter.
* * *
That night, after my fruitless search for Lisa, I pulled in my driveway and as I walked around the corner of my house to my back door, I noticed the black cat stalking a bird. She spotted me, and with a clatter of garbage can lids, leaped on top of the fence. The cat glared down, her skinny tail flicking back and forth—not afraid, angry. I made kissing sounds, but she turned her back and began to lick her paws. I put some tuna on a plate and walked back out. She eyed me from her perch on the fence but wouldn’t come closer, no matter how many enticing sounds I made. I put the dish up on the railing of my deck. In the morning, on my way to the hospital, I noticed happily that the plate of tuna I’d put out the night before had been licked clean. Tonight, when I returned home, I’d put out a blanket-lined box, so she’d have somewhere safe to sleep. My mind flowed back to Lisa, and I wondered where she was staying and if she was warm at night. I wondered if she ever thought of me.
* * *
The nurses told me that Heather wasn’t sleeping as much and had joined another group session the day before, then spent the rest of the day watching TV with some patients—all good signs. During my interview, it was clear she was still struggling with self-esteem issues and guilt about leaving the commune, but I was able to get her to focus on staying in the present as we worked on her care plan.
“What can you do today that might help you?”
She said, “I can join group or take a walk around the ward.”
“Those are great ideas!” We talked about a few more things she could try, then I asked if she was still having thoughts of hurting herself.
“Sometimes, but not as much.” She looked around. “It’s different in here. I’m not as lonely. And the nurses, like Michelle, they’re all really nice. I feel…” She shrugged. “Safer, I guess. Like I’m not weird or bad or something.”
“You’re not. And I’m glad that you’re starting to see that.”
“It’s nice, having someone to listen to you.” She smiled. “I used to listen to Emily when she was upset. We’d go to the barn—she loved horses.”
“Sounds like you were a great support for her.”
“I felt like her big sister.” She paused, thinking. “I showed her how to ride bareback, and we’d go down to the river every day, just to talk.”
As Heather began to describe the trail they took down to the water, my mind filled with images and sounds, the forest cool in the summer, the creak of a saddle, the earthy scent of the woods and horses, and I was pulled back in time.
Willow and I are riding together, bareback through the woods. We pause to let the horses drink from a pool in the river. She’s standing near me, her horse nuzzling her shoulder. She says, “I watch Aaron with you sometimes.…”
My heart starts to thud in my ears, panic digging into my blood.
She’s still talking. “I saw you coming back from the river with him. You looked upset. If there’s anything you ever want to talk about…”
Now my heart’s hitting so hard against my chest, I can barely breathe. Shame, thick and hot, presses down on me.
My voice angry, I say, “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“If he hurt you—”
But I’m already turning, climbing up a log to jump on the back of the horse. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Heather’s voice pulled me back into the present as she said, “That’s one of the reasons I thought about going back, so I could help her. I hope she’s okay.”
I shook off my memory, though the emotions still lingered, fear and confusion sitting hard in my belly.
“She’s probably okay, right?” Heather said.
“It sounds like you feel some responsibility for Emily, but she’s an adult and can make her own decisions. Just like you made a choice to leave, now you can choose to follow your treatment plan and take care of yourself.”
She nodded. “I know. I am getting better. I can feel it already.”
* * *
After I was finished with Heather, I met a new patient, a woman in her early seventies named Francine who was brought in after she’d been found wandering the neighborhood in her nightgown. She’d been diagnosed with dementia and didn’t have any family. Dementia patients were always hard to treat as there wasn’t much we could do for them, and they had to stay at the hospital until there was room in a nursing home. They were confused and upset by their memory losses and frequently tried to escape. Francine had spent the day walking around, testing the doors, begging us to let her go. She refused to be comforted, and we had to just leave her alone, until she calmed down on her own. When we met, I’d asked if she knew why she was in the hospital, and she’d laughed gaily and said she’d been on an adventure, then her face had turned grief-stricken and scared. She said, “Why am I here? When can I go home?”
I gently said, “Miss Hendrickson, you’re in the hospital because you’re having troubles remembering things, and we don’t want you to get hurt.”
She was looking around the interview room, a confused expression on her face. “I’m in the hospital?” Her eyes suddenly lucid and clear, she tu
rned to me, and with a sad voice said, “I’m never leaving here, am I?”
“You’re just staying here a little bit longer while we run some tests.”
She grabbed my hand across the desk, her face lit up with a smile and her eyes sparkling. “I had such a life! I was an artist and traveled the world to paint. I had friends in every country. I could tell you stories, so many stories.” Her eyes filled with tears, leaking into the deep grooves on her face, her white hair long and snarled around her face. Her voice quavered, filled with doubt and turned little girlish. “I don’t have anyone. No family, no one. I don’t know where everyone went. What happened to all my paintings? Where’s my pretty house? I just want to go home.” She started to cry harder. “I can’t remember anything.”
CHAPTER NINE
Back in my mid-twenties, when I was still living in Victoria and starting my second year of university, my therapist suggested that I talk to my mom and my brother about my experience at the commune, to see if they could open the window to my memories. But if anything, they slammed the door shut on them.
My mother never liked speaking about the commune after we left, especially if my father was around, but I caught her alone in the field one fall morning as she spread hay into piles for the horses. The sun was out, warming dew from the night before and making the ground steam. Mom was dressed in one of Dad’s bulky work coats, her dark hair stuffed under an old cowboy hat. Even in that masculine garb, she was pretty.
I grabbed a flake and started to help her. After a moment, I said, “Mom, I need to talk to you about the commune.”
She kept working. “I don’t like talking about the past.”
“I know, but this is important. I’ve been in therapy, for my claustrophobia, and my therapist thinks something happened to me at the commune.”
My mother stopped and looked at me. “Like what?”
She was shorter than me, but she pulled herself up tall, her shoulders squared, work gloves on her hips. I felt a small thrill at her protective stance.
Always Watching Page 8
