Always Watching

by Chevy Stevens

  “Did anyone else ever try to leave? How did you get out?”

  “We worked at the store and made some friends on the outside. We were scared because when other people had moved out, Aaron said that terrible things happened to them on the outside, like car accidents and violent crimes, or getting some bad illness. And the ones who came back said that things were harder on the outside. Like they had no money and couldn’t get a job—a lot of them would start doing drugs again. They’d come back all messed up.” She was quiet.

  “What if anyone got sick?”

  “We weren’t allowed medication, but everyone smoked marijuana. We weren’t supposed to talk about that with anyone who just came to retreats, only people who became full members. He said outsiders wouldn’t understand.”

  I nodded, thinking over everything.

  She said, “Now that you’ve told the police your story, are they going to arrest him?”

  “They interviewed him, but without more witnesses, they can’t lay charges.” I explained the process.

  Her face dropped, surprised and disappointed. “So nothing’s going to happen?”

  “Not unless more people share their stories. If you wanted to reopen your case, now might—”

  “No.” She’d started shaking her head. “I’m not going through all of that again. Their questions, it was brutal. My parents … they’d never forgive me.”

  “I understand how it can feel as though you’re the one who’s done something wrong. But if Aaron’s arrested, it would break the hold he has on the members, and the center would probably shut down. Even if he flees the country, he’d be away from your sister and your parents. You might be able to reconnect.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that before.” Her baby started crying in his playpen, and she walked over and picked him up, bouncing him on her hip. She said, “I have to get him down soon. Do you mind if I think everything over?”

  “Of course. I’m curious, though. Why were you willing to meet with me?”

  “I’ve never talked to anybody else who, you know, lived with them.”

  We held gazes. I said, “Thank you for letting me come here today and speak with you. It also helped me to share my story with you.”

  She gave a small smile, but added, “I still don’t think I want to talk to the cops about it again. I’m sorry.”

  “Take your time. You don’t have to make any decisions tonight.” I took some paper out of my purse and wrote down my number. “I know this is painful. And there are a lot of things to consider.” I slid the paper across the table as I said, “If you ever want to talk, give me a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  Still standing by the playpen, she held her son tight as she looked away and nuzzled his hair. The baby gave me a gummy grin.

  * * *

  Outside in my car, I sat for a moment and stared back at her house, thinking about Joseph’s last visit to her home. Was I being reckless? Putting myself, Tammy, and who knows who else at risk? I thought again about Willow, possibly lying in a lonely grave in the forest, no one but birds and animals a witness to her death. Then I reminded myself that we still didn’t know for sure that Aaron had harmed her. If he had, it was a different situation. She was a runaway, not someone who would easily be missed. He would have a harder time denying his involvement if something were to happen to me or anyone else I spoke with. Still, I locked my doors and glanced around, looking for anyone else sitting in their vehicles. The street was quiet.

  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 las
hed 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 ab
out 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.