Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

“I’ve been considering that possibility all afternoon, and it’s deeply upsetting to think that he might’ve molested or hurt me in some way. But I just don’t see how he could’ve. There were always so many people around.”

“Did he ever take you anywhere?”

“I don’t know. My memory is still murky about so much.” I thought back, remembered the conversation with my mother. “He apparently taught me to swim, so I suppose I would’ve been alone with him then, but I don’t recall anything about that, certainly nothing bad or him being inappropriate with me or any of the other younger girls. I was just uncomfortable around him. I do remember that.”

We were both silent for a moment. I’d stepped away from viewing this as something that might’ve happened to me and was just looking at the situation analytically. I didn’t want to react to anything until I had more information.

I said, “His center has become very successful. If he was a pedophile, I find it hard to believe there have been no other reports over the years.”

“His success could be part of the problem. Victims might be scared to speak up.”

“I don’t know, maybe…. Or maybe something happened to me during one of the lessons. Perhaps I got trapped underwater.” I told her about Coyote.

She said, “It certainly would’ve been traumatic if you’d nearly drowned after already witnessing a death and definitely could cause claustrophobia.”

“Exactly. I’ve never been comfortable near rivers since.” More memories came back now, how I always wanted to swim in a lake or the ocean, the time I’d made my boyfriend leave the old commune site. “It’s the more likely scenario. Willow might’ve witnessed my coming back from a lesson when I was upset.”

“That’s also very possible.”

We talked until Connie’s husband came home. By that time, I’d had a headache and had to take some Tylenol. Later, resting on the couch with my eyes closed and the fireplace warming the room, my mind drifted back to the memory of Willow’s leather vest. She’d loved that vest; why would she just leave it by the campfire? And why didn’t she say good-bye to anyone? She knew we would be upset. Then I thought back to the last time I saw her, talking with Robbie at the forest’s edge, when the rest of us were leaving for our walk. I narrowed my focus, tried to think of her face. How did she look? I got an image of Willow seeming annoyed, her forehead pulled in a frown and her hand gesturing, an angry motion. That’s when Robbie had left. Then I flashed to the memory of Aaron watching her as she walked down to the river, the malevolent energy in the air, the sick tugging in the pit of my stomach, my body full of dread.

I opened my eyes, stared up at the ceiling, a thought stopping my breath. Did Willow really leave the commune ? What if Aaron did something to her?

I wanted to turn away from the question, at the impossibility of it, but then I began to consider the facts. He was the last person to see her, and her departure had been odd. She’d had many friends at the commune, and no reason to walk out without saying good-bye or explaining her decision. The only person she had a problem with was Aaron. There’d been lots of tension between them, especially the day before she left. He said they were okay after their talk, but what really happened that day? And why did he follow her down to the river?

I sat up abruptly, my mind filled with terrifying images: Aaron and Willow in an argument, him striking her, or hitting her with a rock, maybe even strangling her. I tried to stop my runaway thoughts. Quit it , this is ridiculous. What would he have done with the body? She would have been found by now. Then again, would she have? That mountain was remote, the river wild, there were many spots that had probably still never been seen by human eyes. Unless a hiker or someone with a dog had come across her, she could’ve remained out there for years. I wondered if her body was in the woods somewhere, rotting alone in the leaves and dirt, animals carrying her bones off into the mountain.

I thought about it until exhaustion finally took over and I fell asleep. Hours later, I woke, rain pounding on my roof, my heart racing, the scent of lavender in the air, and Willow’s husky voice in my head: Don’t let him follow me.

Over the following week, Heather continued to improve, and we moved her to the floor below, where she would have more freedom. Noticing she had no visitors other than Daniel, I asked about her parents, and she said they still hadn’t gotten hold of them. I got the feeling they weren’t trying too hard and that she probably didn’t want them to know what had happened. I’d walked by her room one day when Daniel was visiting and heard them laughing. It made me hopeful that we would be able to stabilize her enough that she could go home and continue to improve on an outpatient basis. Daniel also seemed optimistic, and I told him if she continued to do well, she might be home in a couple of weeks.

On the weekend, I forced myself to take a break from everything and made plans with a friend. I hadn’t had more memories surface that week while working with Heather, but I was still struggling with the suspicion that something could’ve happened to Willow. I needed a distraction. I met up with a friend, a retired psychiatrist, to celebrate my birthday, though I wasn’t much in the mood. We decided to catch a romantic comedy at the movie theatre. Elizabeth’s also widowed, and we joked that it was the closest either of us had come to romance in years. But as I watched the characters fall in love, I had a little ache of loneliness, a remembrance of what it felt like. Then I flashed to Kevin and wondered if he was seeing anyone. That surprised me—was I interested in Kevin? I thought he was intelligent and always enjoyed our conversations. I’d also noticed that I’d started to scan the parking lot for his vehicle in the morning. So maybe I did find him attractive, but I quickly reminded myself, there was too much of an age difference.

My thoughts drifted to Paul, how secure I’d always felt with him. Our relationship hadn’t had the intensity of the ones in my youth—men molded after my father, distant or dominating, usually drinkers—but the sweet comfort of being so connected to another human being you could coexist in harmony, supporting each other while still being your own person. Then I realized that as much as I missed Paul, I also missed being married and wondered if I ever would be again. I shook off the idea. That time was over, and though it was difficult to find pleasure in any aspect of my life when my daughter was on the streets, I tried to remind myself that it was okay to enjoy the good things in my life. I loved my house, my job, and I was blessed with wonderful friends who I could travel with, and—I glanced over at Elizabeth—laugh with at the movies. But it was still hard.

That was another reason I’d decided to work at the hospital—I’d wanted to be part of a team. Private practice can be lonely at times. There’s also a bigger risk of connecting with your patients because you might relate to their issues. There’s less chance of that in a hospital, where you work with people who are more acutely ill. At least that was the plan until I met Heather. But watching her get better reminded me of why I’d gone into psychiatry in the first place. I was profoundly pleased that I was able to have some impact on Heather’s life and believed she had a strong chance of making it.

Then we got news that her parents had been killed.

It was Michelle who phoned me at home that Sunday evening. Daniel had called the unit, saying he had some bad news to tell Heather, and he needed help. I called him back right away.