Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

I decided to hold back on my suspicions for now, until I knew more about Mary. “Yes, but I’d like to know where she ended up. I’d love to reconnect with her.” I held her gaze so I could read any change in her expression.

Her eyes narrowed, like she was trying to understand what I might be getting at. She pulled her hand out from under the hen and rubbed her forehead.

I glanced at her hand. And that’s when I noticed one of her fingers was missing. Seeing the direction of my gaze, she snatched her hand back down by her side and closed her fingers in a fist, holding it protectively against her stomach.

It was too late. The memory came rolling back in.

It’s night, not long after Willow left. I’m awake in my cabin, thinking about running away to find her. I hear strange sounds from the campfire. I sneak out the door, then creep along the dark edge until I can hear raised voices. Joseph is kneeling behind a blond-haired woman, also down on her knees, with her hand strapped to a chopping block and a gag in her mouth. He’s holding a machete. The woman is crying in muffled sobs and trying to pull away, but Joseph holds her in place.

Aaron is standing near, his face alarmed. I can’t make out the words, but he’s talking to Joseph, his hands reaching out, and I have a feeling that he’s trying to get Joseph to give him the machete. Joseph hesitates, but then he looks up at the sky. He says something to the air. There’s a flash as Joseph raises the machete, then a quick thwack as it comes down hard. I quickly slap my hand over my mouth, to hold in the scream, but a moan leaks out. Aaron, now pulling the machete out of his brother’s hand, as the woman sobs at their feet, has noticed. He starts toward me as I cower in the shadows, but the woman is crying louder, nearly choking on the gag, and he turns back around, whispering to Joseph, “Shut her up.”

I crouch low and scurry to the cabin.

In the morning, I skirt around the campfire, noticing the scuffle marks in the dirt, the dark splotches of blood. During our breakfast meditation, Cedar sits alone, not speaking to anyone, a large bandage wrapped around her hand.

My mother whispers, “Aaron said she caught her hand in a blade, after he warned her to be careful. Now she’s chosen to sit in silence and reflect on her decision, so she can learn from her mistake.”

I glance at the woman again. Her eyes meet mine. And in the back of them, I see something. She’s not sorry. She’s angry.

Now, years later, I saw that same look in Mary’s eyes. I said, “Joseph did that to you. I remember now. But I don’t know why.”

Mary didn’t say anything, just turned away and moved to the next chicken.

“You must’ve been terrified.”

She paused for a minute, studying the eggs in her bucket, her good hand holding the handle. I wondered what she was thinking. Finally, her voice raw and angry, she said, “I’d wanted to leave the commune at the end of the summer. One of my cousins was living in California, and I thought it would be fun. I’d told Aaron that night, after everyone had gone to bed, but Joseph heard us talking….”

“Joseph cut your finger off because you wanted to leave?”

She nodded abruptly, her neck muscles corded. “He said he had a vision of my finger being a snake full of venom. That it was poisoning my thoughts.”

“Why didn’t you leave after they hurt you?”

“Aaron… he said he needed me, that we were a family now, and families don’t leave each other.” Her face took on a reflective expression. “I think about that sometimes, how beautiful he was when he smiled. He could make you believe anything. It was like I was high all the time, on everything he was teaching—meditating, the pot, the singing and chanting, the walks, all the sex and love, it was like walking around in a dream.”

“Why did you finally leave?”

“After Finn died, there was lots of police attention. Aaron didn’t like it. I told him I’d stay here to keep an eye on the situation. He forgot about me. I was just one of many of his women.” There was no tone of bitterness, just factual, with a hint of relief.

“You haven’t heard from him since?”

“No, and I want to keep it that way.” This time her tone was a clear warning. “That’s a time in my life I’d rather forget.”

“I can understand that. I feel the same way, but I had a patient recently…” Without giving away too many details about Heather, I explained what had drawn me back into the past. “There are more young women at the commune, and I’m afraid that he’ll keep destroying lives unless we find a way to shut him down.”

She didn’t say anything, but her face, from what I could see of it as she worked her way down the line, collecting the last of the eggs, was thoughtful. I wondered what her life was like since she had left the commune.

I said, “Do you have any children?”

She thrust her hand under a chicken, making it squawk in protest. “I have a son.” She said it protectively—no doubt concerned about what I was going to do with the information, but there was also pride. She loved her son.

“Do you get to see him much?”

“He travels, but we keep in touch. He doesn’t like me living out here by myself. I’ve done it for over forty years—told him I was leaving over my dead body, and he’s going to have to bury me in the manure pile.” A cheeky grin.

“That’s nice, that he worries about you. I have a daughter, but we’re not close.” I heard the catch in my throat. Mary did as well.

She studied my face, questioning.

I said, “She lives on the streets in Victoria. I worry about her.” It was an understatement, but the best I could do with the sudden tightness in my throat.

“Only time we have control over our babies is when they’re in our womb.” She looked at me with understanding. Two mothers who missed their children.

“That’s one of the reasons I’m so concerned about the center. Aaron takes girls like her and preys on their emotions. I keep thinking about their mothers, how no one has any idea what he’s really like or what he might be doing. Like I said, I very much understand your concerns, but if you did tell the police about your finger, they might get more serious about the investigation.”

She paused, her hands on an egg, holding the delicate shell in her rough hands as she rolled it around. “I’ll think about it.” I had a gut feeling that she didn’t plan on speaking to the police for one second, but I didn’t want to push her. Truth is, it would be hard pursuing any sort of assault case after all this time, and I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to go through the process.

Before I left, she kindly gave me a carton of eggs. I drove slowly down her driveway and over the potholes until I was back on pavement. I was still thinking about Mary when I realized I was at the corner where my mother had had her accident. I pulled over and looked at the tree that had taken her life. It had grown, but the scar was still there.

I stopped at Robbie’s on my way back to Victoria, so I could ask him about Willow, and whether he knew Mary lived nearby, but his truck was gone, and the house dark.

On my way to the hospital Monday morning, I stopped at the organic coffee shop on the corner for my usual green tea infusion. As I turned to leave, paper cup in hand, I suddenly noticed Daniel sitting alone in the corner, his back to the wall as he read a paper. When he felt my gaze, he glanced up and with a small smile waved me over.

I said, “Good morning.” I was pleased to see him. I’d been thinking about him, wondering how he was faring. “I didn’t know you lived in this part of town.”