Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

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 about 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.

She glanced over at me, and I saw a flicker of something in her eyes, like she wanted to say something, but she looked away, and the moment was lost.

After she was cleared to go home, I wheeled her out to my car. I held out my arm for her to brace against when she climbed in the passenger seat, but she ignored it. We were silent during the ride home, both of us exhausted, though my head was spinning with questions. I wanted to know where she’d been living, how she’d been living, what happened the night before, was she using again, did she still want to quit? Nothing I could ask, but I also couldn’t bring myself to chatter about nonsensical things either. As the silence mounted, I turned the radio on.

When we pulled in the driveway and got out of the car, Lisa stood for a moment, admiring the house.

“Wow, Mom. This is gorgeous.”

My mood lifted at her casually calling me “Mom” and liking my house. It was unrealistic to expect it might mean she’d be willing to stay longer, but still, I hoped. I grabbed her packsack out of the trunk. Whoever had called 911 had left it behind with Lisa. I wondered if it was the same person who gave her the drugs. Did they even consider staying with her before leaving her in the alley like a piece of garbage? I shook off the anger. All I could control now was this moment.

As we passed by the box where the stray had been sleeping Lisa said, “Is this for Silky?”

“No, she passed away in the summer—a few weeks after I was attacked.”

Her mouth pulled tight, and I wondered if she was upset I hadn’t told her about the cat—she used to sleep with her when she lived at home.

I said, “I would’ve told you, but…”

“S’okay.” But I had a feeling it wasn’t okay at all.

Inside, I showed her the guest room. She stood in the middle and surveyed the room, the white duvet and pillows, the bamboo bed frame, dropping her packsack onto the floor and tossing her coat on the side chair. “It’s nice.”

Again, I was inordinately pleased. “I’m so glad you like it.”

She walked over to the bed, spotting the stuffed white dog I’d bought for her. Her back was to me as she picked it up.

I said, “I saw it and thought of you…. It was for your birthday.” On that weekend, I’d lit a candle, blew it out, and made a wish for my daughter.

“I’m going to take a nap, okay, Mom?”