Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

Her voice was thick, like she might be crying.

“Are you okay? Do you want some—”

“I’m fine.”

It was a clear dismissal. I slowly closed the door behind me. When I peeked in later she was sound asleep, but there was rapid movement behind her eyelids, making me wonder what demons chased her dreams. I’d meant to read on the couch while waiting for her to wake, but I also fell asleep. I woke hours later with her standing over me. I sat up with a start. “Are you okay?”

The house was dim, but she’d turned on a couple of lights. Outside it was almost dark, so it was probably early evening. Wind coming in from the ocean pushed the bamboo against my windows as rain tinged against the glass panes.

Lisa said, “You can stop asking me that,” and sat in the chair across from me, pulling the wool throw off the back and wrapping it around her body. I noticed she’d made herself toast. There was also a plate on the coffee table in front of me, with a steaming cup of tea, and she’d turned on the fireplace. I was pleased at the cozy domestic scene, the scent of burned bread in the air, that she remembered I like honey on my toast. I took a sip of tea, eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Her hair was a tangled mess, the crease of a pillow in her face. I smiled, remembering how when she was a child, she used to be afraid she was getting wrinkles. But she never cared much about her looks, or fashion, sometimes trying on my things, but she’d preferred to dress me. She’d carefully apply my makeup and brush my hair, her hands gentle, loving. She’d say, “Here, let me, Mommy.” As though she were the adult and I the child. Sometimes I’d wonder if that’s what happened. Did I treat her too much like an adult?

Feeling my gaze on her, she turned away from the fire and looked at me as she said, “Do you think there’s life after death?”

The question shocked me, but I tried not to show it as I slowly set my cup back down and mentally prepared my response. It wasn’t something I could easily answer, and a question that I’d asked myself in the days after Paul died. But I didn’t think that’s what Lisa wanted to hear now. Her gaze was intent, her body ready for combat. I chose my words carefully.

“I hope there’s something beyond this life, yes.”

“You hope, but you don’t believe it.”

Another challenge. One I decided to ignore. Keeping my voice neutral, I said, “What do you think? Do you believe there’s life after life?”

She glanced back at the fire, her face reflective, then she looked up at the photo of Paul on the mantel, of us as a family. She focused on me. “When I was in the hospital, right before I woke up, I could feel Dad, like he was in the room with me. And then I heard that song he used to always sing.”

She didn’t have to say anything further for me to know what song she meant. When Chinook’s health started to fail, Paul would play “Fields of Gold” over and over on the stereo, singing it as he went about his day. Sometimes in the evening we’d look at photos together of Chinook as a puppy, of all our years with him, both crying, knowing we were losing our beloved dog soon, neither of us knowing that cancer would also claim Paul’s life less than a year later.

Now I softly sang, “You’ll remember me…”

Lisa picked it up. “When the west wind moves…”

We drifted off, our minds filling in the rest of the words in a silent chorus.

After a moment, Lisa said, “When I opened my eyes, I saw him. He had a hand on the back of your chair, and he smiled at me, then he disappeared.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she swiped at them, a quick angry motion. I remembered the flash of fear in her eyes when she’d first woken up, how she’d been looking at something behind me. She was probably hallucinating from the GHB in her system, or there was some other physiological explanation, but I didn’t think for one moment that Paul’s spirit had truly been there. I did, however, recognize that Lisa thought he was and that her vision was very real to her. I didn’t want to take that away. She was waiting for me to say something.

I smiled and said, “That’s a lovely thought. I’d like to think that your father still visits us.”

“You don’t believe me.” Her voice was flat and resigned, like she’d expected me to let her down. The thought saddened me.

“Lisa, that’s not what I—”

She said, “I didn’t overdose.”

I didn’t know how to answer, suspecting that she had overdosed but in the ensuing amnesia from the drug had forgotten taking it, so I simply said, “Okay.”

“I didn’t —someone gave me something.”

“Who? Was it one of your friends?” I tried not to sound accusing, but the tone was there, and my daughter, always intuitive, especially when it came to any censure from me, picked it up immediately.

“You still think I’m taking drugs. I told you, I quit. ”

I took a breath, started again. “You’re my daughter—I love you and I want you to get well. I’m afraid that if you’re still living on the streets, hanging around people who are doing drugs, you might start using again. Seeing you tonight, like that…” I cleared my throat. “I’m scared I’m going to lose you.”

I tried to will her to look at me, but she was pressing her thumb hard against crumbs on her plate and licking them off. Quick, angry motions.

She said, “I was doing fine until last night. I have it under control.”

I waited for her to elaborate, but she was staring into the fire again. I decided to drop it, hoping that over the next few days I’d be able to revisit the conversation. I changed the subject. “I saw Garret recently.”

She took a bite of her toast, chewed hard as she kept staring into the fire. Her face unreadable, she said, “Yeah.”

She didn’t say it as a question, or like she wanted to know more, but I still added, “I gave him your father’s tools—I didn’t think you’d want them.”

No answer.

“He’s got a photography studio now.”

Still no answer.

“And he was asking about you—he said we should stop by sometime.”

Now she turned. “Did you tell him where I was?”

Thrown by the heat in her voice and confused about the source of it, I said, “I didn’t know where you were—but I did tell him that I’d run into you at Fisherman’s Wharf. He was worried about you.”

This time she dropped her mug on the side table with a thump, her plate following after. “Why can’t you just stay out of things?”

“I don’t understand what the problem is with my telling Garret about you. You used to be so close, and he misses you. He’s your brother and—”

She stood up. “He’s my half brother. And we were close when we were kids, until the two of you started to gang up on me.”

“Gang up on you. You mean when we were trying to help?” Was that what this was all about? She felt like Garret and I had joined forces against her?

She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, you were real helpful, Mom.”

“Lisa, can you please just sit down and explain why you’re so upset?”

“Don’t discuss me with him, or anyone. This is my life.” And with that she stalked off, leaving me staring at my half-eaten toast, my own fear growing. She’d almost died the previous night, and she still wasn’t taking responsibility for the problems in her life—next time she could end up brain-damaged, or lying beaten or raped in an alley, if she didn’t just die from the overdose. I followed her down the hall to her room, but when I knocked, all I heard was the shower.

Hours later, she still hadn’t come out of her room, and it was obvious she planned to stay there all night. I left her alone, deciding it was probably better to wait until morning before we had another talk—hopefully we would both be more relaxed. But in the morning she was gone, having taken only the stuffed husky with her.