“Do you think it was just that? Or were they hoping you’d come back for another reason? Heather mentioned donating money.”
“But we wanted to donate. Is that why you came here today?” His voice sounded tight, defensive.
“No, it’s not. I apologize if I’ve upset you. I just wanted to pay my respects. Heather was a special woman. I’m sorry I couldn’t help her.”
Daniel took a breath and let it out in a sigh.
“You tried. You were the only doctor at the hospital who helped her at all. She liked you a lot.”
The only one …
An image of dark water, the smell of sand and earth, something familiar about the words. I focused in, grabbed at it. I was at the river with Aaron, cold rocks digging into my knees. You’re the only one, he whispered.
I was looking at Daniel, but my mind was elsewhere.
“You have to help me, or I won’t be able to heal her.” Aaron’s naked, and I’m kneeling before him. He takes my hand and puts it on his penis, then grabs the back of my head, pushing my face toward him. I say, “I don’t know how.…”
“Dr. Lavoie? Are you okay?”
Daniel was staring at me. He looked worried.
I tried to think of something to say, but my head was spinning. It all made horrific sense now. Were there other victims? What about the women he took for private meditations, those long walks with other girls in the commune? He’d said something about being able to “heal her.” Who was he talking about?
Daniel. Focus on Daniel.
“Sorry, I was just thinking how much I liked Heather too.”
We held gazes for a moment. Our grief binding us.
Then he bowed his head again, covering his face with his hands while his body shook with the effort of holding in his sorrow.
I stood beside him, my hand on his shoulder.
* * *
I don’t know how I made it home. I only remember getting undressed and climbing in the shower. The water beat on my head as I stared down at my body, wondering at the secrets it still held. What else did Aaron do to me? I stayed in the shower, scrubbing my skin over and over, until the water turned cold.
Sitting on my couch later, I tried to calm down and consider the facts. If Aaron had abused me, then it would explain why I’d been so uncomfortable around him, and it also probably explained my claustrophobia. But why did the memory finally surface now? Was it real? It had felt real, but now, without any other supporting evidence, a time line, a sense of when it started or ended, and the memory already fading, I wasn’t so sure. It was possible that being immersed in memories of the commune for the last three weeks, then dealing with the strong emotions that Heather’s death had triggered, distorted my true memories. Like a dream that had no meaning and was simply a representation of other emotions. Could it be that my suspicion of Aaron and what he was doing at the center had manifested in this way? I viewed his actions as a betrayal of trust, even as a child, and so my psyche was portraying it as an even more intimate violation?
Some therapists, while using Recovered Memory Therapy, accidentally planted memories in their patients’ minds. One of the reasons it was eventually discredited. Is that what I had actually recovered? A long-buried manipulation?
I tried to hypnotize myself, counted backward several times, focusing on the flame of a candle, but I couldn’t get to that memory, the images that had seemed so sharp were now blurred. I didn’t know what was real anymore.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That night, I spoke to Connie about my experience at Heather’s funeral. We also discussed my concerns about the commune, the damaging effect they could have on the mental health of their members, and that if my memory was indeed real, there could be more victims of sexual abuse. I considered making a report to the police. In the end, I decided that I wasn’t ready to share my story—it was deeply upsetting, but I still wasn’t confident enough in my facts and wanted to think about it longer, see if anything else surfaced. I did, however, want to make them aware that they should look into the center’s operations. Hopefully, when they saw that things weren’t on the up-and-up, they’d investigate and shut it down.
After work the following day, I stopped at the police station. In other places in BC, the RCMP service the area, but Victoria and the township of Esquimalt, which borders Victoria, are handled by municipal police. I spoke to a pleasant officer, who listened patiently, then said, “Do you know of anyone being harmed at the commune?”
“No, but if they are convincing people to stop taking their medications, they’re at risk. And there are other concerns.” I shared how they’d harassed Heather after she left, and that she’d been donating large sums of money. Also that I feared Aaron was using mind-control techniques.
He said, “Did your patient say that she was held against her will?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Did they force her to give them money, by means of a threat or any other intimidation tactic?”
“Not that I’m aware of. It’s more about pressure and manipulation.”
The officer said, “If no one at the center has made a complaint, then our hands are tied. The River of Life is a respected business in this community. We can’t just go in there and ask a bunch of questions without a good reason.”
I thought about my memory of Aaron at the river. They obviously weren’t going to look into the commune’s activities without more evidence of a crime. I hadn’t wanted to open this can of worms when I was still uncertain myself, but if it was real, and other girls were being hurt …
“What if the leader was abusing underage girls?”
“Is he?”
I couldn’t waver now or signal any uncertainty. I had to go forward.
“He has … in the past.” I took a breath and briefly explained about my recovered memory and my previous experience with the group as a child.
When I was finished, the officer didn’t give me a sense of whether he believed my story, but his face was sympathetic. He said he could take a statement from me, but it would get sent to the RCMP in Shawnigan, where the crime occurred. His careful explanation that they wouldn’t be the ones following up told me that he personally believed I should make the statement directly to the police who would handle the investigation. When I suggested as much, he said, “It’s up to you. I’m sure it’s been hard for you to come in here today, and you might want to just get it over with. But they’ll probably still want to interview you, so you’ll have to go through it twice. If you don’t mind driving up there, it might be better—”
“I’ll go to Shawnigan.”
* * *
I left feeling exhausted—it had been difficult and embarrassing to tell a stranger that I’d been abused, especially when I still didn’t have many memories of the experience. It was like feeling around in the dark, stumbling into sharp edges. The officer told me that someone would be in touch soon, but I still wasn’t sure how far I wanted to go with it personally. I just wanted them to check into the center.
I wondered if I should tell Robbie—in case the police needed to speak with him. He wouldn’t be happy about it. Robbie isn’t the type who likes to discuss his emotions at the best of times, even less so with me, and he’d probably rather drive off a cliff than talk to the police about anything. Still, I didn’t feel right about not sharing this with him. In the end, I decided I’d tell him after I’d met with the police.
The next morning, I got a call from Corporal Cruikshank, a female officer who sounded very professional and matter-of-fact. We arranged to meet the following Friday afternoon at the station. That day, I finished work early and drove up the Malahat Highway to Shawnigan, which is about forty minutes from downtown Victoria. The Malahat could be treacherous in winter, with its winding turns through Goldstream Park, rugged steep slopes, and the occasional waterfall cascading down a sheer rock wall, but that day it was clear and the traffic light. I would have enjoyed the drive if my head hadn’t been consumed with thoug
hts of the commune, my brother’s reaction, what Aaron might do after he found out I’d made a statement. My body tense with dread, I reminded myself that there was no sense worrying until I had more information, but a small voice still niggled at the back of my mind. Are you sure you’re ready for this?
I took the turnoff to Shawnigan, just before the summit of the Malahat, and followed Shawnigan Lake Road down through the mountain into the valley, noticing that they had logged some of the area. Once I reached the junction at the south end of the lake, I stayed right and headed into the village on the east shore, which is where the police station was located, passing numerous summer cabins on the way. Shawnigan has a population of only about eight thousand people, and most of the vacation homes are owned by residents of Victoria, taking advantage of the quick commute and the lake’s beaches and waterskiing.
The village itself was still small, with two general corner stores, a gas station, barbershop, video store, coffee shop, and a couple of restaurants. If you keep going past the west arm of the lake, it was mostly farmlands and forest, also, from what I remembered, a popular area for hunters and four-wheelers.
The police station was built out of red-toned bricks. It wasn’t very large and reminded me of an old schoolhouse. I could see most of it from the waiting room as I sat on the wooden bench, watching officers come and go in their uniforms, the odd laugh breaking out as they joked about something. After a few moments, a young woman in a dark blue suit came through the door with a pleasant smile. Her blond hair was pulled back in a bun, and she had a heart-shaped face, with big brown eyes. She walked with a certain swagger that made me think she must be an athlete. She also didn’t look much older than my daughter, which didn’t inspire much confidence in her abilities.
I felt a flash of shame at my unkind thought. If she’d achieved this level in her career, then I was sure she was more than capable.
She said, “Good afternoon, I’m Corporal Cruikshank.”
I shook her hand. “Hello, I’m Dr. Nadine Lavoie.” I’m not making this up. I’m a doctor.
We sat down at a metal table in a small gray room, a camera in the corner. She leaned in. “So I understand you’d like to make a report?”
“Yes.” My throat was dry, cracking slightly as I spoke. She offered me some water, and when I said, please, she brought back a bottle.
“We’re going to record you so we can make sure we have everything, but I’ll also be taking notes, just in case there’s anything I need to ask you more about.”
“That’s fine.”
The policewoman, proving she was more in tune than I’d given her credit for, said, “I know how uncomfortable this must be for you, and that the crime was a long time ago, but it’s important you try to give me as much detail as possible. I’d like you to close your eyes and walk me through it. Try to use all your senses, scent, anything you heard, all of this can help.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak—the idea of closing my eyes in the small room suddenly terrifying.
She studied my face. “Just take your time.”
I took a deep breath, waiting until the pulse in my throat had settled down, willing myself to relax, then closed my eyes and began to speak. First I explained how we came to the commune and what it was like living there, opening my eyes to make a point every once in a while. She nodded encouragingly but never asked any questions, just made the occasional note. “My mother said that he used to give me swimming lessons, but I’m not sure if that’s when it started.…” The room was so quiet I could hear the officer breathing—the walls pressed in, the sudden urge to run. I opened my eyes. “Can we leave the door open?”
She looked startled.
I said, “Or is there a bigger room? I have claustrophobia.”
“We can open the door, but officers will be walking past. Unfortunately, this is our only interview room. Would you like to take a break?”
“Just give me a minute, please.” I centered myself, taking three deep breaths. When I was ready, I began again. “We were down at the river…” My eyes closed, I noticed a rhythmic sound, a pattering against the roof, and realized it must’ve started to rain. My body relaxed, and I drifted back into a memory.
Now I remembered how it had all started.
We haven’t been at the commune for long, maybe a couple of months, when Aaron starts paying special attention to me, making eye contact at the campfire, giving me an extra piece of fruit, his hand lingering on the back of my leg when he shows me how to sit for meditation. I’m shy with him, barely speaking when he asks me a question, and my mother scolds me, telling me to be nicer to him.
I’m alone in my cabin, having snuck away from the other kids. One of the dogs, a spaniel, has puppies under my bed. I’ve just slid their box out, and I’m holding one, rubbing my nose against its soft fur, when Aaron comes in the cabin.
He says, “Are you okay? I noticed you weren’t with the other children.”
I stumble over my words, confused and flustered by his attention. “Yes, I just … I just wanted to make sure the puppies were all right.”
I can feel him watching me as I kneel down and slide the box back under the bed. When I stand up, he studies my face, his gaze lingering on my mouth.
I’m uncomfortable at the way he’s staring and want to move away, but I don’t want to offend, remembering my mom’s warning to be polite.
He says, “Come to the river with me. I want to show you something.”
I follow him down to the trail as we push our way through shrubs and bushes, wet from the rain that has now stopped. As we pick our way over the slippery moss-covered rocks on the shore, our footsteps are drowned out by the roar of the river. Finally, he finds a spot around the bend, blocked on both sides by dead trees. I shiver in my sweater and jeans, my breath cloud puffs in the air. He comes close and puts his arms around me, burying my face in his coat. I stand still, my heart hammering loud in my chest, wondering why he’s touching me.
I pull away, peeking at him nervously as I look around. “Why are we down here?”
He spreads his arms wide and smiles. “Life, it’s in every leaf and every drop of water.” He tilts his face to the sky, inhales deeply. “Can’t you smell it?”
Confused again, and wanting to give the right answer, I tilt my own face up, take a breath, and say, “It smells good.”
He eases himself down on a flat rock, crossing his legs, and motions for me to sit in front of him. I hesitate.
He tugs at my hand. “Let’s meditate together. It will be fun.”
I sit, cross-legged, our knees brushing. I bow my head and close my eyes, waiting for him to lead the chanting.
He leans toward my ear, his breath, smelling of sweet marijuana, hot against my neck as I stare at the ground, frozen. He whispers, “Look at me.”
I raise my face toward his, confused and nervous. I’ve never meditated alone with Aaron, and I’m worried about making a mistake.
He says, “I had a dream last night about you.”
“Me?”
He nods. “You’re very pretty.”
I blush, embarrassed and uncomfortable that he’s telling me this.
His face clouds over. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“No, I like you.” I was even more embarrassed that he’d sensed my discomfort around him, wanted to assure him. “I’m just shy.”
He smiles, looks relieved. “You don’t have to be shy with me. We’re friends, right?”
I smile back, feeling more relaxed now. “Sure, we’re friends.”
“Okay, close your eyes and we’ll meditate. It’ll be cool, trust me.”
I close my eyes again, waiting for him to start chanting. He cups his hand around the back of my head, holding me in place. Then his mouth presses against my lips, his beard scratching. I struggle, panicked by the unfamiliar sensation of someone’s lips against my own. His tongue slides into my mouth, the taste of him making me gag. Scared now, I push him hard in th
e chest. He pulls his face away, his eyes surprised and angry, his lips tight.
“I thought you said you liked me?”
“I do. I just … I thought we were meditating.”
His face softens. “We are. This is a special meditation. It’s just for us, so you can’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”
I feel another surge of fear. This isn’t right. I start to get up.
He grabs my hand, his face now furious. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I don’t want to do this.”
“You don’t have a choice. Not if you want your mother to keep getting better. You remember how she used to be, don’t you?”
I catch my breath. I remembered too well, the dark moods, the threats of suicide. Aaron must’ve seen the terror in my eyes, the moment he had me, because he says, “I can help her, Nadine. And you can help me.”
Then he unzips his pants.
* * *
Now, years later, my eyes closed, I described in detail everything he’d done—and everything he’d made me do. “He wanted me to perform oral sex. But I didn’t know how, so he made me open my mouth, then he put it in. And he also touched me, mostly just my breasts. He kept asking if I liked it—I remember that.” I also remembered how terrified I’d been, shaking and crying, not understanding what was happening. “After he was done, he said that if I told anyone, my mom would get sick again. He said…” I opened my eyes. “He said that she’d kill herself.”
I began to cry, reliving all the fear I’d felt in that moment, believing that my mother’s life was in my hands, that if I made one mistake, she’d die. She’d finally crumble under the weight of all her sadness and dark thoughts. The same feeling I’d had most of our childhood, be good, take care of our mother. But who had been taking care of me? Robbie, yes, but he’d only been a boy himself.
And I’d been just a little girl, on her knees in front of this man, scared and helpless, knowing that the things he was doing were wrong, a horrible sick feeling of shame in my stomach, that I was dirty now, that something was wrong with me.