Always Watching

  “My buddy bought one of your horses.” I remembered now. When we came back from the commune, Mom sold both of our horses. She’d eventually gotten more, but it was like she couldn’t stand to look at anything that reminded her of the commune, including me. Only Robbie seemed able to crack her shell.

  Steve’s face was grave as he smoothed his mustache. “I was one of the first officers at the scene of her accident.”

  My head filled with imagined horrors. Police lights shining. Steve, younger, peering into the mangled metal. Mom slumped over the steering wheel, one bloody hand hanging down. I still remember the police coming to the door, my father’s big shoulders shaking as he dropped to his knees, Robbie and I running toward him, sensing something terrible had just happened, that life would never be the same. I swallowed hard, tried to say something to Steve: couldn’t.

  Steve changed the subject. “Levi’s still in Shawnigan.”

  Glad for the distraction, I grabbed at it. “I thought he’d left with the commune.”

  “He came back. Runs a water-ski school on the lake now, rents boats, Jet Skis, paddleboats, things like that. He might be willing to talk to you. He’s always been friendly.”

  Levi had always been good-natured and fun-loving, but my memories of him were entangled with Robbie, the two of them talking and laughing with girls, or working together in the field. I’d blamed Robbie’s moodiness when we’d come back home on missing his friend, but now I remembered that in the days before we’d left, just after Finn had died, they’d barely been speaking. I tried to focus in on that time, searching for an explanation, a fight or disagreement, but nothing came to mind. I wondered if Robbie knew that Levi was back in town. He must, but why hadn’t he mentioned him when I asked about former members?

  Steve added, “There’s someone else you could talk to, but she might be a tougher nut to crack.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Mary. She was also one of the commune members, but she stayed behind after they moved down to Victoria. She has a homestead out toward the river, on the left side at the junction. Hang on. I’ll draw a map.”

  He got up and grabbed some paper from a kitchen drawer, then roughed out a diagram. While he was busy, I tried to think of which member was named Mary but couldn’t conjure a face. I was surprised we’d never run into her as kids, and that Mom and Robbie had never mentioned her.

  Steve passed me the map.

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll head out there now.”

  For some reason I didn’t feel ready to see Levi yet, my mind instantly balking at the idea. Instead my psyche latched on to this new information: There was another woman who’d left the commune. Other than my own family, Willow, and Heather and Daniel, I didn’t know any former members.

  “Good luck—she’s a cagey one. I had to talk to her a few years back about some robberies out that way, and she kept one eye on the nearest exit. I’m sure she’s got some stories, but she might not be willing to share them.”

  His assessment didn’t surprise me. If she’d decided to stay behind, she might have a very good reason. I was definitely interested in talking to her.

  Steve and I exchanged numbers, and he walked me out to my car. I climbed in and started it up. He tapped on the top to remind me to put my seat belt on. When I rolled down the window to thank him again, he leaned over and said, “Drive safe. And hang in there. Let me make some calls and see what I find out.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate your help tracking down the sisters.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  I was glad that Steve had validated some of my concerns, but I was upset to learn of the other young girls who might have been abused. How many more could there be? I remembered a recent case of sexual abuse that had gained a lot of media attention because the abuser had been a powerful official at a university. Once one victim had finally come forward, another dozen had followed suit. I thought about all the girls who’d been at the commune the same time as I had been. I tried to think of their names but couldn’t recall many. Some were older, around sixteen or seventeen, most of them runaways. There were also younger ones there with their families, some maybe around eleven or twelve, and some even younger still.

  Then another snapshot image came back. A thin girl, with long legs and limbs. Her parents had called her Dandelion because of her fair hair and skinny body. We’d called her Danny for short, and she was only eleven, but bold and talkative. I vaguely remembered arguing with her one day and struggled to focus on the memory. It seemed like it might’ve been later in the summer—and I got the feeling I was sad, so it might’ve been after Willow left. I concentrated harder on the memory. It was something about Aaron; he’d asked Danny to help him pick berries, and I hadn’t wanted her to go. Was I scared for her? I had another brief image, a flash of her calling me jealous or stupid, or something like that, then running off to join him. More hazy images followed: Danny sitting by Aaron at the table, her face smug. I remembered being confused and upset about something, but there was also a feeling of relief.

  Now, looking back, I felt sick, wondering what she had endured to earn that privilege. Was that why the memories of the abuse stopped? Aaron had left me alone because he found a new target? It was possible, but I still had a feeling that I was missing a piece of the puzzle, something that would explain my claustrophobia. Something else that had happened that summer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Five minutes later, I found Mary’s place. The railings around her property were old and peeling, bleached by the sun to a faded gray. A rusted metal saw blade was bolted to the top of her front gate, the bottom lined by tire rims. The gate was open, and I pulled in her driveway slowly as two dogs, one a black Lab, the other a sheepdog, came running from behind the house, barking. The underside of the sheepdog’s fur was wet and sandy. As I parked my car, I noticed the dense forest surrounding the house, and in the distance the familiar hum of the river. I imagined the dog following the trail of a deer, or river otter, barking at crayfish.

  As I climbed out of my car, a woman with snow-white hair, long and braided to hang over the front of her shoulder, came out and stood on the porch of the home. Smoke billowing from the chimney scented the air. She was wearing a man’s denim jacket, a few sizes too large, with a fur collar pulled tight around her throat. Her skin was pale but looked weathered and tough, her face lined. Her hands were in her pockets as she watched me walk toward her. The dogs circled and growled, causing me to pause a few times, but she never called them off. I pushed my way through them, and they fell back, the sheepdog leaving a streak of sand and fur on my legs. As I came closer, I studied the woman’s face, trying to place her. She had to be in her early sixties. I couldn’t recall her, but she’d been pretty, and was still very attractive. Her features strong, her cheekbones high, and her eyes a bright and sparkling green.

  Finally, she spoke. “Do I know you?”

  It wasn’t a casual question. It was a demand. Did she recognize me?

  “I’m not sure. That’s what I’m here to find out.” I smiled pleasantly. She didn’t return the gesture. “I lived out at the commune for a while.…”

  Her body stiffened. The hand that had been reaching for one of the dogs was stuffed back into her pocket, leaving me wondering if it was a nervous reaction. When she caught my gaze, she turned away and abruptly said, “I have to collect the eggs,” then walked toward a little coop at the back of the house.

  She hadn’t told me to go away, so I started to follow, then on the left I noticed a barn with a corral, where two horses munched on hay, their heavy bodies shifting back and forth, the plumes of their breath in the air. I caught the smell of horse and was drawn toward it, wanted to run my hands through their thick manes, breathe in the musky warmth at their necks. But then I picked up another odor from the barn, something familiar, old manure and musty feed, damp earth. I felt ill with it but didn’t understand why. Still wondering at my body’s reaction, I hurri
ed after Mary. “You used to live at the commune too?”

  She glanced at me again, without breaking stride, then gazed up at the sky and said, “He’s always watching.” I was thrown by her words, by the eerie tone, then the way she was holding her head as she looked upward struck me as familiar. I stopped dead in my tracks. My brain superimposed my memories over her face—and I recognized her.

  “Cedar, your name was Cedar.” She’d been a devoted member, always singing at the campfire and meditating with Aaron. Something else clung to the corners of my memories, twisting in my guts, my heart thudding a warning.

  Bad, something bad.

  She stopped and pivoted, took a step toward me. I took a step back, my heel catching on a rock, causing me to stumble.

  Her eyes were filled with anger. “I used to be Cedar. My name’s Mary.”

  She spun around again and continued on to the chicken coop, where she picked up a bucket outside the door. I hesitated, and then followed, gagging at the thick odor of chicken manure and dander as she pulled eggs out from underneath squawking hens, her back to me.

  Over the shrill squawking, she said, “I was young and stupid. We really thought we were changing the world.” She laughed. “We weren’t changing anything. Just getting high and screwing our asses off.” She laughed again, but in a raucous, fun way, and I began to relax slightly. Something about the woman’s rawness appealed to me. Felt real and authentic. What she might say could hurt, but she’d tell it like it was. I was proved right a moment later, when she turned and said, “Your mother was beautiful—you’ve got her looks.”

  I kept my face composed. “You remember my mother?”

  “Kate. Sweet woman, but a little…” She made a motion by her head. I was caught between wanting to defend my mother and knowing it was true. I decided not to say anything, but Mary must have seen something in my eyes because she said, “Don’t get me wrong, I liked the woman. But it had to be hard growing up with your mother’s head in the clouds all the time.” She assessed me again, looking hard in my eyes like she was trying to see into my life, what I’d become. She said, “Commune wasn’t a good place for kids.”

  I took the opening. “That’s what I was hoping to speak with you about. Do you know much about Aaron, or Joseph, since they left?” I said the last part cautiously, in case she was still in touch with anyone.

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. I’ve put those days behind me.”

  “So you don’t know about the center in Victoria?”

  Another quick shake.

  I told her everything I knew about the commune while she continued collecting eggs, then I said, “I’m not sure where Joseph is these days, or if he’s even alive, but I think Aaron’s been sexually abusing young girls.”

  She turned, frowned. “Why do you think that?”

  “There have been a couple of cases that were dropped, but I have good reason to believe they’re true.” She didn’t ask anything further, just went back to her task, so I added, “Do you remember Aaron being inappropriate with any girls?”

  She looked at me again, her hand still under a hen, who was pecking at the skin on top. I cringed, thinking of the pain, but Mary didn’t even flinch.

  “Don’t recall anything like that,” she said. “But I was only twenty at the time. Running away from my rich parents because I thought I had it so hard.” Another laugh, which stopped abruptly as a bitter expression passed over her face, like she’d just opened a painful memory. Her tone changed, dropped low. “If you’re going around talking to people about them, you better be careful.”

  “What are you afraid might happen?”

  “People like that, they don’t like it when you don’t see things their way.”

  So she also knew there was another side to Aaron. I wondered what had happened to her at the commune.

  “Do you think they’d come after someone who spoke about them?”

  Mary didn’t say anything for a second, then just nodded.

  I didn’t know if she was afraid of a lawsuit, or that they might choose some sort of violent means of silencing potential witnesses, but I certainly didn’t want her to be scared to speak with me.

  “I can understand that you might be concerned, but I don’t believe he would risk drawing more attention to himself—not now.” I explained about my own abuse and that I’d made a report.

  She said, “Sorry to hear that he messed around with you, but it doesn’t surprise me. Lots of sex and drugs at the commune. People telling themselves that what they’re doing is okay as long as it’s all in the name of love and peace.”

  “Yes, and I don’t think he’s ever stopped, just moved on from victim to victim. We may never know how many lives he’s ruined over the years.” I added, “There was a girl, Willow. I’m trying to find out what happened to her.”

  “Willow? I thought she left?” Mary’s expression was puzzled.

  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 f
inger 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?”