He squinted back at his group of friends, who were starting down the road. “Last time I saw her was a couple of nights ago—she showed up down the alley, said she was going to crash at the Monkey House.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s down on Caledonia. The big white house. Careful how you go in there, though. You don’t want them to think you’re a social worker or a cop.”
“Thanks. Why’s it called the Monkey House?”
“Because everyone in there has a monkey on their back. Good luck, lady.” He started to walk away.
If Lisa was there, did that mean she was using drugs again? I called out, “A couple of nights ago, she overdosed. Did you know that?”
He turned around. “Last I heard she was clean.” He shrugged. Just another day on the streets. Then he dropped his board and skated off to join his friends. So he thought she was clean too. Was Lisa telling the truth?
I drove down to the house on Caledonia and sat outside, wondering if I should’ve asked Kevin to join me. The problem was if Lisa saw him, she’d know something was up and would be gone in a heartbeat. I walked up to the house, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. I was hit immediately with the scent of unwashed bodies, chemicals burning, and cigarette smoke. I made my way down a dark hallway, trying not to panic in the enclosed space. I faltered in one section, where someone had piled garbage outside a door, making the hallway a tight squeeze. Don’t think about it, just focus on finding Lisa. I counted my breaths until my heart rate settled, then pushed on. I noticed that most of the rooms had only a bare mattress, where people were sleeping, or sitting up with glazed eyes. Garbage covered the wood floors. One woman glared at me, her face and arms covered with open, weeping sores. I quickly glanced away. In the next room a young First Nations woman, decorated in homemade tattoos, looked up and said, “Who you looking for, sister?”
“My daughter, Lisa Lavoie.”
She narrowed her eyes, like she was thinking. “There’s a Lisa at the end of the hall. She’s cute.” She grinned.
I hurried the rest of the way, nearly gagging on all the odors. The room at the end had a door. I debated whether I should knock, and then just pushed it open. Lisa sat huddled on an old mattress with no sheets, the cover stained. Old wallpaper hung down in big strips, and a cold wind pushed through the cracked window, the sill dark with rot and mold. Empty pizza boxes and take-out containers littered the room. She was wearing the clothes she’d left my house in: faded black jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the hood pulled over her head. With her coat wrapped around her for a blanket, she leaned against the wall, with her eyes closed and her packsack in her lap. Her face was so pale that I caught my breath, until she muttered something and shifted her body.
I said, “Lisa?”
She started awake, staring at me. Her pupils were dilated, and she grabbed at her packsack and pulled it close, her jaw working and her gaze zipping around the room. She was high as a kite. I fought the urge to drag her out by the scruff of her neck and lock her in a room at home. Underneath my anger, I could taste my fear for her, my sorrow and despair. How could she do this to herself?
She said, “What’re you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the brochure you left at my house—the one for The River of Life. How did you get it?”
She avoided my gaze, just rubbed her arms, her body, jerky movements, scratching at her legs.
“These people aren’t what they seem. You don’t know how they can—”
“You’re unbelievable,” she snapped. “You’re always trying to get me into a treatment center—now I’m trying to get help, and you’re still not happy.”
She was right. I’d been pushing Lisa for years to get help for her addiction, but I’d never expected that she’d seek it from the center. I had to be careful here, had to make my point subtly. “Lisa, I knew the leader when I was a child. They start off saying they want to help you, but in the end they hurt people. Especially girls. Their leader—”
“You want me off drugs, don’t you? They helped some other kids I know from the street. Why can’t you ever let me do things my way?” Her voice broke. She stared down at her knees, her face flushed and angry. She’d always hated crying in front of anyone. When she was little, I was the only one allowed to hold her when she was sobbing. She’d push everyone else away.
I knelt on the floor in front of her. “Lisa, I want to support your decisions. But I also want you to know everything about these people first.”
“Now you want to protect me. Where were you before?”
“I’ve always been here—”
She started laughing, a high-pitched sound. “You were so busy learning how to help all those other people, you didn’t notice—you didn’t protect me.”
My blood whooshed in my ears, everything slowing down, her words coming at me from a distance. My psyche was already bracing itself, sensing I was about to hear something that was going to hurt.
“Protect you from what?”
“Someone screwed around with me, Mom. God, are you really that blind?”
I sat back hard on my heels. My mind trying to wrap around what she had just said. Did she mean someone molested her? I met her eyes, her belligerent glare daring me to deny it, and saw the shame and hurt underneath her angry words. It was true. I tried to speak, to say something, but my pulse was beating hard and fast, my thoughts crashing together. Finally, I grabbed at one, my breath coming out in a rush as I said, “When? When did this happen?”
“Little late to pretend to care now. I’m too far gone in case you haven’t noticed.” She dropped her head back, her laugh bordering on hysteria.
My heart thrummed in my chest. Who’d hurt my baby? I was almost in tears, near to panicking, but I grasped at some control. “How did … Was it one of your teachers?” Her expression was blank, resigned. She’d already decided I was going to fail her. I thought back to all the times she’d stayed late at school, the weekend camps with friends and their fathers. Then I got it.
“Did a counselor hurt you at the treatment center?”
She shook her head but then stared down at her packsack, zipping and unzipping one of the pockets. As a child, whenever she was hiding something, she’d always played with her zippers. I was right. Everything fit.
She said, “Doesn’t matter now.”
“It does matter—of course it matters.”
She looked at me. “Get out, Mom. Just go home.”
“I’m not leaving you now—”
“You okay, Lisa?” A large man, with tattoos up and down his arms and long, dark hair in frenzied curls, stood at the door. His eyes had a wild look that signaled he was also high on something.
“My mom’s just going.”
I turned to look at Lisa and wondered who’d replaced my daughter, because I didn’t know the angry woman staring back at me with hatred.
She said, “I don’t want to see you again. Get the fuck out of here.”
I heard the hurt in my voice as I said, “Lisa—”
The man stepped toward me. “She doesn’t want you here, bitch. You better get out of here fast, or I’ll help you out.”
I stood up. “Don’t threaten me. I’m talking to my daughter.” He took another step toward me. I looked back at Lisa, wondering if she’d call him off. But her head was lolling back, her shoulders twitching. She was already gone.
* * *
When I got home, I sat on the couch with my coat still on, staring at my unlit fireplace. I was cold, but I couldn’t find the energy to get up and flip the switch. I’d let Lisa down in the worst possible way. I remembered her words: You didn’t notice—you didn’t protect me. She was right. How could I let this happen? How did I miss the signs? I was a doctor, her mother. I was sure that it was a counselor at the treatment center who’d abused her. She’d been young, maybe too young to be in a center. Had I been in such a rush to get her in a program that I didn’t stop to consider whether it was the
right one for Lisa? I was a fraud, all these years trying to help women, and I hadn’t seen the truth of my own daughter.
It sickened me when I remembered one young counselor at the treatment center, how familiar he’d seemed with Lisa. He’d told me to be strong when she called crying that time—not to enable her—and then she’d run away. She’d been trying to escape, and I’d stopped her. Why had she never said anything? Did she think I wouldn’t believe her? It hadn’t been that long after her father died. Maybe she didn’t want to upset me.
I wanted to go to the treatment center and rip the place apart trying to find who’d hurt my child. The idea of some man’s hands on her, of her feeling alone and scared, tore me to shreds. But without Lisa exposing her abuser, I couldn’t do much. I wondered about calling the police, but they couldn’t do anything either. I didn’t even have a name. Finally, I took a hot bath and made myself go to bed.
* * *
I was still awake hours later, listening to the wind as it roared in off the ocean, when I heard a crash in the backyard. I sat up, heart pounding, straining my ears to focus on the sound. I pulled on my housecoat, grabbed the bottle of mace I keep in my night table, and crept out into the body of the house. I padded into the kitchen, then peeked outside. I saw the problem right away. The wind had blown over the patio umbrella, and it was now rolling around, knocking into everything. I threw on some clothes and headed outside, braced against the storm. I’d wrestled the umbrella into the shed when the wind slammed the door behind me. The shed was black.
I tried to find the cord for the light while adrenaline pumped through my blood. I can’t breathe. My shin slammed against something hard and I backed up a few steps. I have to get out of here. I knocked into some planters, sending them down around me. In a blind panic, I launched myself in the direction of the door, my hands grasping the knob. Wind and rain hit my face as I sprinted back to my house.
After I’d closed the door, I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath, my heart still beating loud in my ears. Rain dripped down my face, mixing with tears. What had happened back there? My claustrophobia had been triggered, obviously, but there was something more to the panic, an intense terror, even stronger than the time I’d tried to get my bike out of the shed. I hadn’t been able to use any of my coping mechanisms. There must’ve been something about the shed.
Of all the memories that had come back since I’d met Heather, the reason for my claustrophobia had yet to be explained. I’d assumed it was related to the barn, but maybe it had been something else. I thought back but couldn’t remember there being a shed at the commune. I contemplated going out to the shed with a flashlight, making myself stand there until the fear abated. Exposure therapy was effective in treating numerous phobias. But when I opened the door, the yard was pitch-black, and all I could see were the eerie shapes of trees and plants moving wildly in the wind. I closed the door and locked it.
That night it rained hard. In the morning I surveyed my backyard, checking for damage from the storm, picking up fallen branches. That’s when I saw the footprint near the shed in some soft dirt. I stared down at it. Was it mine? It looked larger, but it was hard to tell, rain had blurred the edges. I crouched down, took a closer look. There almost seemed to be a faint tread. My shoes had a smooth sole.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
On my way to the hospital, I reminded myself of all the people who could have left the footprint, the meter readers, the lawn-care company I’d called for a quote. For all I knew, it was probably mine. I was reading too much into everything. Right now I had bigger things to worry about, like my daughter and my patients.
I talked with Jodi, the anorexic girl, and her parents, about her treatment. She had committed to another meal plan. I also spent some time with Francine, who seemed calmer, though she kept asking me where all her paintings had gone and called me Angela, asking if I remembered the time we went to Mexico. It’s better not to contradict dementia patients when they confuse you with someone else, so I just asked her to tell me about her favorite part of Mexico. She looked so happy, sharing her stories about snorkeling in the Caribbean Sea.
The distraction worked for a few hours, but when I broke for lunch, I sat in the cafeteria nursing a cup of tea and thought about Lisa. I still couldn’t believe I’d missed the signs that she’d been abused, and I wrestled again with the same questions. What kind of mother was I? What kind of doctor? She’d been having difficulties before I put her in the first treatment center, but it had gotten a lot worse after. I’d been in such a rush to cure her that I increased the problem. Now her behavior after treatment made more sense, her refusal to talk to me or Garret, her increased drug use. It broke my heart that she hadn’t confided in me, that all these years I’d been helping other people while my own daughter was suffering—
Stop. This wouldn’t help Lisa or me. I had to find a way to speak with her before she joined the commune. Should I just give her a few days? I was still thinking when Kevin appeared at my table with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Hi, I was wondering how you’ve been making out.”
I motioned for him to have a seat. “Not that great.”
“Did you find Lisa?”
“Yes, but I’m still very worried about her.” I told him what had happened, leaving out what she’d said about the sexual abuse. I wanted to respect her privacy, and I was also still working it out in my own mind.
“It must’ve been hard to see her like that.” His expression was kind.
“It was, especially hearing how serious she sounded about joining the commune.” I thought about the pain in her eyes when she admitted she was trying to get help, the desperation. I’d also seen that look in Heather’s eyes when she talked about how Aaron believed everyone could heal themselves, how weak he had made her feel. What lies would he tell my daughter about her addiction?
Kevin said, “Did you share your misgivings about their techniques? Or anything about your own experience with them when you were a child?”
“I tried, but she didn’t want to hear it.”
“Do you think she might be more receptive another time?” He lowered his voice, the tone soft.
I thought about what he said. Lisa had been very high, the wrong time to talk about anything. “Maybe I should go there again tonight. But it might be too late.…”
Kevin said, “If she does go to a retreat or joins the center, at least she’ll get clean. Then she might make different decisions with her life. It sounds like she’s starting to accept responsibility for her addiction.”
“I hope so.” I paused and smiled at him. “I’m sorry, you probably just wanted a relaxing lunch, and now you’ve ended up hearing all my problems.”
Kevin shook his head. “No, I’m glad to help. You want some help tonight?”
I considered his offer, but even if I was able to get Lisa out of the building, she’d take one look at Kevin and think I set her up. “Thanks, but I should go alone. She’ll respond better.” I rose to my feet. “I should get back to work.”
“Okay, shoot me an e-mail later so I know you’re not in a ditch somewhere.” His words were joking, but his face was serious.
“Sure.” I was surprised that I was pleased at the idea of someone worrying about me. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be accountable. “Thanks for the talk.”
“Anytime.”
I glanced back as I left the cafeteria. Kevin was staring down at his mug, looking lost in thought.
* * *
After work, I had a shower, then dressed in casual clothing, careful to remove my earrings and all jewelry, and made my way back to the Monkey House. I’d wanted to hit it earlier in the evening, before it got dark. I sat in my car, watching the comings and goings. Maybe it would’ve been a good idea to bring Kevin, but it was too late now. I grabbed my iPhone, holding it ready in my hand—and kept my other on the bottle of mace in my right pocket. Then, locking the car behind me, twice, I made my way into the house.
A few people stopped what they were doing and stared at me, clustered in little groups, their eyes vacant, reminding me of zombies in some horror film. When I got to the room where I had found Lisa before, it was empty. I stared at the bare mattress, fear shooting through my body. Maybe she’d just changed rooms. A woman’s voice close behind me said, “You looking for your daughter?”
I spun around. It was the First Nations woman from the day before.
She held out a hand. “Give me some money, and I’ll tell you where your girl’s at.”
I had left my purse at home, tucking only the bare essentials from my wallet into my jeans. I pulled out a twenty. She motioned for more. I shook my head. “It’s all I have.”
She snatched it out of my hands. “She left with those people from the center.”
My vision began to narrow as my heart whooshed in my ears, the scents of the building, unwashed bodies, drugs, and urine, thick in my throat. “Do you mean River of Life?”
“Don’t know what they’re called.” She shrugged, scratching lazily at her arm, her fingernails scraping against one of her sores. She stopped and studied it for a moment, picking at the edges. She looked back at me. “They started coming around, handing out their flyers and shit, trying to cure us.” She laughed. “They sure like your daughter—talked to her a few times.”
Description, just focus and get a description.
“What did they look like?”
Another lazy shrug, staring at my pocket like it might produce more money. I waited, she met my eyes. I stared her down. Finally: “Some old white dude with gray hair and some younger chick.”
My breath stopped in my throat. Did she mean Aaron? “Did you hear them use any names?”
“No—there’s something freaky about them. I tried to warn Lisa, but she wouldn’t listen, said they were going to help her.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me, the drug addict warning my daughter about what wasn’t good for her. I wondered if she’d offered her a hit at the same time.
“Thanks for the information.” I pulled one of my cards out of my pocket and held it out. “If you see her, or if those people come back, call me at this number, please. There’s a reward if the information helps find her.” She snatched the card, peered at it like she was trying to read the words, then tucked it quickly into her armpit, her eyes darting around as if someone might steal it from her.