Always Watching

put behind a grade. I never really connected with my friends again. I’d changed. We’d all changed. Robbie had come back sullen and distant, getting in fights at school and drinking. Worse, he’d barely speak to me. Even our animals were different. The cats, half-feral now, moved out to the barn and wouldn’t let anyone near them. Jake would run off, coming back days later stinking of carrion, his eyes wild and his fur matted.
    Nothing was the same again.
    *   *   *
    The next couple of times I saw Heather she was more communicative, and Michelle told me she was starting to come out on the floor during the day, interacting with other patients, and had even joined a group session that Kevin was teaching on relaxation. Daniel was still visiting every day after work. Because Heather was on the step-down floor, and there didn’t seem to be any risk of her running away, she was allowed to wear street clothes. She usually dressed in jeans and sweaters, the sleeves pulled down over her wrists, and they were expensive brands. I wondered how she’d fare if her parents ever cut her off financially.
    Now that Heather was taking better care of herself—her hair always tidy and pulled back into a ponytail—she looked like a fresh-faced college student. Though she was often apologetic and insecure, she also had a really sweet side to her, asking how I was, expressing concern over another patient, and I could see why Daniel was drawn to her. I had come to like her myself, finding something about her sensitive, empathetic nature endearing.
    *   *   *
    I ran into Kevin one day in the hall outside his office.
    He said, “So how’s it going with Heather?”
    “She’s coming along. I’m glad I stayed with her.” I was thrilled that she was doing better. Too often we see people who are chronically suicidal, hell-bent on destroying themselves no matter what. It was nice to treat someone like Heather, who was actually listening and willing to participate in her care plan.
    “Good. I’m happy it worked out.”
    I didn’t tell him that it was having the opposite effect on me. My patient was getting better, but I was sinking. Now that Heather had opened the gates to my memories, I needed the light on at night again, or I’d toss and turn for hours, listening to every sound. At the hospital, I’d stopped being able to use the elevator and had to take the stairs. Even driving through a tunnel would leave me nauseous and shaking. After work, I couldn’t stand the idea of going home to be alone with my thoughts, the walls pressing in on me, so I drove the streets, looking for Lisa.
    When I’d first moved back to the city, I’d gone to the apartment building where one of Lisa’s friends had told me she was living. But the landlord, a nasty piece of work, had evicted her. A young man told me she was staying with some people downtown, but that turned out to be a dead end. She had crashed on their couch for a while, then disappeared. When I asked if she was still doing drugs—meth used to be her poison of choice—they told me that she was trying to get clean and had mostly succeeded. But I knew that without following a program, her chances of success were slim, something we’d battled about many times before.
    While her father was sick—Paul was diagnosed during my last year of residency—Lisa, fourteen at the time, had also started slipping away from me, barely speaking, dressing in baggy clothes, bleaching her hair, ringing her eyes in black, and hanging out with kids I didn’t trust. Then, after Paul died, those dark days when part of me died with him, she grew even quieter, refusing to talk, staying out all night, sleeping all day, skipping class. Even her half brother, Garret, then twenty-one, couldn’t pull her out of her shell. He’d only been five when I started dating Paul, and not too happy about it, though he’d come around eventually. When Paul was sick, Garret spent a lot of time with Lisa, taking her out for hamburgers, making sure she was occupied while I was at the hospital. When I’d get home she’d pick fights over everything. My heart ached for her, knowing how desperate she was for her father. But I was also angry at her for battling me when I was barely getting through the days, for doing drugs and destroying herself when I was doing everything I could to keep my family together.
    I’d caught on quick: the mood swings, the bad skin, the agitation and paranoia. I hated the demon that