Always Watching

I saw her, the wistful smile. You’re a good doctor. Was she trying to make sure I didn’t blame myself for what she was about to do? I also thought about Kevin, how she had thanked him that day. Even her loving words to Daniel could now be interpreted as a good-bye.
    Daniel’s voice turned hard and accusing. “You said she was safe—you promised that nothing would happen to her.”
    Anger and blame were the next steps. I had expected it, but I still felt the blow, ached with my own guilt and regrets.
    “I realize this has been an incredible shock, and you’re upset—”
    “Upset? My wife just died —when you were supposed to be watching her.”
    I chose my words carefully, struggling with my need to comfort him and my need to protect the hospital. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. Someone will be in touch with you soon. They’ll help you with the next part of the process.”
    I was glad I didn’t have to go through it step by step with him, didn’t want to brush past her death and move on to the particulars: picking up her personal belongings, her remains. My eyes stung when I thought of everything he was going to have to face in the coming days. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?”
    This time there was no anger in his voice. He just sounded hollow and defeated as he said, “Heather was all I had.” Then he hung up.

 
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    The next few days were a blur, but I needed to be on the ward, with the support of the team, all of us still reeling from the tragedy. We had a couple of group counseling sessions, most of the nurses breaking down at one point. A few times I came close as well. The young woman whose room was next to Heather’s was having a particularly bad time. Jodi suffered from anorexia and was extremely underweight, below ninety pounds. She had to have meal support, where a nurse sat and ate lunch with her. Heather had befriended Jodi and also sat with her at meals. Now Jodi was refusing to eat again.
    The staff who saw the scene in the utility room were also struggling. One nurse mentioned having nightmares about all the blood from when Heather had cut her wrists, and I flashed to an image of Heather’s writing on the wall: He’s watching. The moment I first saw the words was still burned in my own mind—the streaks of red, the violent shock to the eyes. I’d been so upset by Heather’s death I hadn’t had a chance to think about the meaning of them. Now a quick snapshot of a memory came rolling out of the dark: Aaron at one of the late-night teaching sessions, the smell of a campfire, his voice raised in a fervent warning: The Light sees everything we do. He’s always watching over us. What had he been talking about? I calmed my mind, tuned out the voices around me, concentrated on that moment. Then, with a stab of fear, a sharper memory came into focus.
    I’m hiding under a cabin watching a ceremony that’s just for adults, a cat clutched in my arms. Joseph’s face is angry in the glow of the fire as he kicks a man on the ground, his voice punctuating each blow. “Aaron warned you. The Light’s always watching—he knows what you did.” The man moans and curls into a fetal position as Aaron pulls Joseph away. Members mill about, some faces concerned, others excited—sharks smelling blood in the water.
    I yanked myself out of the memory, shaking off the cold fear that had crawled up the back of my neck. That was then, this is now. You’re not a child anymore, you’re safe. I turned my mind back on the current problem. Why had Heather written those words? I couldn’t remember her saying anything like that in our sessions. So why had she taken the time to leave them as a final message? Was it related to the commune? Maybe guilt over having violated some of their rules or teachings? Or had Heather been trying to tell us something else? For a brief moment I considered if anyone from the commune could’ve gotten into the ward. No, the security was too tight. It was most likely my original thought: She couldn’t fight her guilt about the miscarriage any longer, and she probably viewed her parents’ death as her fault somehow. If Aaron still taught his members that the Light was watching, her grief-stricken mind might have felt she was being judged.
    I tuned back in to the meeting. They were talking about procedures, what we could’ve done better. I thought about the unlocked door, and regret spread through