Always Watching

only give people tools. They had to do the work themselves. But it was a lot harder to remain a compassionate observer when it came to my own family.
    That also made me remember Garret, how frustrated he’d been as a child, angry at his parents’ separation, how hard I tried to connect with him. When Paul and I first started living together, Garret often raged against me, even hitting at one point—saying that he hated me. One of the many reasons it had meant so much when he finally accepted me into his life. I thought again about my plan to give him some tools. When he answered the phone, I’d forgotten how much he sounded like Paul, and grief, sharp and poignant, stopped my voice in my throat.
    “Hello?” Garret repeated.
    I pulled myself together. “Garret, hi, it’s Nadine.”
    “How crazy is this. I’d just been thinking this week that we needed to get together soon.” He chuckled and the warm sound, lighter than Paul’s deep laugh, relaxed me and helped separate them. It had been even harder after Paul first passed away—they looked so much alike, both blond and fair. Though, Garret had his mother’s delicate artist’s hands. Paul’s had been large, yet gentle when he held a scalpel, or a small kitten. Garret had wanted so much to be a vet like his father, but he’d been nervous around animals, having been badly bitten once. Instead he’d picked up a camera and had become very good with it.
    I told him that I had his father’s tools and asked if he would like them.
    “That would be great. I just bought a house, and I’m building a studio.”
    “So you did buy a house. Good for you. And your photography business is doing well?”
    “Yeah, it’s going great. Phone’s been ringing off the hook.”
    “Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m thrilled for you—you have such an eye.”
    “Thanks! You should come by and check out my studio.”
    “I’d love to.”
    “How’s Lisa? Have you heard anything?”
    I paused, wondering how best to answer that. It was the same feeling I got whenever anyone asked about my daughter. Sorrow, but also shame at my own failings.
    Realizing that Garret was still waiting for me to answer, I said, “She’s still living on the streets, somewhere downtown Victoria.”
    “Do you think she’s also still doing drugs?”
    Part of me wanted to rush to defend my daughter, against the concern in his voice, but also the hint of judgment—and if I was honest, what felt like judgment against me as a mother. How could you let this happen? You’re a doctor, and you couldn’t help your own daughter?
    I said, “I don’t think she’s using at the moment, but I’m not sure.”
    Garret said, “That’s too bad—I know it’s really tough on you. I think about her a lot too. But you can’t blame yourself. She’s made her own choices.”
    I’d never stop blaming myself, but it was still nice to hear that from him. Then I realized that Garret was almost the only family I had left now, certainly the last link to Paul. We talked for a while longer, making a plan for him to come by one evening that week. I hung up the phone, glad I’d called.
    For the rest of the week, I focused on my work, though I hadn’t stopped searching for Lisa every night. I’d caught a glimpse of a tall woman entering an alley, with dark hair and a similar way of moving, and had parked in a hurry. I’d then run down the alley, only to find a prostitute in the middle of shooting up. She’d yelled obscenities at me as I quickly apologized and fled the scene. One night, I got a call from a private number, and when I picked up there was just a dial tone. Was it Lisa? I could only hope.
    *   *   *
    I bumped into Kevin at the hospital a couple of times, and he was always friendly, asking how I was doing. We had coffee together again one afternoon when we both had a break. I shared my passion for gardening, and he said, “I grow more weeds than vegetables.” I promised to show him some of my bonsai trees, and he promised to teach me to play guitar. I was amused to learn that he was in a band with some of the other doctors, who called themselves “On a Good Note.” I teased him about groupies.
    “Hey, we’re hot stuff.” He laughed. “We even put on a show at Christmas and in the summer. The patients love us—and not just when they’re medicated.” I laughed along with him, and it felt good to be taken out of my thoughts for a little while, to remember the good things in