Always Watching

heard the comforting words coming out of my mouth. But all the while my head was filled with a dull roar, the sound of fate and life colliding. Because what I couldn’t tell them was that I knew Aaron Quinn.
    I knew exactly who he was.

 
    CHAPTER TWO
    When I was twenty-five, I’d decided to go back to school and was attending the University of Victoria for a degree in science. I’d learned ways to deal with tight hallways and stairwells, mostly by avoiding them, but during final exams, all the outside lots were full and I’d been forced to park underground. I’d been overwhelmed by panic in the dark space and hadn’t been able to step into the elevator. I had to walk the long way around, while hyperventilating in big gasps of air, my hair soaked with sweat, earning me stares from every student I passed. I’d missed the beginning of my exam and the door was closed, so I failed the course. It had been a humiliating experience, and I began therapy soon after.
    While discussing my childhood with the therapist, I shared that my mother had run away with my brother and me to a commune when I was thirteen. The commune, led by a man named Aaron Quinn, had been built beside the Koksilah River on the outskirts of Shawnigan Lake, which is a small community about thirty minutes north of Victoria—on the southern tip of Vancouver Island. We lived there for eight months until my father came to get us.
    My therapist had found this period in my life fascinating and wanted to explore it further. Especially because I’d been unable to pinpoint when my claustrophobia had developed, but I had more distinct memories of it interfering with my life after we’d moved back home. I slept with a night-light and my door open—I couldn’t even clean the barn without hyperventilating, and Robbie, my brother, had to take over the chore for me.
    Believing that my claustrophobia was linked to suppressed trauma, from something that had happened while at the commune, my therapist had suggested we try hypnosis as a way to unlock my memories. Recovered Memory Therapy was a popular treatment at the time, and he felt it was the best way to recover any lost memories. I’d been hesitant at first—I had enough painful memories already.
    My family life hadn’t been easy growing up. My father, a strict German, was hard to please but easy to anger. His temper often turned violent, and we spent much of our childhood hiding while he was on a drunken rampage, smashing his huge fists into the windows or knocking our mother around. If we intervened, she’d just scream that we were making it worse. He worked on a fishing boat, and my mother, who was unbalanced when he was around, became downright dangerous when he was away. She was either on top of the world, buying us gifts we couldn’t afford and taking us on trips all over the island, or shut in her room for days, the curtains pulled down and the door locked. She’d often threaten to kill herself, the pills in her hands as we pleaded with her until she finally handed them over. Other times she’d take off in the truck, drunk or high on medication, not returning until the morning. Now I would diagnose her as manic-depressive, but back then all we knew was that my mother’s moods were a slippery slope and we never knew where she would land.
    The only person I could depend on was Robbie, my older brother by three years, whom I followed everywhere. He was my first best friend, my only friend growing up on a ranch where all our school friends lived miles away. Though we were very different, me with my love of books and school, he with mechanics and carpentry, we’d spend hours in the woods, building forts and playing army. Robbie wanted to join the army as soon as he turned eighteen, but I secretly hoped he’d change his mind. I didn’t know how I would survive without him.
    One February, just before I turned thirteen, my father was away on the boats, and we were at the local corner store with my mom. Robbie was waiting in the truck. Mom was in one of her down phases, which meant she’d barely eaten for days—neither had we—and she was listlessly picking up items: Kraft Dinner, tomato soup, bread, peanut butter, wieners, hot dog buns, cereal. Her hair, normally a glossy, shiny black, was dull and limp. Mom’s hair started going gray in her thirties, though she never lived long enough for it to turn completely silver. When I also started going gray young, I dyed my hair for years, wondering