Always Watching

me.”
    “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
    I had walked all the way to the elevator and was starting up to the first floor before I remembered my next appointment was on the ground level.

 
    CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
    After work, I went home to grab a quick bite to eat, forcing myself through the motions, my stomach muscles tight with the idea of talking to another woman who shared my experience. Tammy lived in Fernwood, an older neighborhood near downtown, and not very far from my place. When I knocked on the back door of her lemon-colored Victorian house, I noticed that most of the paint was peeling, and they were in the process of fixing up the back deck. An older car sat in the driveway with two flat tires. Tammy opened the door, a smiling blond baby boy on her hip. She was a sweet-looking woman: round-faced, no makeup, brown hair pulled back into a scattered ponytail, and a fine dusting of freckles that gave her a youthful look. But she was probably in her mid-thirties, judging by the lines at the corners of her eyes.
    She said, “Come in. House is a mess, though.”
    “That’s perfectly fine.”
    I walked into the kitchen, carefully taking my shoes off, and said, “Your home’s gorgeous.”
    She turned around from the coffeepot, her face pinking with pleasure. “Thanks. It’s going to take a long time to get it where we want it, but you know.” She shrugged. “Babies take priority.”
    “It looks like you’ve done a lot of work already. I love the treatment on the cupboards.”
    “Thanks.” She smiled as she glanced at them. “I did that myself.”
    She’d done a nice job. I imagined her carefully painting each cabinet, screwing on the glass doorknobs, making a home for her family. I felt a twinge, remembering that when I was pregnant with Lisa and close to my due date my nesting instinct had been so strong, I’d made Paul repaint most of the house, something he did with a smile, even while cursing my hormones.
    Tammy put her baby in a playpen in the corner, poured us each a coffee, and sat across from me. She studied my face, hers intent, with her body leaning forward—a good sign. She was open to talking.
    She said, “So you lived at the commune too?”
    I nodded. “Yes, back in the late sixties, when they were in Shawnigan Lake. I was hoping you could tell me about your experience. You have a sister?”
    She gnawed at her lips and glanced at the door. I followed her gaze. “Does your sister live with you?” Maybe she was expecting her home.
    “No. She went back to the commune.”
    I stared at her in surprise. I hadn’t anticipated that.
    She said, “I didn’t tell the cop because I didn’t want him to try to contact her in there and get her upset at me. She doesn’t call anymore because she knows I want her to leave.”
    “Why do you want her to leave?”
    Now she sat back in her chair a little, putting some distance between us. Hands tight around the mug as she eyed me, suspicious.
    I said, “Is it Aaron you’re concerned about?”
    She said, “He’s important, like in the community and stuff, not just at the center. People really like him.”
    Testing me, seeing how I feel about Aaron.
    “Some people do, yes, but I’m not one of them.”
    Again she gnawed on her lip, looked around, and hunched her shoulders like she was trying to pull in on herself. “He’s not what people think.”
    “No, he’s not. You’re right.” I was relieved to talk to someone else who saw Aaron for what he truly was—a fraud. I took a breath, let it out slowly. I hadn’t realized how alone I’d felt in my thoughts, and in my fears.
    “We were only there because of our parents—that’s why Nicole went back. They wouldn’t leave, and she missed them.” Before I could inquire further, she said, “As long as I’m out here, they won’t have anything to do with me.” She looked at her child, playing in the crib. “They’ve never met Dillon.”
    “I imagine that’s been very hard for you.”
    She sighed and turned back to me. “My husband, he knows about my time in there. But he doesn’t like to talk about it. He and Dillon are my family now.” I wondered at that, if those were his words or hers, wondered what kind of husband wouldn’t let his wife talk about something that was so obviously important.
    “When did your family join the commune?”
    “Nicole was ten, and I was twelve. Our younger brother died of leukemia, and our parents joined a support group. There was