Always Watching

gorgeous.”
    My mood lifted at her casually calling me “Mom” and liking my house. It was unrealistic to expect it might mean she’d be willing to stay longer, but still, I hoped. I grabbed her packsack out of the trunk. Whoever had called 911 had left it behind with Lisa. I wondered if it was the same person who gave her the drugs. Did they even consider staying with her before leaving her in the alley like a piece of garbage? I shook off the anger. All I could control now was this moment.
    As we passed by the box where the stray had been sleeping Lisa said, “Is this for Silky?”
    “No, she passed away in the summer—a few weeks after I was attacked.”
    Her mouth pulled tight, and I wondered if she was upset I hadn’t told her about the cat—she used to sleep with her when she lived at home.
    I said, “I would’ve told you, but…”
    “S’okay.” But I had a feeling it wasn’t okay at all.
    Inside, I showed her the guest room. She stood in the middle and surveyed the room, the white duvet and pillows, the bamboo bed frame, dropping her packsack onto the floor and tossing her coat on the side chair. “It’s nice.”
    Again, I was inordinately pleased. “I’m so glad you like it.”
    She walked over to the bed, spotting the stuffed white dog I’d bought for her. Her back was to me as she picked it up.
    I said, “I saw it and thought of you.… It was for your birthday.” On that weekend, I’d lit a candle, blew it out, and made a wish for my daughter.
    “I’m going to take a nap, okay, Mom?”
    Her voice was thick, like she might be crying.
    “Are you okay? Do you want some—”
    “I’m fine.”
    It was a clear dismissal. I slowly closed the door behind me. When I peeked in later she was sound asleep, but there was rapid movement behind her eyelids, making me wonder what demons chased her dreams. I’d meant to read on the couch while waiting for her to wake, but I also fell asleep. I woke hours later with her standing over me. I sat up with a start. “Are you okay?”
    The house was dim, but she’d turned on a couple of lights. Outside it was almost dark, so it was probably early evening. Wind coming in from the ocean pushed the bamboo against my windows as rain tinged against the glass panes.
    Lisa said, “You can stop asking me that,” and sat in the chair across from me, pulling the wool throw off the back and wrapping it around her body. I noticed she’d made herself toast. There was also a plate on the coffee table in front of me, with a steaming cup of tea, and she’d turned on the fireplace. I was pleased at the cozy domestic scene, the scent of burned bread in the air, that she remembered I like honey on my toast. I took a sip of tea, eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Her hair was a tangled mess, the crease of a pillow in her face. I smiled, remembering how when she was a child, she used to be afraid she was getting wrinkles. But she never cared much about her looks, or fashion, sometimes trying on my things, but she’d preferred to dress me. She’d carefully apply my makeup and brush my hair, her hands gentle, loving. She’d say, “Here, let me, Mommy.” As though she were the adult and I the child. Sometimes I’d wonder if that’s what happened. Did I treat her too much like an adult?
    Feeling my gaze on her, she turned away from the fire and looked at me as she said, “Do you think there’s life after death?”
    The question shocked me, but I tried not to show it as I slowly set my cup back down and mentally prepared my response. It wasn’t something I could easily answer, and a question that I’d asked myself in the days after Paul died. But I didn’t think that’s what Lisa wanted to hear now. Her gaze was intent, her body ready for combat. I chose my words carefully.
    “I hope there’s something beyond this life, yes.”
    “You hope, but you don’t believe it.”
    Another challenge. One I decided to ignore. Keeping my voice neutral, I said, “What do you think? Do you believe there’s life after life?”
    She glanced back at the fire, her face reflective, then she looked up at the photo of Paul on the mantel, of us as a family. She focused on me. “When I was in the hospital, right before I woke up, I could feel Dad, like he was in the room with me. And then I heard that song he used to always sing.”
    She didn’t have to say anything further for me to know what song she meant. When Chinook’s health started to fail, Paul would play