Always Watching

bottle of mace I keep in my night table, and crept out into the body of the house. I padded into the kitchen, then peeked outside. I saw the problem right away. The wind had blown over the patio umbrella, and it was now rolling around, knocking into everything. I threw on some clothes and headed outside, braced against the storm. I’d wrestled the umbrella into the shed when the wind slammed the door behind me. The shed was black.
    I tried to find the cord for the light while adrenaline pumped through my blood. I can’t breathe. My shin slammed against something hard and I backed up a few steps . I have to get out of here. I knocked into some planters, sending them down around me. In a blind panic, I launched myself in the direction of the door, my hands grasping the knob. Wind and rain hit my face as I sprinted back to my house.
    After I’d closed the door, I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath, my heart still beating loud in my ears. Rain dripped down my face, mixing with tears. What had happened back there? My claustrophobia had been triggered, obviously, but there was something more to the panic, an intense terror, even stronger than the time I’d tried to get my bike out of the shed. I hadn’t been able to use any of my coping mechanisms. There must’ve been something about the shed.
    Of all the memories that had come back since I’d met Heather, the reason for my claustrophobia had yet to be explained. I’d assumed it was related to the barn, but maybe it had been something else. I thought back but couldn’t remember there being a shed at the commune. I contemplated going out to the shed with a flashlight, making myself stand there until the fear abated. Exposure therapy was effective in treating numerous phobias. But when I opened the door, the yard was pitch-black, and all I could see were the eerie shapes of trees and plants moving wildly in the wind. I closed the door and locked it.
    That night it rained hard. In the morning I surveyed my backyard, checking for damage from the storm, picking up fallen branches. That’s when I saw the footprint near the shed in some soft dirt. I stared down at it. Was it mine? It looked larger, but it was hard to tell, rain had blurred the edges. I crouched down, took a closer look. There almost seemed to be a faint tread. My shoes had a smooth sole.

 
    CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
    On my way to the hospital, I reminded myself of all the people who could have left the footprint, the meter readers, the lawn-care company I’d called for a quote. For all I knew, it was probably mine. I was reading too much into everything. Right now I had bigger things to worry about, like my daughter and my patients.
    I talked with Jodi, the anorexic girl, and her parents, about her treatment. She had committed to another meal plan. I also spent some time with Francine, who seemed calmer, though she kept asking me where all her paintings had gone and called me Angela, asking if I remembered the time we went to Mexico. It’s better not to contradict dementia patients when they confuse you with someone else, so I just asked her to tell me about her favorite part of Mexico. She looked so happy, sharing her stories about snorkeling in the Caribbean Sea.
    The distraction worked for a few hours, but when I broke for lunch, I sat in the cafeteria nursing a cup of tea and thought about Lisa. I still couldn’t believe I’d missed the signs that she’d been abused, and I wrestled again with the same questions. What kind of mother was I? What kind of doctor? She’d been having difficulties before I put her in the first treatment center, but it had gotten a lot worse after. I’d been in such a rush to cure her that I increased the problem. Now her behavior after treatment made more sense, her refusal to talk to me or Garret, her increased drug use. It broke my heart that she hadn’t confided in me, that all these years I’d been helping other people while my own daughter was suffering—
    Stop. This wouldn’t help Lisa or me. I had to find a way to speak with her before she joined the commune. Should I just give her a few days? I was still thinking when Kevin appeared at my table with a cup of coffee in his hand.
    “Hi, I was wondering how you’ve been making out.”
    I motioned for him to have a seat. “Not that great.”
    “Did you find Lisa?”
    “Yes, but I’m still very worried about her.” I told him what had happened, leaving out what she’d said about the sexual abuse.