Always Watching Read Online Free PDF

originally suspected of assaulting me. But as the investigation continued, it seemed less likely. Another of my patients had recently left her husband, who viewed her sessions as an abandonment of her wifely duties—something he communicated with his fist to her face. When her husband confronted me, I refused to tell him where she was staying. A week later, I was attacked. The police couldn’t prove it was him, but I was sure of it.
    I let myself into my house, stopping to notice a stray black cat, all skin and bones, saunter across the road and head toward Ross Bay Cemetery. I hoped she had somewhere warm to hide. My last cat, Silky, had passed away in June, and I hadn’t been able to bring myself to adopt another, telling myself it was because I wanted to travel, knowing it was because I wasn’t ready. Inside the safety of my home, I had a bath to wash away the smell of the hospital, put on my favorite dove gray yoga outfit, made a cup of tea, and then, and only then, did I let myself think about what I’d heard at the hospital—and what I was going to do about it.
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    My mother had told us that the commune moved down to Victoria not long after we left, and I’d assumed they’d eventually split up. Once, in my early twenties, I’d been driving on the mountain roads with a boyfriend, looking for a good swimming hole, and recognized the old entrance to the commune site. He’d wanted to stop and explore, having heard the rumors about a group of hippies that had camped there. I didn’t divulge that we’d also lived there, but I’d been curious too. We’d walked around the site, now overgrown, and it had felt like visiting a ghost town. The barn and cabins empty, doors hanging open and windows broken, our voices hushed in the still forest. I’d become anxious the closer we got to the river, my heart beating fast and my chest tight, and had made him leave, assuming that it was just the silence and the dark woods that had frightened me.
    Under my therapist’s guidance a few years later, I had talked about the months I spent at the commune, sharing memories that I had of the place, the other members, my brother and mother, swimming at the river, the late-night campfires. But I never could recall any specific event that might’ve caused my claustrophobia, and hours of hypnosis never revealed anything further. There was just this murky sense that I hadn’t liked some of the things that the adults were doing, and I’d been uncomfortable around Aaron, the young man I’d met that first day, and Joseph—his younger brother. Sometimes I felt like there might be things I was forgetting, gaps in my timeline, but nothing that I could put my finger on.
    Now I couldn’t believe that they were still in Victoria. I was curious about what the commune was like these days and whether the same people lived there.
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    That evening I spent some time online, reading about The River of Life Spiritual Center. It didn’t take long to find their Web site, with its mission statement, “Guiding you on your journey to enlightenment.” There were glorious photos of the commune, situated on more than 250 acres of land, where the river joined the ocean. I hadn’t been to Jordan River for years, but I remembered that it was a small community about an hour west of Victoria. Originally a logging camp, there wasn’t much in the way of a village, just a couple of cafés and a general store.
    The commune land seemed to be mostly forest and hiking trails, but a big chunk was farmland, part of their stay-and-work program. It sounded like a fascinating place to visit, with its descriptive passages about the healing properties of the land, the intellectual and soul-fulfilling workshops on meditation, spiritual awakening, relationship building, living and dying consciously, blending East and West philosophies toward achieving your highest potential. There were sweat lodges and mineral pools, elaborate gardens, and