Someone Is Watching Read Online Free PDF Page A

was Heath who introduced us. Heath still doesn’t understand why we broke up, and I haven’t told him. He’s upset enough as it is.
    So now I stand by my bedroom window in the apartment I never leave, staring absently at the backs of half a dozen identical glass towers, the hollow eyes of my reflection staring back at me,my fingers folded around the omnipresent binoculars that have become a virtual extension of my hands. There’s a large chip in one side of them now, from when they hit the ground after my attack, and my fingers go to it automatically, as they would to a scab. I lift the binoculars to my eyes and hear my mother’s voice:
Tell me what you see.
I focus on the nearby construction site, watch one worker arguing with another, his fingers poking angrily into the other man’s chest, as another worker intervenes.
    Slowly, I shift my focus, the two circles of the binoculars continually merging and separating as I move fleetingly from one floor to another, constantly readjusting the lens. Eventually I settle on the building directly behind mine, sliding my view from one window to the next, invading the lives of the unsuspecting and unaware, monitoring their casual routines, violating their privacy, drawing them close while keeping them at a safe distance.
    The phone beside my bed rings, and I jump, although I make no move to answer it. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m tired of reassuring people I’ll be all right, that it gets a little easier every day.
    It doesn’t, and it won’t.
    I press the binoculars tighter to my face, watch the universe unfold from afar. This is as close to the outside world as I want to get.

— THREE —
    People always tell you it’s pointless to get upset about things you can’t control. I used to agree. But that was before my mother was diagnosed with cancer, before I watched helplessly as the disease stripped her of her strength, her smile, ultimately her life. Before my father succumbed to a massive heart attack and died, just weeks after being given a clean bill of health by his doctors. Before a man found me crouching in the middle of a bunch of sweet-smelling shrubs and stripped away my clothes, my dignity, and whatever inner peace I still possessed. I know now that control is a harmless illusion at best, a harmful deceit at worst.
    I’ve never had many close friends. I’m not sure why that is, exactly. As a rule, I’m pretty sociable. I get along well with most people. I’m good at small talk—maybe too good. Not so good at the deeper stuff. I’ve never felt the need to sit around discussing my feelings. I’ve never wanted to share the details of relationships I consider private. My friend from high school, Jocelyn, whom I haven’t seen in years, used to say I was more like a boy than a girl in that regard, that I would rather talk generalities than particulars, and that while I was a great listener, I never discussed my ownproblems, that I never let anyone get too close. She said I had trust issues, probably because my family was so wealthy. Not to mention estranged. I’m not sure I agree. I mean, maybe I’m not great at letting other people in. Maybe I’ve always been more comfortable as an observer than a participant. But that’s just the way I am. Maybe that’s what makes me so good at my job.
    At any rate, Jocelyn is long gone. She took a year off after we graduated high school to travel around Europe, then headed west to college in Berkeley. I stayed here in south Florida. We lost touch, although she did try to “friend” me on Facebook a few years ago. I meant to respond, but it was right around the time my mother was dying and I never got around to it.
    Clichéd as it sounds, my mother was always my best friend. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I miss her every day. But as much as my body aches to feel her arms around me, to have her kiss my forehead and assure me that that kiss will make everything better, I’m supremely grateful she