Love and Sorrow (Small Town Secrets Book 5) Page 6
I tried studying for the literature exam but couldn’t concentrate. Then I switched to history to read the newest assignment, still with no success. When my mind wasn’t on Justin, wondering what he was doing tonight with that pretty girl, it was on Sarah and tomorrow’s appointment. After struggling for far too long, I decided to give up, so I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and then crawled into bed.
But there was no shutting off my mind.
Because my thoughts wouldn’t rest, neither could I. Finally, I got up and tried studying again but still wasn’t able to. Then I went in the back room and slowly smoked a cigarette, trying to relax.
But even the nicotine couldn’t help.
I headed back into the kitchen, pulling a chair from the table over to the refrigerator. Then I stood on it so I could reach the cabinet above the fridge. Behind the blender and punch bowl I never used, I found what I was looking for: an old bottle of whiskey I’d kept hidden. I hardly ever drank, especially after all the years I’d worked in a bar, because I’d seen what excessive alcohol did to people, particularly after a lifetime of it.
But I also knew that tonight a good stiff drink might help me relax enough to get to sleep. If the sleepless nights continued, I’d have to consider going to my doctor to explain this newfound anxiety and ask if there was any medication that might help. For now, though, I would self-medicate. As the whiskey made me shudder from the taste before warming my chest and stomach, I poured another small cup and downed it. Then I let out a long sigh before stashing the bottle back in its hiding spot.
When I curled up in bed again, I fell asleep in record time and stayed asleep without dreaming. It was better that way.
Chapter Six
God, I hated waiting rooms. Practicing patience was not a forte, and it was something I never hesitated admitting. Sarah and I had arrived at the psychologist’s office by nine-thirty, and I had the paperwork filled out in ten minutes. When I asked my daughter if she wanted to read a book or magazine, she said no. I even offered her my phone but she wasn’t interested. Then I tried leafing through two of the magazines but couldn’t concentrate. The waiting part had been my own damn fault because we’d arrived so early.
Fortunately, the psychologist was prompt, ushering us into her private office in the back shortly before ten. After indicating a sofa for Sarah and me, she moved to a chair across from us, a small coffee table between. As she sat down, she said, “I’m Dr. Rebecca Hopkins, but you can call me Rebecca if you like. I’m glad you’re here.”
“We’re glad to be here.” I couldn’t really speak for my daughter, but she wasn’t talking. “I’m Randi and this is my daughter Sarah.”
“I reviewed your paperwork, so let’s take a little time to get to know each other. I’ll start. As you know, my practice focuses on children. If you’d like my credentials, references, or testimonials, I’d be happy to share them with you.”
“You were highly recommended by the pediatrician’s office, and I trust Sarah’s doctor.”
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing for about eighteen years, and I’d like to think my experience speaks for itself, but you never know. I’d also like to emphasize that I continue to educate myself. There are always new things to learn, and I try to keep myself abreast of any new discoveries in my field.” Flashing a gentle smile, she picked up a legal pad and pen from the coffee table. “So, Randi, let’s start with you. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Anything you feel comfortable sharing.”
I didn’t feel comfortable sharing anything—but I needed to set a good example for my daughter. “Well, you already know I’m a mother. Sarah is my oldest child, and I also have a son, Devon. He’s seven and in the second grade. Umm…I’m the assistant manager at Play It Again.”
“That’s downtown, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been there once or twice.”
Talking was helping my nerves—a little bit. “And I’m in my second year at WCC.”
“Really? What are you studying?”
“A little bit of everything. I haven’t decided on a major yet.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re bettering yourself. Are you married?”
“No.”
“How involved is Sarah’s dad in her life?”
“As much as he can be. In fact, it’s his insurance that’s covering this visit. He lives out of state, so it’s hard for him, but he always sends presents for occasions when Sarah’s not visiting. He also calls at least twice a month to talk to her, and Sarah spends most of her summers with him.”
“That’s good. Is he Devon’s father as well?”
Ugh. “No. I divorced his father a few years ago.”
Dr. Hopkins made some notes on her pad—and that did not help with my discomfort. “Is he a father figure for Sarah?” She glanced at my daughter, making me wonder what the child was thinking right now.
“A little, I guess, but maybe we should ask her what she thinks of Mike.” I also looked at Sarah and found she’d assumed her usual slumped posture. “I don’t know. I divorced him because he was abusive. That’s not the kind of life I want for me or my kids.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re no longer in a destructive relationship.” She jotted more on the pad, and I tried not to be irritated about that. “Any other men in your life right now or in the past that you think might be significant enough to mention?”
Oh, God. What was this going to look like to her? “I have a…friend who visits on occasion.”
“Do the kids get along with him or her?”
“Him. And yes. They seem to.”
“How long have the two of you been friends?”
“A little over a year. We met when I started school.”
After Dr. Hopkins wrote more on the pad, she then focused on Sarah. I felt relieved, having been this close to telling the therapist we were there for my daughter, not me. “Sarah, you can call me either Dr. Hopkins or Rebecca, whichever you feel more comfortable with. I know you’re probably used to calling adults by titles of respect, so if you feel more comfortable doing that, it’s fine with me. But I happen to be one of those adults who doesn’t mind when younger people call me by my first name. And you and I are going to become good friends. Friends call each other by their first names, so I want you to know I won’t be offended when you call me Rebecca.” Sarah actually managed a weak, crooked smile but didn’t say anything. “Now I would like for you to tell me a little bit about you. Tell me about school, your friends, your family, your hobbies, what you like to do. Anything you want me to know.”
Sarah maintained eye contact but seemed reluctant to speak. I felt myself growing even more nervous but I knew this might be the way we’d get to the bottom of my child’s problems. For all I knew, she was developing some sort of mental illness that could be managed with medication or therapy. After giving a slow, short nod, Sarah said, “I go to Roosevelt Middle School.”
And, of course, Rebecca started writing on her pad again.
“What grade?”
“Sixth.”
“Tell me about your friends.”
“I haven’t made any friends at my new school.”
More writing—but no judgment. “What about your old school?”
“Yeah. I had some friends.”
“Do any of them go to your new school?”
“Yeah. But we don’t have any classes together.”
“Do you still hang out with them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Pausing, Rebecca jotted more in her pad. “Do you get along with them?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you just grown apart?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just don’t have the same interests anymore?”
“I guess.”
“So…tell me what you do for fun.”
> “I don’t know.”
Rebecca looked Sarah in the eyes—but her tone wasn’t like an interrogator. She was kind and gentle. “Do you find anything fun?”
“I guess.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know…video games, TV.”
Jesus. As if I hadn’t already sounded like the world’s worst mother, now it was confirmed, because it sounded like I let the television do the babysitting.
“Anything else?”
“Not really.”
“What about your brother? Do you get along with him?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Do the two of you fight, argue?”
“We used to. Not a lot anymore.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t bug me anymore.”
“How did he used to bug you?”
Sarah hadn’t spoken this much in months, maybe a year, so I, too, was listening for clues in her words. “He used to get into my stuff all the time.”
“Give me an example.”
“He would go in my room when I was at school and draw on my papers or mess with my toys.”
“So he stopped doing that?”
“Yeah. He’s in school now, too, so I’m home if he goes in my room.”
Rebecca jotted on the pad again. “Are you upset that you’re missing school today?”
“Not really.”
“Do you like school?”
“It’s okay.”
“Did you used to like school?”
“Yeah.”
“What changed?”
And there it was: The stone wall of silence. Sarah frowned and I hadn’t noticed until now that she hadn’t been looking at Rebecca; instead, she’d been glancing in her direction—but her eyes were focused on the coffee table.
Finally, with a soft voice, Rebecca prompted, “Did something change?”
Sarah actually looked up for a moment before focusing on her lap—and when it became evident that my child had no plans to answer that question, Rebecca turned to me again. “On your paperwork, you wrote that you’re concerned because Sarah has been displaying some behaviors at school that reflect poor choices. You also said you noticed this change within the last year, right?”
I gave her a simple nod.
“Sarah, do you ever feel happy?”
“Not really.”
Oh, God. Now this was starting to hurt—but the last thing my daughter needed was for her mom to lose her shit. I didn’t want an emotional reaction from me to cause her to clam up more—especially now that she was talking.
“Did you used to feel happy?” Instead of answering verbally, Sarah nodded. “Do you feel sad now?” This time, she shrugged but still said nothing. “Do you feel depressed?”
“I guess.”
“Would you like to return to school at some point?”
“I don’t care.”
All of a sudden, Rebecca switched to me again. “What are your specific concerns about Sarah?”
Jesus, lady, where should I start? I wanted to scream, you’re seeing it! Instead, I took a deep breath and tried to answer her matter-of-factly. “Well, she used to be bubbly and happy, always smiling and laughing. She used to be active and do things like talk with her friends on the phone, play with her brother. She used to play outside until dark. She’d sit at the table and draw pictures. She smiled and laughed. Now she acts depressed and quiet. She keeps to herself most of the time, spending a lot of time in her room. She hardly ever talks, and she never laughs.”
Shit. I hated saying all that in front of her, but it was true.
Finally, Rebecca addressed my daughter again. “Sarah, do you have any concerns?”
“About what?”
“What you’re doing here.”
“It’s kinda freaky…but mom said you’d help me.”
“Do you feel like you need help?”
Once more, Sarah averted her eyes, looking down at her knees. “I don’t know.”
Rebecca inhaled sharply but spoke sweetly. “Sarah, would you mind if I talked to your mother in private for a moment?” Without a word, Sarah started to stand, but Rebecca said, “No, that’s okay. You stay here. We’ll just go in the hall, okay?”
I followed Rebecca out the door, curious as hell what she wanted to say now after our honesty-fest. What was it that she didn’t want to say in front of my daughter? She kept her voice low but I was able to take in every word. “Just from what little time we’ve spent together, I’m fairly certain the problem has something to do with school. But she just changed schools this year, right? When she started middle school?”
“Yes.”
“When exactly did you notice a behavior shift?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe right after Christmas? Or maybe spring break? Definitely by the end of the school year.”
“So whatever triggered this behavior probably happened last year and may be continuing. Whatever the case, I need Sarah to develop some trust with me. I need her to know that she’s safe here. Maybe for this session and the next, I’ll have you in there, mainly so she knows she’s safe. Once I sense she feels comfortable, I’m going to remove you from the equation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll have you start sitting in the waiting room.”
“What exactly will that do?”
“If she doesn’t feel comfortable talking around you, we’ll remove that barrier.”
“What? I’m her mother, for God’s sake.”
Rebecca remained calm. “It’s too early to say for certain, but her behavior suggests something fairly serious.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t want to guess. But if she’s scared of saying something in front of you, it would be more beneficial for her and me to be alone to talk.”
“You don’t think I’ve done anything, do you? Because if that’s the case, I’d like to set the record straight right now.”
“No, no. I don’t think that. Sarah doesn’t act afraid of you. I just think she’s hesitant about talking in front of you. Have you tried talking to her about this before?”
“More times than I can count.”
“She’s holding something in. I don’t know why yet. But we’ll find out. And I’m not saying I want you out of the sessions all the time. Just until we discover the root cause. Is that all right?”
I didn’t think I had much of a choice—but maybe she really was making headway with my daughter. “Okay.”
“You seem uncertain about this. Is there anything you need to tell me?”
My eyes widened as I wondered if this woman could read my every fear, psychoanalyze my every movement. “No. I’m just very concerned about Sarah. Did you read in the paperwork that she set a fire in the girls’ bathroom trash earlier this week?”
“Yes, I did. She’s acting out.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“There’s something she’d holding inside that she wants to let out, but she doesn’t know how, because she’s overwhelmed by her emotions. So she acts out—she can’t figure out other ways to deal with her feelings right now. She copes with them through negative, destructive behaviors. But, at the same time, she also appears to be depressed. I’m tempted to talk with her pediatrician about prescribing an antidepressant, but I think that may be premature. I want to talk to Sarah more first.”
“Can you help her?”
“I’m certain of it. But we’ve got to do it my way.”
I nodded, pursing my lips.
“I’m going to spend this session and next just making Sarah comfortable and getting to know her. While I don’t want to prolong discovery too long, I also don’t want to jeopardize establishing trust. I’ll probably spend our next session doing standard things like word association, talking about dreams, that kind of thing. I don’t expect these techniques to reveal anything, but they’ll make me appear more legitimate in Sarah’s eyes while taking the focus off herself long enough to feel more
comfortable about me. Those kinds of things are less direct than questions. Then we’ll move into play therapy and that’s how I expect to get the answers we’re looking for.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like to meet for two sessions a week so we can keep up any momentum we gain. Will that work for you?”
“It’ll have to. I’ll need to make accommodations at work and school, but that’s okay.”
“My appointments are fairly flexible. You can schedule the next one with my secretary before you leave.”
When we reentered the room, we found Sarah sitting in the same place she’d been when we’d left, her chin still buried in her chest.
The rest of the session continued as before, with Rebecca asking Sarah gentle but probing questions, promising they’d do something different in the next session. While Sarah seemed apathetic, she was paying attention, giving the woman more eye contact than I’d had from her in a long time—which, actually, gave me hope that this might work.
As we were leaving, Rebecca said, “I promise I’ll help you, Sarah. Your mother and I don’t want you to suffer anymore.”
Although the corners of Sarah’s mouth turned up slightly, I also didn’t miss the shadow that crossed over my child’s eyes—and I prayed that I hadn’t brought her here too late.
Chapter Seven
While it was going to involve a lot of scheduling gymnastics with the rest of my life, we made Sarah’s next appointment for Tuesday afternoon. She wouldn’t have to miss school, but I’d have to rearrange work—but, as Kathy had told me time and time again, we were family at Play It Again, so she’d understand.
I hoped that was true.
When Sarah and I got home, I made some lunch, but she just picked at it. Then she went to her room, lay on her bed, and fell asleep. Feeling disappointed, I quickly realized I must have expected one therapy session to begin making enough difference that Sarah’s behavior would start to change but, of course, Rome wasn’t built in a day and Sarah’s problems weren’t at the surface, easy to reach.