There is a steady routine in counselling that never succumbs to monotony. I have four or five sessions a day with students who either request to see me or who have been referred by teachers. Some only come for a week or two. Once they have got whatever it is off their chest they are able to forget about it and move on. Others stay for longer, or may dip in and out of my professional life.
Initial sessions are always full of conversation – the general impression of teenagers as monosyllabic grouches is largely unfair. Nine times out of ten they are eager to talk, open to understanding and considering the world around them, and, most of all, anxious to fit in, to find a place in their school or home life where they feel comfortable and accepted. The first sessions are often the easiest, as we identify and discuss the problems to hand. Where we go from there gets more complicated. I am constantly reassessing the impact of my methods as I try to help students address problems without unwittingly interfering. Some of them lay issues at my feet like offerings, as though I am some eastern deity who might vouchsafe their future protection if they are humble and beseeching enough. They tend to go through a period of disappointment when they realise that counselling is not direct intervention – and while some of them leave disgruntled and don’t return, I always follow up. Generally I find that this realisation gave them the kick-start they needed to work on their own ways of dealing with things. Others continue to explore their problems with me, and it isn’t always easy to predict who will make great strides forward and who will stagnate.
By lunchtime I’ve completed three scheduled appointments, continually reining in my frustration when all anyone wants to talk about is last night’s hit-and-run. It’s understandable – I can’t stop thinking about it either – but by the time I have fielded umpteen questions about Sophia and Georgia and exactly what happened, it becomes a struggle to focus these kids back on their own problems. My mind is determined to drift today, and I have found myself reliving snapshots of the past twenty-four hours, analysing everything.
As usual, Georgia had told me very little as she headed out last night. Should I have questioned her in greater detail about where she was going and with whom? Then there was the way that boy, Danny, had held her so tenderly after the accident. Something is going on between them, surely.
This morning in assembly, Georgia had been so pale I was worried she might vomit – and now I am forced to acknowledge that she has seemed this way for a while. I have been noting it subconsciously, unable to put my finger on anything that might have helped me to confront her with my concerns.
I have so many questions for Georgia – and when she’s not around I wonder why we find it so hard to talk. But whenever I’m with her there’s a force-field around her, holding me at bay, stilling my tongue, making me desperate not to push her so far away that it might become impossible to reach her at all. And yet, how can I find out what’s going on unless I press the issue? In theory, the accident might have helped Georgia open up to me. In reality, so far it’s had the opposite effect.
I am driving myself mad with this puzzle I can’t solve, this maze of deliberation that might eventually unlock a path to my daughter. I need to take a walk, and I decide to head over to the staffroom for a cup of tea while I eat my lunch. Hopefully I might find some distracting company.
I am just collecting my bag when I have a surprise visitor.
‘Danny. Come in,’ I say, as I see his head appear around the door, looking uncertainly at me. ‘How are you doing today?’
He enters the room and flops down on the empty seat opposite. ‘I’m fine . . . I think,’ he says. ‘Although I’m still in shock, I suppose. I don’t understand how someone could do something like that and then drive away.’
‘My husband and I – our whole family – will be forever indebted to your quick thinking. Thank you for saving Georgia.’
Danny shrugs as though it is nothing and I wonder how we will ever thank him enough. ‘Have you heard any more about Sophia?’ he asks.
‘She’s stable in hospital – they’re still waiting for her to wake up.’
‘And how’s Georgia?’
Oh these delicate paths I am forced to negotiate, trying to remain ethical about discussing others’ feelings. As this young boy stares at me I get an uneasy urge to unburden myself, to tell him how miserable I am that my daughter doesn’t want to talk about anything with me. To ask him what to do! I imagine my tears falling in front of him as I beg him to tell me how to reach my child, and I see the horror on his face as he backs out the door. I come to my senses with a jump, alarmed at the intensity of the daydream.
‘She’s been very subdued, and hasn’t really wanted to speak about it,’ I say as steadily as I can. ‘Which is understandable in the circumstances. It can take time to process something as shocking as what you both went through last night. How come you are here today? You don’t have to stay at school if you don’t want to, no one would blame you for going home.’