“So…you’re saying what happened to Destiny is my fault. I triggered something?”
She springs back, surprised. “No. No,” she says with wave of her hand, as if erasing the thought from an imaginary whiteboard. “This isn’t about assigning blame. It’s about helping both you girls understand what happened so you can develop healthy coping mechanisms.”
I take a deep breath. “So, what are you asking me, really? Because ‘Tell me about your childhood’ is a pretty broad topic.”
“From what I understand, it was pretty tumultuous.”
I slump into the couch. “Understatement.”
“What do you remember about your parents?”
“That they were too busy getting stoned to care about anything else.”
“Including you girls?”
I look a dagger at her. “Especially us girls.”
“Where are they now?”
“In jail.”
“Both of them?” she asks, jotting a note.
“That’s what happens when you burn down half a city block cooking meth.”
Her eyes lift to me and search my face. “You know everything you say in this room is confidential, Lilah.”
I huff out a derisive laugh. “So I’m supposed to what? Confess how much I hated my parents? How I’m glad they’re in prison? How I wish they were dead?”
Her eyes twitch and she leans forward. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” I ask, flopping onto the back of the couch, a frustrated itch under my skin making me antsy.
“Wish they were dead?”
I shrug. “Wouldn’t that make me just like every other American teenager?”
She sets her pad down and looks at me a long moment. “Let’s talk about the night of the fire. Tell me everything you remember.”
“I already told you everything the day Destiny came here.”
“There are pieces missing, though, Lilah. I think they might be important.”
I squirm in my corner of the couch, fighting to stay seated against the sudden compulsion to run. “I came home from school early. Our parents blew up the house and we got trapped upstairs by the fire. We had to run through the fire to get out.”
“How old was Destiny then?” she asks.
I roll my eyes to the ceiling, adding in my head. “Nineteen, I guess.”
“And did she still live at home?”
“She…” I shake my head as the question jumbles in my mind. “She was gone a lot, but yeah.” Her searching gaze feels like it’s burning the skin off my face, so I cover it with my hand.
“Why did you come home from school early?” she asks after forever.
“My best friend and I got suspended for gambling.”
“And who do you remember seeing when you got home? Was Destiny there?”
My heart’s beating out of control. I can’t sit anymore so I stand and pace a circle around the room. “She wasn’t home when I got there.”
“Who was? Did you see anyone in the house?”
“Dad and…some guy.” I shake my head. “But there were always people I didn’t know.”
“Did you see them afterward, outside the house? Your dad and the man?”
I hug myself tight and stop pacing at the window, looking out at the drizzle dampening the sidewalks outside. The ants under my skin are making me twitch, but no matter how much I rub, they won’t go away.
I search my memory, and in it, see fire trucks rolling up the house, sirens blaring. On the sidewalk, in the glow of the flames shooting into the night sky, I see Mom and some neighbors. I don’t see Dad.
I shake my head at the image.
Night sky…
But the fire happened during the day. I came home around lunchtime and went straight upstairs. It was only a few minutes later that Destiny and I were running through the flames to the front door.
I’m sure of it.
“Where were you when the fire broke out?”
“I…” …don’t remember.
“Do you remember how you got out?” she presses.
I rub harder at the ants under my skin. “I told you. Destiny got some wet blankets and we ran through the fire.”
“So, she was there.”
I spin on her. “Why are you asking me all this? Destiny’s your patient, not me!”
“Why don’t you sit, Lilah. Can I get you some water? Or something else to drink?”
“Where’s Destiny?” I say, crossing to the door and opening it. The small waiting room is empty.
“She’s in her room. And, to answer your question, I’m asking you because she’s having difficulty recalling all the details about the night of the fire. It seems to be the focal point of whatever trauma caused her to break down last week. I’m just trying to sort through some things so I can help her.”
I close the door and lean against it. “We were trapped. We thought we were going to die. It was terrifying.”
She nods slowly. “That’s totally understandable. When one’s survival is threatened, the whole system goes into survival mode and decisions aren’t always conscious. Details blur and actions don’t get recorded in short term memory. In extreme cases, when the trauma threatens the psyche, the mind will deliberately block the memory as a defense.”