And now I couldn’t toss it over to Sister Ernestine, because Becca had asked me not to tell. School counselors can’t do their jobs effectively if students think they can’t trust them not to violate their right to privacy. We’re not allowed to inform parents what’s going on unless there’s a clear threat to their child’s safety (or the safety of others).
I didn’t have any proof—yet—that Becca’s life was in danger, only that she was hurting—and badly—both inside and out.
So all I could say was, “Fine,” and reach into the first-aid kit for a disinfectant pad. “But your first time, Becca? Really? That line might work on Sister Ernestine, but unlike her, I just work in a rectory, I don’t actually live in one. I’m not that gullible. What’s going on? Why do you, uh, hate yourself so badly that you’d want to hurt yourself like this?”
Bringing up the elephant—or NCDP—in the room is never easy. I’ve been doing it for years, and I still haven’t figured out the best method. The subtle approach tends to go right over people’s heads—“Has there been a death in the family recently?”—but bluntly stating, “There’s a ghost behind you,” can lead to ridicule or worse.
I wasn’t sure which strategy to take with Becca. She was in crisis, but it looked as if she’d been that way for some time. I didn’t know if the spook was a symptom or the cause.
“Look,” I said when she only stared down into her lap. “Don’t worry, you can tell me. I’m an expert on self-hatred.”
Becca made a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort of disgust. “You? What have you got to hate yourself for? Look at you, with all that hair. You’re perfect.”
It’s true, my hair is pretty amazing. But that wasn’t the point.
“No one’s perfect, Becca,” I said. “And don’t try to tell me that you did this because you hate the way you look. You’re a smart girl, and smart girls know how to change their look if they’re unhappy with it. You obviously don’t want to. So what’s really going on?”
In a perfect world, this should have led to her blurting, “My little sister died last year, and I miss her so much!”
Then I’d have said, “I’m so, so sorry to hear that, Becca. But, wow, what a coincidence. I happen to be able to see the dead, and your little sister’s spirit is standing right next to you! She misses you, too. But your clinging to her memory is causing her to cling to your love, and that’s keeping her from being able to pass on into the afterlife. So both of you need to say good-bye now so she can go into the light, and I can go to lunch with my awesome boyfriend. Okay? Okay.”
But of course this isn’t a perfect world. And considering the day I was having, it was crazy of me to have thought even for one second that there was a possibility this was going to happen.
Instead, Becca pressed her lips together and stubbornly refused to reply to my question.
So I said, “Fine, suit yourself,” and laid the disinfectant-soaked pad I’d opened over her arm.
This was a huge mistake—a lot like my having called Paul. But I didn’t realize it then.
Becca gave a little squeak and tried to yank her wrist from me as the alcohol seeped into her wounds, but I held on, keeping the pad pressed to the cuts so the disinfectant could do its work.
“Sorry, Becca,” I said. “I should have warned you it was going to sting. But we can’t let you risk an infection. Anyway, I would have thought you’d enjoy it, hating yourself so much, and all.”
I knew Dr. Jo, my school-appointed therapist—everyone getting a master’s in counseling has to undergo a few semesters of personal counseling themselves—would disapprove. Counselors (and mediators) are supposed to show compassion toward their clients. We aren’t supposed to hurt them, even while cleaning their wounds with disinfectant pads.
But sometimes a little pain can help. Radiation kills cancer cells. Skin grafts heal burns.
I told myself that Becca’s reaction was good. It showed spirit. Her ghost-barnacle hadn’t completely sucked the will to survive out of her . . . yet.
“My God,” Becca whispered. Another good sign—she still didn’t want Sister Ernestine overhearing our conversation, even though the nun would definitely have put a stop to my unorthodox nursing methods. “You did knock the head off that statue, like everyone says. You’re crazy!”
“Yeah,” I whispered back. “I am. Be sure to complain to your parents about the crazy woman in the office. That way you’ll have to show them your arm to explain how you got sent here in the first place. Then they’ll know that you’ve been hurting yourself, and maybe get you the help you—”
“Get away from her!”
Becca wasn’t the only one showing some spirit. For the first time the little ghost girl showed some, too, lifting her blond head and taking an interest in what was happening around her.
And she definitely didn’t like what she saw . . . namely, me.
Stepping out from behind the shadow of Becca’s chair, she drew her brows together in a pout, and, hugging the stuffed animal she was holding—a threadbare horse—she pointed at me and said in a low, guttural voice, “Stop. You’re hurting Becca.”