The Davenport family is waiting in the reception area when I arrive at my practice on Monday morning. They are early. Rachel Glass-Davenport is seated on a chair, her sister beside her, her head lowered and her shoulders hunched over. Samuel Davenport stands with his hands in his pockets, gazing at a print on the wall, not really seeing it, I suspect. The little girl—Eden, I recall—sits apart from her aunt and her mother, her nose in a book, her knee bouncing up and down rapidly.
My assistant, Nadine, stands and smiles at me from behind her desk.
“Dr. Meyers, the Davenports are here for their appointment,” she says in her calm, melodic voice. Aside from her impeccable credentials and sterling character references, I hired Nadine Walters for her voice. In a room that is often filled with heightened anxiety and emotion, a voice with certain characteristics—a nasally pitch or a high squeak—will only make things worse. A helicopter could crash through the front door of the practice, and Nadine would inform me with the same intensity she might use when telling me I have something in my teeth.
“Thank you, Nadine.” I look from face to face, hoping to meet eyes with each family member, but the only person looking at me is Ruth Glass. She wears an expectant, almost desperate expression.
“Good morning,” I say. “Nadine, why don’t you show the Davenports to the family room. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Nadine nods and moves around the desk. She is full figured but moves with lightness and grace. Her long black hair is shiny without a trace of gray, despite the fact that she is well into her forties. “Please come this way,” she murmurs, then makes a slight sweeping gesture toward the back of the brownstone.
I watch Ruth get to her feet, then turn and lean toward her sister to help her up. Samuel moves to help, but Ruth waves him off. He turns to his daughter and puts his hand out to her, then lifts her out of her seat. She keeps her hand in his. They follow Nadine to the second door on the left.
I go to my office, stow my purse, and boot up my computer. Check my schedule for the day and charge my phone. Three minutes later, I walk into the family room.
As per its name, this space might be found in any home—comfortable couches with plump pillows, a couple of easy chairs, a coffee table stacked with magazines and children’s books, a toy chest in the corner, and a television on the wall. In the far corner is a kitchenette with a small refrigerator full of various nonalcoholic beverages, a countertop with a sink, a coffee machine, an electric kettle, and a basket with an assortment of herbal teas.
Rachel is seated on one of the couches, eyes cast down. Samuel is pacing, and Ruth is investigating the tea bags. Eden sits on the floor by the toy chest, carefully perusing its contents. All eyes, save for Rachel’s, turn to me when I enter.
“Again, good morning,” I say. I cross to one of the easy chairs and sit. I carry nothing with me, no notepad or clipboard, no recording device. When I perform a group intake, I like to be unfettered and rely solely on my senses and intuition. If I’m busy taking notes or checking to make sure the session is being recorded, I miss too much. I have found that this method allows my patients to relax and open themselves up more.
“I’m Dr. Madelaine Meyers. You can call me whatever makes you most comfortable, including Maddie. It would be nice if we could all sit down together.” I stop speaking and wait. After a moment, Ruth crosses to her sister and sits beside her. Samuel looks at the two women for a moment, and I can’t decide whether his expression is one of longing or resentment. Possibly both. Finally, he sits on the other couch. Eden gets to her feet and wanders over, gives me a doubtful look, then slowly lowers herself into an easy chair next to me. She sits on the very edge, as though she wants to be ready to spring up at any moment, and clutches her book to her chest. I can’t make out the title, but the cover picture is dark, with clouds and lightning on it.
“First, I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t know Jonah, and I’m not going to pretend that I know exactly how you all are feeling. I have experienced the loss of a loved one. Several loved ones. I’m telling you this so that you’ll know I can empathize.” I turn to Eden. “Do you know what empathize means?”
She nods solemnly. “It’s like when you can understand something because it’s happened to you, too.”
“That’s very good. If I ever use a word that you don’t know, please feel free to ask, or if I ever say anything that doesn’t make sense, let me know, and I’ll try to do a better job of explaining. Okay?”
She nods again and I smile at her. “Good.” I look around the room. “That goes for everyone. Okay?”
Ruth nods. Samuel clears his throat. Rachel doesn’t move.
“I’d like to talk for a few minutes about why you’ve come to see me and what your expectations for our time together are. After that, I’d like to meet with each of you individually . . .”
“How long is that going to take?” Samuel asks. He isn’t angry, just impatient.
“I think about twenty minutes per person.”
“I have to go to work.”
“How about I meet with you first? Does your family have a way home?”
“I have my own car,” Ruth says defiantly. “I brought Rachel.”
I nod. “Good. Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Davenport?”
“I suppose.”
“Do you mind if I call you Samuel?” I ask, and he flinches at my question.
“I would prefer Sam.”
“Fine. Thank you, Sam. So, let’s begin. Why don’t we talk about the reason you’ve come to see me.”
No one speaks. Sam turns his head away from me. Ruth sits forward and pats her sister’s hand. “Well, we—”
“You’re going to help us feel better,” Eden chimes in. “Because we’re all so sad, and it’s kind of like we’re trapped in the sadness, like it’s quicksand or really thick mud and our feet are stuck and we can’t get out, and you’re going to give us a really strong rope and pull us out.”
“That’s a very good explanation, Eden. Is it okay if I call you Eden?”
“That’s my name, so I guess it’s okay.”
“Would anyone else like to add to Eden’s explanation?”
“I’m worried about my sister,” Ruth says. “As well as the rest of the family. But I think Rachel needs the most help. I mean, obviously, considering what just happened. And yes, you can call me Ruth.”
“Thank you, Ruth. What about you, Sam?”
“What about me?” He looks at me, then pointedly checks his watch.
“What are your reasons for being here?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Meyers, but that feels like a useless question.”
“Please don’t be sorry about expressing yourself.”
“My son died. My wife is in trouble. We’re all grieving. That’s why we’re here.”
“Would you agree with Eden that you feel stuck in your grief?”
I watch him ponder the question. He glances at Rachel. “Yes.”
“Okay. Rachel? Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”
She doesn’t look at me. When she finally speaks, her voice is a monotone. “Because we’re stuck.”
“Thank you, Rachel. Thank you all. Each of us are individuals, and we all deal with our grief separately. But a family is also a unit. And it’s important for all of you to be on the same page as to why you’re here as a family. What about your expectations for our sessions? Would anyone like to comment?”