Barbara hadn’t meant to mention anyone by name, certainly not Will. The last thing she needed was Stella getting wind of that. But Will was something new in Cole’s life. He’d been over to Will’s house several times in the past few weeks, each time, at Stella’s insistence, without Barbara. Barbara had probed for details afterward. What did you eat? Where was Will’s mother? What did you play? But Cole was only five. God knew what he’d left out.
“Barbara, I know this is confusing and unexpected. But there’s no need to panic. I’ll speak to Kate’s parents, let them know what happened. They’re very sweet. I can’t imagine them wanting to pursue the matter.” There was such unbearable pity in Rhea’s voice. It was making Barbara light-headed. “For now we’ll just take some basic precautions.”
Precautions? Like Cole was some kind of animal. As though people should be getting inoculated. This made no sense whatsoever. A child could not go from being essentially perfect to dangerously disturbed, not overnight. Barbara knew that. But right now she just needed some air. She went to stand. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I—”
Rhea reached out and put a hand on Barbara’s arm. She tilted her head to the side and smiled warmly. Barbara stared down at Rhea’s fingers pressed against her skin. How had she become this woman, this mother in need of a steadying hand?
“Watchful waiting is our best approach,” Rhea said. “These things do so often pass, vanish as quickly as they cropped up. But if you feel you need to do something in the meantime—and sometimes I feel that way—I have the name of someone.” Rhea stood, then walked over to her desk, returning with a business card pinched in her fingers. Barbara took the card reluctantly. Dr. Peter Kellerman, Developmental Child Psychologist. “He comes very highly recommended.”
Barbara didn’t breathe again until she was halfway down the hall, the business card crushed in her fist. Then she felt a wave of heat followed by cold. Worried she might pass out, Barbara ducked into the girls’ bathroom at the end of the hall.
Locked in one of the narrow stalls, she squatted fully clothed on the small toilet. Under the stall next to her, she saw a girl’s feet shuffle back and forth in worn pink sneakers. They were the glittery kind Hannah had begged for in elementary school and Barbara had always refused to buy. She could no longer remember precisely why.
Barbara stared down at her own much bigger shoes in front of that small toilet. What was she doing, getting so upset? So what if there was something Cole needed to work on? Sooner or later, each child had a weakness. Besides, like her own mother had always said, a mother needed happy children, not perfect ones.
But there was still a loud sob creeping into Barbara’s throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth so it couldn’t make it all the way out.
Barbara waited until the girl in the pink sneakers had washed her hands and left before she pulled her hand off her face. When no sound came, Barbara forced herself to her feet and tried to smile a little. But there was still that sucked-out feeling at the bottom of her stomach.
When she stepped out of the stall, Barbara smoothed her blond hair, cut these days into an elegant bob, and straightened her crisp white blouse. Then she caught sight of her reflection in the long bathroom mirror. She smiled, but her face looked so ashen and afraid in the fluorescent light. Like someone she no longer recognized. Like someone she didn’t even want to know.
Molly Sanderson, Session 7, March 29, 2013
(Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with
Patient Knowledge and Consent)
Q: Have you spoken to your father about what happened to the baby?
M.S.: You’re joking, right?
Q: I wasn’t, no. That would be a joke, talking to your father?
M.S.: We barely know each other. And before you go off on a tangent, no, I don’t blame him for that. Okay, maybe I blame him. But I just—I don’t care anymore. Or I don’t care now. After we lost the baby, he sent me a sympathy card and made a donation to my work—or my old work—like we asked people to. But there’s only so much that a stranger can do in a situation like this.
Q: And that’s okay with you? That your sole surviving parent is a stranger?
M.S.: What difference does it make whether I’m okay with it? It’s the way things are. I have enough problems right now without dredging up ancient history. I had a rough childhood and a cold, angry mother who died when I was eighteen. I can’t change any of that now.
Q: But you could acknowledge that not having parents makes this harder for you.
M.S.: Because feeling sorry for myself is going to make me feel better?
Q: It might. And what about Justin’s parents? What’s your relationship like with them?
M.S.: Justin’s mother came and stayed for two weeks right after. I don’t know what we would have done without her help.
Q: But it doesn’t sound like you’re exceptionally close.
M.S.: Are we supposed to be? Justin’s parents are just— They’re intimidating, I guess. His mother told me once that I was different from Justin’s other girlfriends. More spirited, that’s what she said. I think she meant it as a compliment, that I kept him in better line than his other girlfriends or something. But it made me feel like a horse. That’s what they’re like: well-intentioned, but always off somehow.
Q: Have you and Justin spoken about trying to have another baby?
M.S.: How could I have another baby? I can’t take care of the one I have.
Q: I didn’t mean now. Eventually. Sometimes making plans like that for the future can be helpful.
M.S.: I can’t do that. Not yet.
Q: Have you told the NAPW that you’re not coming back?
M.S.: Yes, I told them. They said I could have more time off, as much as I needed. But I don’t want more time. I want to know that it’s over. That I never have to go back there.
Q: What will you do if you don’t go back to work?
M.S.: Try to survive. Right now that feels like more than a full-time job.
Molly