Antonia's Choice (23 page)

The waiting room, which at the moment was empty of people, was a colorful collection of beanbag chairs and toy boxes and mobiles hanging from the ceiling. I was about to drop into a bright orange bag, at the suggestion of the young woman who looked more like a coach at the YMCA than a receptionist, when an inner door opened and a man of about forty stepped out. Although I was clenching my jaws in abject parental fear, I could feel myself break into a grin at the sight of him.

“Michael Parkins,” he said, sticking out a freckled hand to me. “The kids call me Doc Opie.”

The reason for that was obvious. ‘Doc Opie' had almost neon, carrot-colored hair arranged in short spikes on top of his head. There wasn't a visible inch of him that wasn't covered in freckles, and his ears stuck out from both sides of his head, making him look for
all the world like Yoda of
Star Wars
fame. The grin and the effervescent blue eyes, however, completed the true picture—he was a dead ringer for Opie from
Andy of Mayberry.

“What should I call you?” I said.

“You can call me anything you want. Just don't call me late for dinner.”

There was a thud from the direction of YMCA-Girl's desk. She was giving Doc Opie a rim shot.

“What should I call
you?”
Doc Opie said.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Toni Wells. I'm Ben's mom.” Come on in—

“Before you go,” YMCA Girl said, “make him promise not to tell you any more corny jokes.”

Doc Opie pretended to look hurt. “The kids think I'm hilarious.”

“Just don't laugh,” she said to me. “It only encourages him.”

Doc Opie's office looked less like a psychologist's digs than a corner of F.A.O. Schwartz. It was the kid version of Dominica's healing room, complete with child-sized furniture, cushions on the floor, baskets of stuffed animals, and a table supplied with big sheets of paper and buckets of colored markers. I had the sudden urge to doodle. I was fidgeting like I was on a blind date.

“I do have some adult chairs,” he said, motioning to a pair of bowl-shaped papasan chairs like the ones I'd seen at Pier 1 Imports. “Why don't we sit over there?”

I lowered myself carefully into the bowl of a chair, first removing a large stuffed toy turtle which I then held in my lap because it seemed a shame to put it on the floor and because Doc Opie made no offer to take it off my hands.

Doc Opie flopped into his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. His deck shoes swung just above the floor like a little boy's. He was, in fact, more boyish even than Chris. Everything about him was casual—the yellow sport shirt, the khaki Dockers, the irresistible grin—yet it was genuine rather than studied. I had known guys at the country club who worked very hard to get that look.

But I wasn't put off by his youthful air. I felt, in fact, rather
secure clutching a stuffed turtle and sitting in a large bowl. At least, as secure as I was likely to feel under the circumstances.

“Do I need to give you any more background or whatever?” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “Why don't you go over again what you told me on the phone yesterday and we can flesh that out a little bit.” He had a Southern accent that spoke of growing up out in the country and later learning correct grammar. It made me want to say
y'all
next to some obscure word like
diaphanous.

I told him as much as I knew, ending with Dominica's advice to me. At that point, Doc Opie was nodding his head solemnly, all traces of merriment gone from his eyes.

“She's absolutely right,” he said. “Ben needs professional help. It doesn't have to come from me. If you decide after we talk that you don't want to bring him here, that's fine, but take him somewhere.” He smiled faintly. “This isn't like the car salesman telling you that you need a new vehicle, and have I got a deal for you.”

“Do
you have a deal for us? I mean—you know, can you help Ben?”

“It's very possible that I can. I'm not going to give you any guarantees, and don't ever believe a psychologist who tells you he can. A lot depends on whether Ben and I can develop a relationship—and whether you and his father and I can work together.”

“His father is a whole nother story.” I filled him in on Chris, finishing up with, “He thinks Ben's behavior is because of our separation. Could that possibly be?”

Doc Opie wobbled his head from side to side. “Did your separation happen after the abuse, as far as you know?”

I nodded.

“Sometimes a sexually abused child will appear to be functioning normally until another major life stressor brings the effects of the abuse to the surface. He might have reacted to your separation without the abuse, but probably not with this intensity. Again, I'll need to see him to determine that. Tell you what—let me tell you what I do know and then you can discuss it with your husband. And then if you want me to meet Ben, I can assess him and we'll take it from there.”

“Please—tell me what you know,” I said. “I want information. I feel like I'm trying to function in a fog.”

“Most parents of abused kids say that. Let me see if I can clear some things up.”

Over the next forty-five minutes, Doc Opie told me that if we decided to put Ben in his care, we would need to commit to about six weeks' worth of biweekly sessions and then reassess whether we wanted to continue with him. He asked me to keep in mind that backsliding and regression and hostility on Ben's part might all be part of his healing.

“Nothing I'm not used to at this point,” I said dryly.

The first stages of therapy, he told me, would involve Ben in remembering, not denying, the abusive incidents; fully recognizing, not minimizing, the effects of the abuse; and realizing that the abuser is responsible for the abuse but that he—Ben—was going to have to find ways to cope with it.

“I will, of course, give him the tools to do that,” he said.

That was about the time I took a pad and pen out of my purse and asked if I could take notes. I used the turtle for a desk.

My job, Doc explained, would be to help Ben endure the emotional upheavals that were going to be part of his healing. I—and Chris—would be the ones to reassure him over and over that his pain would pass.

“That's going to be tricky,” I said. “My son pretty much hates me right now.”

“I haven't seen him in action,” he said. “But I've never known a five-year-old that actually hated his mother. He's mad as heck at you—and you yourself know that the more you love somebody, the madder you can get at him.”

“Yeah, I hear that.”

“I can help with that part. We'll address that early on—that this wasn't your fault and that you're here to help him. I've never had one yet that didn't come around if the parents were patient and would work at it.”

“Work I can manage,” I said. “Patience—I don't know.”

He rubbed one of his Yoda-ears. “You have somebody you can
work with? I mean, about your own issues?”

I didn't answer, and he didn't pursue it.

“Ben will warm up to you again naturally,” he said, “though probably slowly, once we erase the tapes that are now playing in his mind. At least, that's my guess at this point. I'll know more after I talk to him.”

“What tapes?”

“The thoughts that won't stop. Ever have those?”

I could feel my eyebrows going up. “Ya think?”

“Ben's are telling him that the world is a dangerous place, that people can't be trusted, that he deserved what he got, that he's a bad person.”

“He's five!”

“That's the tragedy of it, isn't it? And it's the molest that does that. Even one incident can twist a child's whole view of the world. And it sounds like this might have happened more than once and fairly close together, which means he never had a chance to stabilize in between.”

I couldn't look at him as I nodded. “Sometimes he wakes up screaming ‘Make it stop!' Is that what he's trying to stop? All that evil stuff in his head?”

“Could be.”

“Why didn't I know that? I'm his mother, for Pete's sake!”

“One of the things I encourage you to deal with in your own work is any guilt you're feeling.”

“I left him there—on several occasions—for entire weekends. Of course I feel guilty. Why didn't I know better than to let him anywhere near Sid Vyne?”

“That's what I mean. You'll need to find a way to work that out, which is why I suggest having a therapist of your own.”

“You don't do big kids, huh?” I said.

He grinned at me. “We're all kids, aren't we? Listen, guilt's really natural for you right now, but ask your therapist to help you get a handle on it, because your job with Ben is about now, not about what's already happened.”

“You need to spell that out for me,” I said.

For the first time, Doc Opie leaned forward in his chair so that his feet touched the floor. “You're going to need to provide him with an environment that
he
feels is physically, psychologically, and emotionally safe.” He ticked each one off on a freckled finger and gave me a long look. “Don't play up what's already happened. Quietly deal with the subject of the molest if he brings it up, but focus more on making his world a safe place for him to be.”

“I thought it was already safe,” I said.

“Look.” Doc Opie's eyes softened. They were the kindest eyes. “Even the most psychologically healthy individuals from stable families will develop symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder after something like this. Even if you were a perfect parent, which nobody is, you couldn't have prevented Ben from suffering the aftereffects of sexual abuse. He's reexperiencing the trauma over and over, then he's forcing his emotions to go numb so he won't have to feel them, then he's back to reliving what's happened to him. That's the reason for the sleep disturbances and the hypervigilance and the anger and the fears. Not you.”

I blinked against threatening tears. “So how do I set up this safe-house thing?”

“We're going to let Ben tell us what he needs. You won't be in on the sessions, and I won't tell you everything that goes on in here, but I'll tell you what you need to know in order to meet his needs at home. We're going to be a team—you, me, his father, and anybody else who's significant in his life.”

“How long is it going to be before he starts getting better? I feel like I'm dealing with an emotionally disturbed child.”

Doc Opie sat back. “I don't want you to freak when I tell you this, but the process of healing can be painfully slow.”

“How slow?”

“Therapy for sexual abuse survivors usually requires at least a year.”

“Wow.”

We were quiet for a minute.

“Can I ask if this is going to be a problem for you financially?” he said.

“It'll be fine. Whatever it takes.”

The words seemed to be coming out of someone else's mouth. With each new sentence out of Doc Opie's mouth, Ben's situation sounded more grave. I was more than on the verge of tears.

“How on earth are you going to do this?” I said. “I can't even get him to talk to me about it—about anything. I'm afraid he's too far gone already.”

“If he's anything like his mother, he's a pretty tough little character. We'll play it out of him.”

“Play it out of him?”

“Play therapy. Pretend games, stuffed animals, blocks, drawing pictures, playing with clay.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “It's the best part. We have fun in here. And listen—the earlier the abuse takes place in a person's life, the more severe its impact.
But
the long-term negative consequences do not have to happen. He doesn't have to be permanently damaged. When there's positive intervention and support, we can turn this around and he can overcome all this and live a normal, happy life. You believe in God, Toni?”

“Yeah—yeah, I do.”

“Then you won't mind my talking to Ben about God.”

“No.”

“About Jesus?”

“Not at all. I'm afraid I haven't done it much.”

He grinned again. “After I get done with him, you will. Our Lord's part of the team.”

I started to close the pad, but Opie put a hand up to stop me.

“One more thing,” he said. “Tell your husband that if he's going to help Ben, he's going to have to shed any denial he might have. He's going to have to be willing to suffer painful feelings right along with him.” He shrugged. “The up side is, there's healing in it for each of you, too.”

I shook my head. “I just want Ben to get better. When can you see him?”

“How about Friday?”

I didn't tell Ben that night that he was going to be seeing a psychologist. I had to prepare myself for the next days trip to Trinity House with Wyndham, and I was quickly figuring out that I could only focus on one trauma at a time.