Antonia's Choice

by Nancy Rue

  “I want to apologize for my outburst yesterday,” I said. “Did you lose Mr. Marshall’s account?”

  Jeffrey shook his head, the pistol-fingers rubbing the end of his nose

  “I would be happy to write him a letter,” I said. “Unless you think that would make things worse.”

  “The man is not a stone wall, Toni, and neither am I. Why didn’t you tell me what you and your son were going through?”

  It took me a minute to remember that I had spewed the news about Ben’s molestation in Marshall’s face with Jeffrey right there on the scene. I was sure the people back in the mailroom had heard it. It was probably all over Westend by this time.

  “Do you think I’m an ogre?” Jeffrey said.

  “No, of course not. I just try to keep my business and personal lives separate.”

  “But you haven’t been able to pull that off, have you?”

  I bit back a retort and merely looked at him.

  “You aren’t here half the time you need to be, and when you are here, you aren’t really here, not completely. Ginny has had to take up your slack—”

  “Which I’m sure she is more than happy to do. Look, Jeffrey, could we just cut to the chase? If you’re letting me go and replacing me with Ginny, please just say it.”

  Jeffrey’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s a little blunt.”

  “It’s honest. I don’t think either one of us has time to beat around the bush.”

  “All right.” Jeffrey leaned forward, hands folded neatly on the desk. “I suggest you take the rest of the week off and get your life in order. Then come back Monday, ready to go back to full-time here at the office.”

  I expected a rush of relief. All I felt was panic. I could barely get done what I had to with Ben and Wyndham on half-time. Full-time was out of the question. But how was I going to maintain without the salary I was making? There were more stocks I could sell, an IRA I could get into, but how long was that going to last—especially if Chris was going to keep his head in the sand and not help pay for Ben’s therapy?

  “You have to think about it?” Jeffrey actually looked insulted.

  “No—sorry,” I said. “I’m just…trying to sort.”

  “That’s why I’m giving you the rest of the week off. Get your head clear, get your life back on track, come back ready to do what I know you can do.”

  He smiled, though no mirth reached his eyes. I didn’t smile back, nor did I say what I wanted to. But I thought it, bitterly, as I left his office. Thanks for the generosity, Jeffrey—but I think it’s going to take longer than a weekend to get my life back on track. If I ever do.

  Ginny had some papers I needed to sign ready for me when I stopped by my office. I didn’t give her any instructions. I barely gave her the time of day.

  “Will I see you Monday?” she said as I was leaving.

  There were a number of things I wanted to say to her, not the least of which was, You’re really enjoying all of this, aren’t you? But suddenly I just didn’t have the steam. All I could tell her was the truth.

  “I don’t know. I guess you’ll see me if you see me.”

  I then went to Reggie’s office where she was just getting off the phone. She lowered her voice as I scooted a chair close to her desk.

  “Dr. Michael Parkins checks out great,” she half-whispered. “Not only is treatment for sexual abuse and PTSD his specialty, but he teaches workshops all over the country for other child therapists, and he has a book coming out at the end of this year.”

  “Great,” I said. “At last—a lucky break.”

  Reggie gnawed at her lip, chewing away a strip of Luscious Rose lipstick that matched her nails.

  “What?” I said.

  “Well, honey, I don’t want to sound—oh, whatever, I don’t care how I sound. If you’re gonna be doin this the Christian way, you can’t be chalkin’ this stuff up to luck.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You’re putting Wyndham in a Christian facility, you’re taking Ben to a Christian therapist. You don’t think maybe God has a little bit to do with all this? You don’t think this is Jesus’ healing at work?”

  “This psychologist is a Christian?”

  “Is that some kinda big surprise?”

  “Not when I think about it. Yancy’s the one who recommended him to me, so it makes sense.”

  “The point is, a man who knows the Lord is the very best person to be working with Angel Boy, now don’t you think?”

  “Yeah—especially since I’m not sure I know Him. I never even thought about it that way, to tell you the truth. I guess I’m completely disconnected.”

  Reggie waved me off with her hand. “Get on outa here, honey. You don’t feel connected? You’ve got Hale—Dominique—”

  “Dominica.”

  “Yancy, me, the whole Trinity House, for heaven’s sake. Sounds like you’re pretty well networked to me.” Reggie leaned in conspiratorially. “You think that’s an accident?”

  “Maybe not. But it’s like I keep telling Hale, I’m not consciously asking God for all this stuff.”

  “It’s not all about you, sugar. The rest of us are askin our little heads off.”

  “And I appreciate it. I really do.” I shrugged. “What the heck—it’s working.”

  “You just keep jumpin’ into what God’s givin’ you and you’re gonna be fine, darlin.”

  “I never heard that in church.”

  Reggie sniffed. “I guess you just went to the wrong church.”

  “I probably just wasn’t listening.”

  “Then maybe you better start.”

  I had lunch with Wyndham at the house that day—a rather chilly affair over chicken salad and croissants from Provence, what I considered to be the only decent place to get bread in Tennessee. She didn’t appear to be impressed. She was polite but removed, and I didn’t seriously blame her. I felt like Benedict Arnold by the time I got ready to leave her with Bunny so I could go see Dr. Parkins.

  “I’m sending you to Trinity House because I love you and I want you to have a happy life,” I said to her back as she went up the stairs. I was standing at the bottom, car keys in hand.

  She stopped midway to the top and turned to me. “Why does everybody think I need to be shipped off to be fixed before I can be happy? You’re just like her.”

  “Bobbi-her or my mother-her?”

  “Bobbi. I told her once that I wanted to kill myself, and you know what she did?”

  I shook my head.

  “She sent me to the school counselor.”

  I fumbled so as not to drop my keys. “You told your counselor you were suicidal and she didn’t—”

  “I didn’t tell her. I got in there and I couldn’t say anything.” Wyndham’s voice broke. “All I wanted was for my mother to care about me for ten seconds.”

  “But I’m not like her!” I said. “I’m not sending you off for somebody else to fix you. I’m going to be involved. You’re going to see me once, maybe twice a week, and we can talk every day. I’m going to give you everything I can.”

  Wyndham gave an unconvincing nod and went on upstairs, where Bunny was waiting. I was once again riddled with doubt.

  But I had to focus on Ben, which wasn’t hard to do once I reached Dr. Parkins’s office in the 100 Oaks section of Nashville. His office was in a renovated house, vintage 1935, with a white picket fence and a backyard full of playground equipment. I read the sign out front twice to make sure I hadn’t pulled up at a preschool. The play yard at Hillsboro didn’t look this inviting.

  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 g
rin 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?”
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  “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.”