by T. E. Woods
“On top of the marbles?” Tim looked skeptical.
Lydia shrugged. “Hey…you’re the one who came to me.” She held his stare. “You want me to fix this or not?”
—
The many intakes were exhausting Lydia. But she was starting over, rebuilding her practice from scratch. The thought of Tim, Krystal, and several others already on the schedule for next week gave her the second wind she needed to push away from her desk when the door chime signaled her last patient of the day. Another intake. Dee Norlin had called two days ago looking for direction in parenting what she called “a suddenly unruly daughter.” She’d asked if she and her husband could come in as soon as possible.
Lydia greeted the couple and escorted them into her office. Dee Norlin was an expensively dressed, petite redhead who carried herself with studied precision. Her husband seemed more relaxed. He was just under six feet tall, just shy of two-hundred pounds, and just about as comfortable in his chinos and denim shirt as Lydia could imagine a man to be.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Norlin.” Lydia shook his hand.
“Call me Ken, if you don’t mind.” He glanced around the office. “Nice. Where do you want us?”
Lydia indicated the sofa. Dee fussed with the hem of her St. John skirt while Ken settled back and crossed his legs. Lydia began the conversation by giving them an overview of confidentiality, then got to the matter at hand.
“You said on the phone your daughter was giving you a run for your money.”
Dee looked to Ken.
“Hey, it’s not my story.” Ken’s voice was calm, almost playful. “You’re the one who wanted to come. I’m ready to chalk it up to age and stage.”
Dee’s lips tightened. “It’s gone way beyond that.” She brought her focus to Lydia. “Ken and I have been married four years, Dr. Corriger. My daughter is fourteen. Ken’s been a wonderful stepfather to her.” She reached over and laid a hand on her husband’s leg. “I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful or attentive husband.”
Lydia nodded. “Stepparenting is a tough job. What’s your daughter’s name?”
The couple glanced at each other.
“I call her Peanut,” Ken said. “She’s a little bit.” He turned to his wife and smiled. “Just like her mother.”
“And you, Dee? What do you call her?”
Dee’s fingers played with her skirt once more. “It’s difficult for me to use a pet name these days.”
Lydia set their evasion aside for the moment. “What has you so upset with her?”
Dee again turned to her husband before speaking. “I blame myself. I was always a stay-at-home mother. I was unhappy in my first marriage and my daughter became my world. I’m afraid I’ve spoiled her.” Her eyes remained fixed on the hand twisting the hem of her skirt.
“Now, honey.” Ken wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “You can’t go blaming yourself for this.”
Dee didn’t look sure. “When my daughter started school my days were empty. I needed to do something other than sitting around an empty house thinking about how miserable my marriage was.” She glanced up to Lydia. “So I got myself a job. Lots of mothers work, right?”
Lydia nodded. It was as common for some parents to assume the blame for adolescent misbehavior as it was for others to blame their children for their own misdeeds.
“That’s where I met Ken,” Dee continued. “I suppose it’s an old story, but we really did start off as friends.” She looked up toward her husband. “We fell in love. I wanted full custody of my daughter in the divorce, of course, but…well, you know how the courts are these days. My daughter soon found herself being torn between two houses.”
Lydia noted her aggressive tone. “Torn is a tough word, Mrs. Norlin.”
“Please call me Dee.” Her tone softened. “I suppose I am a bit resentful. I mean, shouldn’t a child be with her mother? Especially when we can provide her with so much more than—”
Ken interrupted his wife. “It’s not about material goods. A girl needs both her mother and father. We’ve talked about this.”
Lydia watched Dee back down.
“Tell me what your daughter’s doing that has you so upset.”
“My husband’s a good man, Dr. Corriger. Ask anyone who knows him. He and his family have given more than anyone knows to this community. And for my daughter to…to accuse…”
A mental tumbler clicked as Lydia watched Dee search for words while her husband stared down at this lap.
“What is your daughter’s name?”
Dee raised her eyes to meet Lydia’s. “Emma. My daughter’s name is Emma Sorens.”
Lydia closed her notebook and sat quietly as she controlled her irritation. “And your name isn’t Dee Norlin, is it?”
Kenton Walder squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “I told you, honey. There was no reason for a cover. We’ve done nothing wrong.” He turned toward Lydia. “Norlin is my wife’s maiden name. See, we don’t know what to do next. Your associate, Dr. Edwards…we know Emma’s father brought her in for an evaluation.”
Lydia remained silent.
“I know about confidentiality.” Kenton Walder spoke as his wife reached for a Kleenex. “It was our lawyer who told us. The judge ordered an evaluation after Emma said what she did about me. We wanted her to be seen by a specialist in Seattle, or at the very least that social worker we were referred to in Tacoma, but Will—that’s Emma’s father, Dee’s former husband—he insisted on bringing her here. Of course our attorney was informed.” He pulled his gently crying wife closer to him. “Dee just wanted to make sure Emma’s being well cared for. That’s all either of us want.”
“And the misleading name?” Lydia asked.
Walder shrugged. “Dee didn’t want you to have any preconceived notions about who we were. She wanted you to hear our situation independent of any picture you may have formed from the press coverage.”
Lydia hoped her delayed response would telegraph the doubt she placed on his explanation. “I can’t say one way or another about who may or may not be seen in this office,” Lydia said. “But if you were informed Emma was being seen by Dr. Edwards, why did you contact me?”
“He wouldn’t see us,” Dee answered. “Something about needing to stay true to the assessment protocol. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
Zach’s stock went up a notch in Lydia’s mind. However, she wished he’d have contacted her to inform her of Emma’s mother’s inappropriate request.
“What did you expect to learn from me?” Lydia asked.
“We don’t want to learn anything about the assessment, Dr. Corriger. We’ll read your colleague’s report when the judge sees fit to give it to us.” Ken handed his wife another tissue. “This whole situation has been devastating for Dee. And for Emma. We can’t imagine what’s led her to make these claims.”
“I told you it was wrong to let Will spend so much time with Emma.” Dee’s words were filled with spite. “He’s always been jealous of you, Ken. He’s behind this, I’m certain.”
“Now, Dee.” Kenton Walder’s voice indicated he was practiced in soothing his wife. “Let’s not go adding to the accusation heap. There’s enough finger-pointing going around.” He looked to Lydia. “We need help, Dr. Corriger. You come highly recommended.” He smiled. “And I want my family to have the best. We need help dealing with this whole mess. How can we help Emma through it? Obviously she’s a very troubled young girl. I don’t know if it was the divorce, or her mom marrying me. I know the lifestyle between Will’s house and ours is very different. Maybe that’s thrown her for a loop. And if Will is indeed behind this whole thing…well, we’re going to need some help dealing with that betrayal, too. My wife and I are coming to you looking for help in coaching us through this thing.”
Lydia watched him comfort his wife. Any family facing accusations of child abuse would be thrown into a whirlpool of insanity. It made perfect sense they’d seek professional help to guide them through. But that he
lp couldn’t come from Lydia. She was already seeing Will Sorens.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. and Mrs. Walder.” Lydia stood. “Your attorney can direct you to another therapist. I wish you both the best of luck.”
Dee Walder turned to her husband with a confused look.
Kenton Walder patted his wife’s knee before he stood. “I recognize the complexity this case may represent, Dr. Corriger. But as I said, you’re the one who was recommended. I’d be more than happy to supplement any payment you’d be receiving from my insurance company.”
Lydia stepped to the door and pulled it open. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Walder. I’m not available.”
Walder’s eyes shifted from pleasant to something that flashed by too quickly for Lydia to read before they settled back to the understanding that he was being dismissed. He reached down for his wife’s hand, pulled her upright, and escorted her to the door.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Corriger.” Walder’s handshake was firm. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.” He led his wife out of the room.
Lydia stood watching until the couple left the building. Her mind drifted back to Zach’s summation of his assessment with Emma Sorens. I believe Emma was sexually abused by her stepfather…and Kenton Walder is going to get away with it.
Chapter 15
OLYMPIA
“Was your day as rotten as mine, little one?” Lydia took heart at the owl’s strong warning, yet laughed at the bird’s focus on the box in her hands. “Oh, so it’s like that, is it? You want me to leave you alone, yet you want what I have. I’ve had many patients like you.” She set the box aside, pulled the wooden ruler from the drawer, and began what had become their three-times-daily rehabilitation ritual. After less than a week the owl had learned what to do and responded by raising both its wings again and again without needing to be prodded. Lydia was pleased to see the right wing open and rise in complete tandem with the left.
She set the ruler aside after ten minutes of exercising and reached for the box. “You’ve earned it.” She had come to think of the bird as male. “But you must promise me you’ll not grow accustomed to room service.” Lydia understood the danger of captivity for the owl. She hadn’t nursed him to health only to have him starve to death waiting for the bothersome woman with the ruler to bring him his evening meal. She opened the lower cage door and shook the mouse into the wood shavings and pine needles lining the bottom. “Bon appétit. Last time for in-home delivery.”
The mouse scurried about under the watchful eye of the owl. Unlike previous evenings, the bird didn’t pounce. Lydia stood back and waited as the bird stood in silent surveillance on its perch.
“Not hungry?”
The bird kept its eyes on the prey but didn’t make a move. After several long minutes an idea came to her. Lydia stepped to the door, turned out the light, and left the darkened room. She went upstairs and poured herself a glass of merlot. The evening was still warm enough for her to enjoy it on her deck. She settled into an old Adirondack chair. The sun was lowering behind the Olympics. She waited until a fiery line of red outlined the now-black mountains before returning to the basement. She entered the room and clicked on the light. The owl was still on his perch. He rotated his head toward her and greeted her with a contented hoot. Tufts of bloody mouse fur dotted the bottom of the cage.
“I forgot, didn’t I?” She reached for the worn leather gardening gloves on the side of the bench. “But you’re remembering you’re the type who kills alone…in the dark.”
Lydia pulled on the gloves and slid the large cage off the table. She balanced the base on her leg until she could get a firm grip. The owl screeched its discontent as she maneuvered a way to carry the bulky contraption. “Quiet in there. This is your big night.”
She managed to get the cage up the stairs, through the house, and out onto the deck. She set it down, pushed it to the edge, and sat back down in her chair. It was full-on dark now, with only the moon and a few stars dotting the cloudy night. Lydia leaned back and studied the sky. She’d seen the vast expanse of the Milky Way several times on her travels. Her work as The Fixer had taken her to locales where countless millions of stars lit the night as bright as the Las Vegas strip. She’d been able to look at the massive array for only a few moments before becoming overwhelmed with a sense of her own insignificance. The heavens are more manageable here. Not as crowded. Like maybe there’s a place for me.
The owl screeched. This time louder than she’d ever heard. She pulled herself out of the chair.
“You ready?” She opened the larger double door, exposing the entire front of the wire cage. “Off you go.”
The bird didn’t move. Lydia stepped back and looked again to the stars. Save this one. Let this one be okay.
Lydia returned to her chair. She sat and watched the owl step to the left and right across its perch. Finally she saw its wings open wide, each equally strong. The owl kicked itself free and soared up into the night. Lydia watched it circle once, high above her, before it flew out of sight.
Chapter 16
OLYMPIA
“How do you want to start?” Zach Edwards sat across from Lydia’s desk.
Lydia saw his stack of files and the thumb drive with his recorded sessions. “Tell me what it was like for you. You’ve had a full week of patients now. How are things?”
“The pacing’s good.” Zach had a confidence Lydia was sure served him well with his patients. His secondhand style of dressing might put them off initially, but his quiet, sure-handed way of speaking could inspire them to give him a chance. “I had four intakes this week. Each of them coming from county mental health. Want me to list them?”
Lydia noted that he’d lost her question in his eagerness to please her. “Before you do that, I want to know what it’s been like sitting in a room while patients share their pain.”
Zach nodded. “That was your question, wasn’t it? Sorry.”
He caught himself. Good.
“I like the way my time’s blocked out,” Zach said. “Having the two half days allows me to focus.” He looked around the cozy room. “This environment couldn’t be further away from my cubicle in Dr. Luther’s lab. I’m sure you set it up for the comfort of the patients…and it works for me, too.”
So much for the obvious. Will you get to what you know I meant by the question?
“And of course, I’ve only had one session with each of my patients,” Zach continued. “Some of their experiences are hard to hear, but I’m sure we haven’t gotten to the deepest part of their injuries yet. I’m able to stay with them. So far nothing’s bothered me.”
“How are you going to make sure you keep yourself centered?”
“You mean what’s my plan for keeping myself unbothered by what my patients tell me?”
Lydia noted his use of the word unbothered. She’d have to think more about that.
“I know my role here,” he said. “I’m here to coach my patients to do the things they need to in order to solve their own problems. To build their own lives in a healthy and effective way. It may sound cold, but I can’t allow myself to become enmeshed with their struggles. I can’t care, if that makes sense. I can certainly care for them. But it’s my belief that the moment I start caring about what they do, decisions they make, stumbles they take along the road to recovery…then I’m of no use to them.”
Lydia recognized that he was wise for one so early in his career. She’d seen too many well-intentioned therapists burn themselves out in their quest to save their patients.
“I keep my boundaries tight,” he continued. “I’m their therapist. I’m not their friend or their daddy. We’re here to accomplish a goal.” He shifted into a smile and Lydia saw a crack in his earnest professionalism. “Then I go home. I play racquetball with my buddies. I watch old episodes of Seinfeld, and sometimes I let my girlfriend beat me at chess. Aside from being broke”—he gave Lydia a you’ve-been-there look—“my life is good. And I make sure I remem
ber that.”
Lydia remembered the gut-grinding poverty of grad school and residency. “Tell you what, from now on we’ll have these sessions over lunch. On me.”
Zach’s face lost its professional mask completely. “Oh, no, Dr. Corriger! That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry if—”
“No worries.” Lydia was happy to see him a bit flummoxed. “It’s lunchtime, we both need to eat. Think of it as efficient. Now, tell me who you’ve seen this week.”
Zack pulled the first file folder from his stack. “Eric Schuell. Forty-eight-year-old, unemployed, divorced white male with symptoms consistent with major depression. History of excessive marijuana use, none in the last ten years. Wants to work on getting a job. I’ve got a call in to the mental-health center to see if we can get him evaluated for antidepressant medication.” He set Schuell’s folder aside and reached for the next on the stack. “Heather Blankenship is sixteen. She’s a junior at River Ridge High School. Good kid. Reports her uncle’s been sexually abusing her for over a year. Her dad’s a pastor at a small fundamentalist church. She wants help, but doesn’t want her dad to know. Apparently he’s quite close to his brother.”
“Has she reported this to anyone else?”
Zach shook his head. “Said she didn’t want to make trouble for anyone. She saw a pamphlet the agency put out, took herself down there, and they referred her here. She was pretty guarded at first, but finally she told me what the issue was.”
“Have you contacted Child Protective Services?”
“I thought I’d talk to you before I did.” Zach sounded like a man afraid he’d made a mistake. “Heather’s uncle is out of town. Apparently he’s a long-haul truck driver who’s on the road for weeks at a time. He’s not expected back till the end of the month.”
“You have a duty to report, Zach,” Lydia reminded him. “When do you see her next?”
“Friday.”
“You have to report it. Offer to let her do it. Tell her you’ll sit right beside her as she makes the call. But if she refuses, you have to call.”