Normally, I would have shaken her hand, but her arms were either loaded or flailing. “How are you, Cindy?”
“Stressed,” she answered. Her nasally voice came back to me. “This is Billy,” she said, jerking her chin toward him.
“And who’s the little one?” I asked, smiling at the baby.
“Sara Beth.” Cindy’s sunken-lipped smile reminded me that she frequently showed up for class without her bottom dentures. Two of her top teeth were missing—a sign that, at such a young age, meant she’d either grown up without proper dental care, or she’d had a drug problem.
Presenting Billy dirty caused me to lean toward the former.
She grabbed her son again to discourage him from scooping all the peppermints from an earthenware bowl atop a small antique dresser in the corner of the foyer.
Watching Cindy made me tired, and the foyer seemed to shrink as I stood there.
Sensing her frustration and attempting to engage him, I said, “Billy.” I leaned to shake his hand and sniffed evidence that he lived in a household of smokers. “You must be Billy Thibbodeaux.”
His eyes stayed fastened to the candy bowl.
“Billy Martin.” Cindy divested herself of baby and baggage. “My name is Thibbodeaux, but their name is Martin.” She gestured toward both Billy and the stuffed baby carrier. “Their father’s name is Martin. My name was Martin because I married their daddy, but then we divorced, so I took my maiden name back, but then we still met up, and I got pregnant again with him.” She pointed at Billy. “So, then I moved back in with Rob, and got pregnant with her.” This time she fingered toward Sara Beth who screamed and arched her back in an effort to break free from the prison of her carrier. “We didn’t remarry. Billy, tell Miss Catherine hi. It’s Billy who needs help.”
Oh. My.
I wished Cindy could hear herself with an objective ear. Billy may need help, but he stood beside good company.
He looked up from the candy bowl, snarled, and stuck his tongue toward me.
I wanted to bite my own tongue bloody. I wondered how many times Billy had been introduced as, “This is Billy, whose father I will not marry and whose name I don’t want.” I allowed just the tip of my tongue to poke playfully back at Billy, then grinned and tossed him a wink.
Flipping her endless brown ponytail back over her shoulder, his mom crooned, “Now Billy, didn’t I tell you to be nice to Miss Catherine? Remember, Miss Collier was my favorite professor.”
Billy, still staring at the candy, backed behind his mom.
Cindy drooped. “I told you he needs help.”
I smiled. “No problem. I always like to spend most of the first session with parents of a young client. Your insight will be important.”
I took a step closer to Cindy’s little boy and leaned toward him again. Something about this unkempt boy with both hands stuffed full of my peppermints tugged at my heart. Precious. “Billy … you may call me Miss Katie … would you like to watch Frozen?”
He nodded.
Alicia darted around from behind her desk to show Cindy and Sara Beth to my treatment room.
I led Billy to the play-therapy room equipped with a TV and a DVR, a group of small chairs and a multitude of supplies that helped me help kids. The room had two large windows, one facing the front office where Alicia could keep an eye on kids and one next to my office where I could observe them. The windows were clear Plexiglas, assuring a new child would not feel isolated or frightened. Billy, if he desired, could watch us watch him.
He surveyed the room then glanced up through deep brown eyes that could have been beautiful had they not been so empty. Kids usually loved this room. An outdoor climber towered unexpectedly inside. The ladders and slide allowed some kids to work off energy on rainy or sweltering days; the walls and caverns sheltered the shy or traumatized children until they were ready to talk.
Billy just looked at it, then back at walls painted with images of Mickey Mouse and his twin nephews romping around the room. Alicia and I bought a coloring book, depicting the story of Mickey winning a fishing trip for his nephews and himself. We made transparencies from each of the pages, then found an old overhead projector in a churchyard sale to cast the images onto the wall. Tracing the images and painting them with bright colors, transformed the walls into a frame-by-frame story of the fishing excursion. The effect mesmerized most kids and many of their parents.
“That’s Mickey,” Billy said.
I pointed further down the festive scenery. “And Morty and Ferdi.”
“Okay.” His arms hung at his side.
I hoped he would show more interest in the mouse family.
Instead, stowing the peppermints in his jacket pockets, he turned and pointed toward the television.
I moved toward the shelves. “Is this movie okay, Billy?” I selected Frozen and Toy Story from the choices.
“Billy, would you like to watch one of these movies?” I showed the front of both boxes. He pointed to the one in my left hand. “Yes, I like Prozen.” He looked at me, and I smiled, but his smile muscles appeared to be paralyzed.
“Will you sit?” I pulled a small red plastic chair in front of the television.
“Yep.” He folded himself into the chair.
I touched the coarse fabric on Billy’s shoulder. “I’ll check on you shortly.”
His head bobbed okay, his face glued to the television screen.
I backed out of the playroom, all the while observing him.
I walked back into my treatment room, closing the door behind me. Opening Billy’s chart on my lap, I settled into my chair. “Cindy, what can I help you with?”
“You can put Billy on medicine so the rest of us won’t go crazy.” Her gaze circled my office. She appraised each framed diploma, license, and certificate showcased on the ivory papered walls. “You sure accomplished a lot.” She jutted her chin in my direction, her eyes brimming with sharp envy. “You must be proud.”
I smiled. “Why do you think Billy needs medication? And,” I glanced at the chart, “who are the rest of you?” The clock to my right clicked a rhythm as stale cigarette smoke wafted across the room.
“He’s a mess, that’s why. Destroys everything he touches. He kicks, and he bites, and he punches everybody.” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Billy bites his sister. Heck, he bites us all.” She exaggerated a long, loud sigh heaving her chest out, as her envious eyes swept my office walls again.
“The child won’t listen. To no one.”
“And who are the others in his life?” I asked again.
“Rob—their daddy—who Billy totally ignores. If his daddy says anything Billy doesn’t want to hear, which is almost everything, Billy tunes him out.”
“Okay.”
Sara Beth—still strapped into the dwarfed carrier on the floor at her feet— kicked to get her mom’s attention.
“Anyone else?”
Cindy tapped her chin. “Let’s see. There’s my oldest son La’Rob who is the most patient with Billy. If it weren’t for him helping me with Billy, I would have killed myself three days after the kid was born.” She clicked her teeth. “Maybe I should have, but, I’m raised Catholic and afraid of hell. And then there’s my daughter, Jessica, who openly defies me every day of her life.” She flipped her hair over her right shoulder. “She’ll occasionally help with Sara Beth, but she can’t handle Billy.”
“Anyone else?”
“Jessica’s boyfriend, Sean. I thank God every day of my life for him. He helps out with things without complaining … well, he helps out. Then there’s Sara Beth.” Cindy glanced down at her baby girl. “She’s cute, but I needed another baby like I needed a hole in my head if you know what I mean. Who am I forgetting?” She laughed through her jack o’ lantern teeth. “Oh. Me.” She gave another chuckle. “That’s our family. And of course, there’s Billy.” She bopped her forehead with the heel of her right palm. “Lord, there is Billy, the one of my kids determined to put me in
my grave.” She brought her cup to her mouth and made a sucking sound on the cup’s rim. “Do you mind if I get some fresh coffee? I can smell some brewing clear in here.”
I smiled to keep from biting my lip in frustration. “Alicia keeps it fresh and hot. Help yourself while I check on Billy.”
“Thanks.” She left the room and turned instinctively toward the coffee bar Alicia and I had set up down the hallway. Sara Beth strained to look over her carrier to see where her mother went, but she still didn’t cry.
I noted the interaction or lack thereof. Cindy hadn’t looked down at Sara Beth, just walked around her, looking for her own “fix.” If Billy knew that kind of non-attention from her, I knew already why he acted out. Failing to be noticed in a healthy way would result in receiving gratification any way he could.
But what would account for Cindy’s seeming detachment from her offspring? What had she endured as a child and from whom? I felt a bit of compassion for her, but after years of working with kids and sending them back into their own environment … I knew I had to focus on the younger victims first, then turn my care to their parents.
When I first worked as a therapist, I’d had boatloads of empathy for everybody, wanting to cure young and old. But years had taught me … I’d been more successful with the little ones. My goal became reaching the kids before they became their parents. If I could then help the adults, the story turned out all the better. But the fantasies of my early career had not met the reality of treatment.
Lord, help me remember that only hurting people hurt other people, I prayed daily.
I stood to check on Billy, then remembered …
I hadn’t returned Jordan’s call.
Chapter 3
Ipeeked through the window to find Billy sucking on a peppermint. A pink streak drooled down his chin. His cheeks rested in sticky-looking palms, while he sat rooted to the same chair watching the video he’d chosen. His orange jacket gathered tight in his arms. Shelves, furniture, and toys rested undisturbed.
A fleeting desire to be in that room with him, rather than in the room with his mother flirted with my brain.
Cindy returned to my office—Cindy with her fresh coffee met me with my fresh insight. Sara Beth lay in the carrier on the floor. By now, she’d fallen asleep. I looked at her, and yet again my heart fell into tiny pieces.
Why not me, screamed from the very core of my being. Why women like Cindy who didn’t know how to bathe their children … or discipline them … or put them in a carrier large enough for their growing bodies? Instead, I said, “Glad you found the coffee all right.”
Cindy slipped deeper into the sofa, her coffee dripping down both sides because she’d not properly snapped the lid. “Yes, it’s good.” She took a loud sip before setting it on an antique table to the right of the sofa.
I stood casually and moved her mug onto the coaster nestled beside her stainless-steel cup. “Tell me more about Billy.”
Cindy dug in her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Yes, I mind very much. Tell me more about Billy.”
She pulled her long hair loose from its ponytail scrunchy. “He won’t mind anyone. I mean not anyone.” She finger-combed her hair straight back from her face, knotting a tighter ponytail. “He won’t listen to me.” She slapped her purse closed, pushing it away. “He won’t obey Rob. He won’t mind La’Rob. He won’t mind Jessica. He sure won’t mind Sean.”
“Why would Billy mind Sean?” I scanned the form for names of people living inside Billy’s household, finding no Sean. “Didn’t you say Sean is Jessica’s boyfriend?” I looked up at her. “How old are these people who want Billy to mind them?”
“Let’s see, Jessica is seventeen. Same as Sean, and La’Rob is fifteen.”
“Are you saying Little Rob?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. La’Rob.”
“Are Jessica and Rob from a former relationship?” I pushed my foot against the carpeted floor, rocking my chair again.
“No. Rob is the father of all my kids. We just took a break before having Billy and Sara Beth. Don’t forget we also divorced.”
“I recognized you from being in my psych class. Weren’t you planning to be a legal assistant after college?”
“Yeah, right. I had babies instead.”
My teeth rattled. She made it sound so easy. “What does Rob do?”
“Oh, he has two jobs.” Cindy reached for her coffee, then nursed it. “Both minimum wage, but we get by … barely, but we do.” She returned the mug to the table, bypassing the coaster.
I considered moving the mug again but resisted. I doubted she had ever been around nice things; maybe coasters were never in her home—as a child or an adult. “So, you abandoned your dream of working in the legal profession?”
“It was never a dream. Just a notion I had for a while. I don’t think I would like the legal profession.” She shrugged. “I hate lawyers. And the kids require so much of my time.”
Maybe.
It didn’t take long to put the pieces together. Within the next few minutes, I had a clear picture of Billy’s life … and the source of his problems. That precious child had one baby sister, two moms, and three dads. And each “parent” held a different belief system concerning the child’s behavior. According to Cindy, all five adults embraced spanking, screaming, and cursing.
When I suggested that these may not be the best methods, his mother answered, “We can’t help it. He won’t respond to anything else.”
Throughout Cindy’s appointment, I left the room a couple of times to peek in on Billy. The third time I let her know I would be gone longer. While Cindy resumed digging around in her purse, I slipped out of the office and into the playroom.
Frustration colored the atmosphere around Billy.
“How are you, Bud?”
He stood in front of the television, his face scrunched into a scowl. He whirled around, thrusting the disc toward me. Angry sweat drops dotted his forehead.
“It runned out.” He jiggled the video in his right hand. “Put it back in.”
Billy spoke as if I had skipped college and gone to work as a fry cook. “Oh, the movie is over, and you want to see it again?” I smiled warmly, patting his head.
How often are you hugged, Bubba? And when was the last time your mama has been hugged?
He sloughed my hand off his head. “Yep, right now.” He stared at the television.
“Can you say please?”
“Nooo,” he wailed.
I smiled again, but with the DVD in hand, I headed toward the door. “Billy, I respect your decision.”
“Hey, you come back here!”
I turned, faced him, and calmly countered, “Hey, you say please.”
“Please.”
But he gave no show of emotion, just a Polly-wanna-cracker acquiescence. He didn’t seem satisfied that I walked toward the television. In fact, he didn’t seem anything, except blank as a domino with no dots. Missing in action. I had seen this look many times, but not in a four-year-old. Squashing a child’s spirit usually takes at least a decade. But Billy was lost before being old enough to be found.
I replaced his movie and pushed play. “Billy, thank you for saying please.”
No nod. No answer. He had disappeared again inside the land of a video … perhaps the safest place he knew. I would know after I’d spent more time with him if he had attachment disorder. I hoped not.
Father, I know You have a divine plan for Billy’s life. And I know this can’t be it.
I lingered for a few minutes before returning to Cindy.
“I don’t know what’s going on with Billy,” I said as I returned to my chair, noting instantly that her coffee had bled onto and stained the coaster. “But I’m pretty sure already of what’s not going on.”
“What?”
“Billy is not hyperactive nor does he have ADD.”
“Do you mean you’re not gonna help me get him on medicine?” She looked like I’d r
efused to rewind her video. She yanked her scrunchy loose again and rebound her hair so tight, it left her facial features chiseled.
“Cindy, a little boy who is able to watch a forty-minute video while keeping both legs and arms still, sitting quietly by himself, cannot have ADD.”
Anger lit rapidly blinking eyes. “He’s just controlling himself for you because he likes it here. Wait till you see what happens when we try to leave here. Boy, are you in for a shock.” She smirked.
“That’s my point. He’s able to control it. If he’s attention deficit, with or without the hyperactive component, it’s a disorder. A disorder is appropriately called that because the behavior is outside the sufferer’s control.” I need you to hear me, Cindy. “If Billy can control his behavior and doesn’t, he needs routine, appropriate instructions, and proportional discipline … not medication.”
“I wanted you to help me,” she whined. “I thought you could help me.”
“I had believed you wanted me to help Billy. You made the appointment for him, didn’t you?”
“It’s all the same thing, isn’t it?”
I shook my head, “No.”
Cindy focused on a Victorian painting of a child with an angelic face and hands clasped together holding a bouquet of pink posies. The painting hung above my head. Behind my chair. “You have a lot of pretty things,” she said, as though the rest of our conversation hadn’t taken place.
“What do you like about the painting?”
“Believe it or not, I used to have that same hopeful smile on my face. You know, when I was a little girl and before my dad … well … just before my dad.”
“What about him?”
“He thought I was beautiful. I thought he loved me …” Her eyes drifted from the painting to the carpet and back to the painting. “But it was not love.”
Ah-ha. And there it was. “Cindy, I am so sorry.” I scooted up in my seat and leaned toward her. “You have Medicaid, sweetheart. It won’t cost you one cent to come here. This is Billy’s session, and I must get back to him. However, I’m not sure you could be free to trust and love completely without seeking help for yourself. And I hate that your father abused you.”
The Children of Main Street Page 3