Only her head still rocked. “Yes, I will. She will put me there, and there’s no light.” She paled. “No one can help me since my mother died.” She fingered the wet carpet. “I made this mess. I didn’t mean to. I tried to stop it with that plunge thing, then tried to push the water back in with my hands.”
“It’s all right. And someone can help you, Derrien. I can and will help you.”
The front door opened and closed. I heard someone ask Alicia if we had a plumbing problem.
“Derrien, someone is here to fix our commode already.”
“My mom says money doesn’t grow on trees and plumbers cost lots of money.” Her voice exuded desperation. “I don’t have any money to pay for your toilet.”
“Girl, my toilet isn’t your responsibility. I have a bad toilet, and it overflows all the time.” An outright lie, but I didn’t care.
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” I lied again.
“Will you tell my mom?”
“Oh, believe me, I’ll tell your mom.” I pulled her toward me and hugged her. We were both a mess. “First, let’s get up, dry ourselves off, and wash our hands.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
We stood.
Derrien peeked into the bathroom, stared at the broken commode, then looked up at me—unsure what to do.
“We have another one,” I guided her toward what we now called Bailey’s bathroom.
As we entered the oh-so-little-girl room, a tiny light shined in Derrien’s eyes. “It’s pink in here.” She smiled briefly at the bathroom walls. “I’ve never seen a pink bathroom.”
“It’s pretty cute,” I said.
We used miles of paper towels and hand soap to clean and dry ourselves.
I smiled at her as we left the bathroom looking fairly respectable. “If you feel like having a snack,” I said to her, “I’ll have Bailey join you.”
She shrugged, stepping from the bathroom into the playroom. “Oh, Mickey,” she said looking around. “I love Mickey Mouse.” Derrien walked around the walls following the story, tracing the outline with her fingers.
I noticed her hand still trembled. “Could you eat a snack?” I asked, watching her.
“I don’t know.”
“Could you try?”
“Did you say with Bailey?”
“With Bailey.” I smiled and nodded.
I pointed to the white-washed pine table and chairs, and said, “If you’ll sit here, I’ll find Alicia, and she’ll take care of the rest. One snack for two beautiful girls coming right up.”
“I’m not beautiful. My mom explained to me that I have a plain face, and my eyes are set kind of funny.” Derrien placed white hands on her whiter face.
I touched my knuckle under her chin, lifted it upward, then pulled her hands from her cheeks and appraised her lovely face. “Your mom,” I said, “was teasing, or she’s blind. Please have a seat, beautiful Derrien.”
She sat, but her eyes darted about. A frightened rabbit.
“Will you remember to tell my mom that you have a bad commode?”
“Promise.”
She held up her little finger. “Pinky promise?” Her lips quivered.
We entwined our little fingers, and I pulled my pinky against hers. “Pinky promise.”
I moved my hand and pushed Derrien’s hair from her forehead. I smiled reassuringly then headed up front to enlist Alicia’s help.
She looked up from her desk. “Kat, I didn’t know what—”
“You did the perfect thing,” I assured her, then reached over the counter to squeeze her fingers. “She’s waiting to eat a snack with Bailey. I think she’s calmer for now.”
Alicia wagged her head. “An overflowing commode should be a nuisance, not a panic-attack trigger. Poor baby.”
“One would think,” I said. “Look on Tracia’s insurance form. Find a number where her husband—Jim, I believe it is—can be reached. I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing.” This time I shook my head. “If he is anywhere in this town, he can be in this office within thirty to forty-five minutes.” I could feel my lips pinching. “Get him here.”
“I will try. What if—”
“Get him here.”
“I will.” She grabbed the form from the file on her desk.
As I walked back down the hallway toward Tracia, I peeked through the glass window to see if Derrien seemed okay. She looked drawn and little-old-ladyish, but stable. Bailey walked in to join her.
I stepped carefully around the plumbers. Normally when we had repair people in the building, I asked them to work as quietly as possible. That day I didn’t care if it sounded as if the building was being knocked down. I had an urge to hear glass shatter and pipes bang.
“Work your magic, gentlemen.” I stepped around them.
The plumber smiled up at me. “Hey, Doc, we’ll be quiet as we can ’cause the lady up front told us you’re in session.”
“You’re the commode doctor,” I said. “Do what you gotta do. Just make it flush.”
I touched the doorknob and stood for a second, breathing deeply, in through my nose and out my mouth, as I’d been trained to do when I felt stressed or angry. I breathed a second time since I felt both. I laid my face in my hands and pressed my fingertips into my throbbing brows. I took one more deep breath, through cupped hands. Man, I had to get a real job. I wondered if they were hiring at the 7-Eleven.
I turned the knob and pushed my door open. I looked at Tracia, still engaged in mirror-mirror-on-the wall with her compact.
She snapped the lid, then slipped the powder into her purse.
I lowered myself into my chair, ten years older than when I’d left it twenty minutes earlier.
“See what I have to live with?” Disgust tumbled over her face.
“I’m getting a picture.”
“Where were we?” she asked. “Oh yeah,” she reminded me, “Jim is a joke at sex.” She attempted to continue.
“Right now, I don’t care.”
She jumped as if I’d slapped her … and, oh, how I wanted to.
“What did you just say to me?” Her neck stretched above her starched white collar.
“I said,” piercing her eyes with mine, “I don’t care.”
Tracia’s lips parted. Angry eyes glared.
“And I need to tell you I have a bad commode.”
“Did you say you have a bad commode?” She lifted her brows, looking baffled. Unlike some abusive parents who know when they’ve been busted, she appeared confused.
“No.” I grabbed her gaze with mine. “I said I needed to tell you I have a bad commode.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Ya know,” I said, “I believe you. I really don’t think you do.”
“You just said …” Her right hand floated up, “that you don’t care what I’m talking about.” Her hand fluttered and landed back into her lap.
“Tracia.” I reminded myself she was a troubled lady talking to me, not an annoying mosquito buzzing around my head at sunset. I needed to see her as a hurting person. To remind myself that only hurting people are capable of hurting a child so badly. “What did you mean when you said to Derrien that she’d not be sleeping in her room tonight?” I scrutinized her face.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Sorry about the commode thing. The child is a walking disaster. She has the opposite of the Midas touch. Everything she touches turns to you-know-what.” She pumped her fingers in the air.
Her movements were measured. Not once had I seen her hair move. “Tracia … Mrs. Dickman.” I cleared my throat, speaking slowly and deliberately. “How long have you been banishing Derrien to the shed to spend the night when you’re angry at her?”
She appeared indignant and detached at the same time. “What did Derrien say about me?”
“Tell me about the commode rules at your house.”
“Who cares?” she snapped, narrowing her eyes.
“I do. Child Protective Services does. Jefferson County does. The State of Texas does.”
“Derrien is out of control,” she said, glaring at me.
“Is that right?”
Tracia’s voice hardened. “I already told you that Jim won’t discipline her properly.” She made a snorting sound. “I told him we must train a child in the way she should go. We’ll be held accountable by God if we fail to train her right.” She almost smiled. “He finally agreed to turn her discipline over to me.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then you and Jim may be doing jail time together.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“A person living a lie … that she hates. A person who’s angry because she’s a lesbian living a heterosexual lifestyle so her mother will approve of her and God will let her into heaven.” I took a calming breath. “A conflicted person with skewed values, who puts her eight-year-old stepchild in a dark shed to spend terror-filled nights for perceived infractions of insidious-sounding rules.”
“It’s no big deal. The kid needs to listen, and if she doesn’t, she should face consequences.” She glared at me again and started to stand.
“Sit down. It’s a huge deal,” I said, just as another tap sounded at the door. I was waiting for this one.
“What the heck is this?” she asked. “What’s that kid done now?” But she sat.
Alicia stood outside my door when I opened it. “Fifteen minutes,” she said. She hesitated and then said, “And Kat, your next person canceled. She’s ill.”
I nodded, grateful, and closed my door.
I perched myself on the end of my chair. “Jim’s on his way here. I want to talk to the two of you together.”
“Jim?” Her eyes seethed. “He’s about the last person on earth I want to see. I’m leaving here right this minute.” She stood again, and somehow her purse glided into her hand.
“I asked you already to sit. Down. Tracia.”
“You think you can stop me?” Her voice summoned a new level of husky. She appeared quite calm for someone who’d just been asked to stay where she no longer chose to be. Her legal training, I suspected.
“Tracia, you have not just made me angry by mistreating Derrien. You’ve broken the law.” I waited a second, but she didn’t speak. “I can stop you from leaving, but I hope I don’t have to.”
“You’re crazy,” she said, eyeing the door.
I figured Tracia deemed everyone crazy … except Tracia. “You have a couple of choices.” I paused. “I prefer to wait for your husband, so I can explain the consequences for mistreating a child to both of you at the same time.” I still perched on the end of my chair. “Your choice,” I said. “I can say it once, or I can say it twice.”
“Say whatever you have to say to me now.” She lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa.
“I can,” I said, “but there are a few things I’d like to say before Mr. Dickman gets here.”
“This is obviously your show so say whatever you want.” She checked her nail polish. “Darn.”
She must have found or imagined a chip.
“I’ll never understand your decision to put Derrien in a dark shed.”
Tracia pulled her eyes from her nails to fasten them on me. She started to speak, but I held up my palm to stop her. “Nothing you can say is good enough. She’s a baby.” I looked long and hard at her. “But without hesitation, I can say, I understand a fraction of your anger.”
She looked both surprised and suspicious.
“I’ve gone home and wrapped my arms around my husband on multiple occasions after other gays and lesbians had been here. I’ve left this office humbled. I’ve gone home and touched his face and wondered what on earth it’d be like if I believed I had to give him up and live a homosexual lifestyle to have my family approve of me and to be worthy of heaven.”
“If I’m supposed to cry,” she said, “I’m not going to.” But then, a tear trekked slowly down her face.
“I hadn’t expected that you would. I just wanted to tell you,” I said. “I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t live a lie. But if my family and church disapproved of me, I would probably end up angry.”
“So?” Tracia asked. Her tear had dug a little trail in her makeup.
I did not offer her a tissue because I believed she would’ve been offended.
“So nothing, except on another day I could care,” I said. “I could care about your physical life with Jim. I could care about whatever is troubling you, but, on this day, I’ve discovered—without meaning to—that Derrien has been subjected to what I consider cruel and unusual punishment … child endangerment.”
“Bull,” Tracia said.
“One woman’s bull is another woman’s heartbreak,” I said, then remained silent until Jim Dickman walked through the door of The Main Street Clinic. By that time, I’d made a critical and probably controversial decision. I’d dealt with Child Protective Services many times, but I’d only been pleased with the outcome a few times. I had to decide whether I stood a better chance of positively impacting Derrien by calling CPS, or by working with her parents in my office. I opted for the latter. It would be easy to second-guess that decision, but it was a judgment call. Because I knew … if therapists had everyone arrested who came for help, no one would come. I understood as a licensed counselor I had an obligation to report child abuse. I was also cognizant that confidentiality supersedes duty to warn. With all information shaken together and rolled out on the decision board, still a judgment call. Embedded in that moment of decision, I was armed with the knowledge that intervention outside the system had worked with Bailey.
I explained to the Dickmans that sending Derrien to the shed had caused her great harm and could never be repeated. I agreed to keep seeing them once a week and not call CPS, only if they also allowed me to see Derrien. And they both had to sign a legally binding agreement, promising to never again discipline Derrien in a cruel manner. We’d painstakingly make a list of what they expected from Derrien, and what the rewards and punishments would be for compliance and noncompliance. And all lists of rules and expectations concerning Derrien’s behavior must be run by me before being presented to her by her parents.
Tracia—angry and reluctant—agreed. Her biggest fear of me calling Child Protective Services seemed to be that her pastor would find out.
Whatever worked.
Jim, who appeared sad and heavy-hearted over his daughter, possessed the plain face; his eyes were set a bit far apart. It took about thirty seconds to surmise that he thought he’d hit the dating lottery when Tracia asked him out. Jim adored Tracia but had no clue what to do with her. It made me wonder what a dog would do with his tail if he could catch it.
Sometimes I hated my job.
“I didn’t think it was right, what we were doing,” Jim said after a while. “I worry about my little girl. She seems nervous most of the time.” He looked relieved to have someone know.
“Shut up, Jim,” Tracia said, without a glance in his direction.
“Sorry,” Jim said. His scent identified him as a refinery worker. He was a slight man, about five feet, eight inches tall, maybe a hundred forty pounds, with sandy-colored hair spilling onto his forehead. He twitched and seemed unsure about where to place his hands but decided on the insides of his pockets.
“So,” I asked the couple. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“Go over it again,” Jim requested.
“At a minimum, you’re guilty of child endangerment. I could make a strong case for cruel and unusual punishment. You and Tracia have imposed unreasonable rules and disciplinary actions on your daughter.”
“I haven’t,” Jim said, casting a glance at Tracia.
She harrumphed.
“Did you know it was happening?” I asked.
“Well, yeah.”
“Did you try to stop it?”
“In the beginning I did.”
Tracia worked her foot, back and forth, back and fort
h.
“But you let it continue?” I asked.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he said.
“Then, as I said, you and Tracia have sent Derrien to the shed behind your house to sleep all alone, without a light, surrounded by bugs and mosquitoes, when she broke a ridiculous house rule.”
“I would sneak out to check on her sometime during each night,” Jim chimed in.
“Bless you.” Listen to yourself.
Tracia whipped her head in his direction. “You what?” Her hair still hadn’t moved.
“Nothing,” Jim said.
“Why does Derrien need counseling?” Tracia asked, turning her gaze in my direction.
Jim looked at me for the answer as well.
“To survive the death of her mother, and the rules imposed by the two of you.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” Jim whimpered. He reached into his back pocket, took out a folded white handkerchief, and swabbed his forehead.
“You can deal with Children’s Services if you had rather,” I offered one last time.
“No,” they both said together.
“That is all for today then, except for the signing of the contract,” I said. “The appointment after yours canceled, Tracia, so I’ll use the time to visit with Derrien.”
Jim nodded okay. Tracia looked annoyed. “You mean, you want to spend time with Derrien instead of me, even though I hardly said anything I came to say.”
“That’s correct. I will, however, see you again as soon as my schedule allows. Alicia will arrange for you to come back at my earliest convenience.” I stood. Jim and Tracia, having very little choice, stood also.
“Is there any misunderstanding about the fact that Derrien will sleep in her own bed tonight?” I asked them both.
“No, ma’am,” Tracia answered sarcastically.
“No misunderstanding,” Jim said, looking relieved.
“She is not to be punished for anything that happened, or anything that was said here today either,” I said.
“She won’t be,” Jim said.
“Tracia?”
“Okay,” she agreed. “But this wasn’t exactly the scenario I had in mind when I came here,” she said.
The Children of Main Street Page 21