“You're going to do what?” she shouted. Surprised and annoyed, he held up a restraining hand.
“Turn it down, will you? We talked about this.”
“Oh great. Why don't we take out a full-page ad or something.”
“It's confidential, Kari. For the first little while, we can even make it anonymous.”
“Yeah right. With your face.”
“People only know me on a tennis court. Nobody will have a clue who I am down there. Even if they did, we won't go in together.”
“Give me a break, will you? Every time we go anywhere somebody knows you.”
“You don't like to exaggerate, do you?”
“There's nothing wrong with me. You're the one with the problem. If you can't deal with your life, go ahead, go to a shrink. But leave me out of it!”
Nice approach shot.
The woman across the desk frowned slightly and stared past him through the window for a few moments before she turned back and gave him a questioning look. Her rather stern suit and short, straight hair, greying at the temples, gave her a no-nonsense look that reminded him of his fourth-grade teacher, but she had a pleasant mouth and laugh lines around her eyes. Several pediatricians and the American Psychological Association had given him this referral, and he was gambling the little sum he had reserved for Kari's counseling on this one.
“You have taken on quite a job,” she said, and he thought he heard some sympathy in her voice, but he shook it off. Some of the others had sounded pretty good, too, at first. This was the fifth counselor he'd talked to, and he was suspicious.
“It's unusual for someone your age to be raising a teenager,” she remarked, her voice inviting him to elaborate. “Obviously, it was not a placement. You're a relative?”
“Yes. She came to me, and at first I thought it would be for a few weeks or so. But now it looks like it may be permanent. So I need some help with this. I'm pretty sure I'm doing everything wrong.”
She smiled.
“Some kids who have no more serious problem than being thirteen may give you that feeling,” she assured him. “With an abused kid, you can multiply that. My guess is if she came to you, she trusts you more than anyone. Complete trust is probably a little way off yet. I bet she drives you crazy.”
“No kidding.”
She had one of those smiles that squeezed her eyes nearly shut.
“Most people sort of ease into parenthood. They start with an infant and move on from there. Are you shell-shocked?”
The sigh came from the farthest parts of him. He was startled to find that he almost wanted to cry.
“You said it. Totally clueless. Always wondering what did I do wrong this time, or why did I say what I said, and what am I going to do next.”
“There are two issues here, Mr. Granger,” she said, and he felt like an idiot because of the name he had picked in a hurry, to protect Kari. “You've got the job, as a young man yet, of raising a teenage girl, on your own and without preparation. On top of that she's been sexually molested. The behaviors that can come with that, the fears and anger and distrust—I'm not sure someone in your position can deal with all that.”
“I'd better deal with all that, because I won the nomination.”
“Some kind of foster care might—”
“No. Not to rag on foster parents, but it would mean taking a chance on a complete stranger. She'd feel abandoned for the third time, and she can't take any more of that. She knows I'll stick by her no matter what. She may get mad at me a lot, but if I were to dump her now—you can see how it is.”
“Is the abuser around?”
“He's in prison for another offense. She's safe.”
“Does she feel safe?”
“Safe with me, I think. Other than that—I don't know. She's kind of jumpy.”
“I see. What else?”
“She's in a rage. She started out clingy, but now she's just mad and defiant and hell-bent on doing everything she knows will get to me. Coming in late, drinking, arguing, wearing a truckload of makeup, trashy language. I've been around a lot of locker rooms and I don't talk like that. Before all this, like a year ago, she was a child. An innocent, fun child.”
“Her abuser took it away,” nodded the counselor. “Accept right now that she will never be like that again. Was it her father?”
Kitt sighed, then nodded.
“And he's your brother, a much older brother?”
“Fifteen years.”
“So you have a few feelings to work through, too.”
“Yes,” he repeated impatiently, “but I'm not here about me. I'll get over it. What I need to know is how to start turning things around, how to make her let go of this mess. And how to get her in here to talk to you.”
“You can't make her do much of anything,” the psychologist pointed out. “Maybe for the first few times, it's best that you come here by yourself. Of course you know the time will come when this must be reported.”
“I know. And that's one thing that keeps her from coming in. That, and having convinced herself that I'm the one with the problem and she's just fine.”
“Neither of those ideas are original with her. Now, the law has been modified to allow a grace period for the very reason you mentioned, that kids don't come in for help if that means they have to talk to the police and make a formal charge. We can now counsel abuse victims for six months before even asking for their legal names, and without reporting the abuse unless they give their written consent. I will give you something to read about that.”
“What if after six months they still don't want to make a formal report?”
“Sometimes they just stop coming. Often we can work it through. Naturally, the abusers shouldn't walk, but the law recognizes that the rigid rule on reporting kept a lot of kids from seeking help. Sad but true. The victims too often protect the abusers.”
“That blows me away.”
“Often the abuser is someone close to the child. There are all kinds of dynamics to this. If it was a stranger jumping out of the bushes it might be different. But we're usually talking about family relationships. The survival of the family as a family is at stake. It's not just a matter of good guys and bad guys.”
“I see.”
“Formal charges are often part of therapy. Kids need to know their pain matters and there are consequences for the abuser. They must know it doesn't make them guilty of treason if they tell. We'll deal with all that later. For now, we do what we can to help you, and indirectly your niece. That is, if you decide to come back.”
He stared at his hands, flexing them as though he was gripping a racket.
“I'll be back,” he said. “I feel better just knowing I have someone on my team who knows what she's doing.”
“Things won't change overnight. They may even seem worse for a while.”
“Oh, I may be a slow learner, but that much I have figured out,” he assured her. “Nothing has met my timetable so far. But okay, we go with hers.”
“One other thing. There's a teen parent group you might be interested in. They meet weekly for parenting classes and brainstorming sessions. There's no cost. If you want, I'll give you a referral and a phone number.”
“Sounds good to me, Dr. Forsythe. I can use all the help I can get.”
“Call me Linda.”
“I am Kitt.”
For the first time in months he wasn't entirely alone in his struggle with fatherhood. Danny, Tess. And now Linda.
The weeks and months of Jeff's incarceration dragged on. Kitt went to the prison as often as he could, coming home drained and discouraged. During one visit Jeff sat in the chair by a barred window, looking improbably fragile. How old was he now? Must be forty. Lately, he'd looked more like sixty-five, but today—today he was a child, a little boy.
Way back, when he was twenty-seven and I moved in on his life—did he feel as I do now? Did he go nuts trying to figure out how to put this kid back together? Did he ache for me as I ac
he for Kari, and get mad as I do, because he couldn't do the things he wanted to do and raise this half-grown kid, too? Did he wonder if he was helping me or messing me up? Did he lie awake asking himself what merciful deity could leave a hurting kid on the doorstep of one so clueless?
“Kari's school has a pretty good volleyball program,” he said conversationally. “I'm trying to get her interested. She's little, but she's athletic. She could be a setter. It might motivate her to get the grades, too. Heaven knows she needs them.”
“Don't complain to me. I got a kid dumped in my lap, too. You had a choice. I didn't.”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn't have to take Kari. She'd have been all right. We'd have licked the problem.”
“You said there was no problem.”
“Laura and I would have worked it out.”
“Laura hasn't worked it out yet.”
How could he ever have missed it? The tennis academy, Jeff's drive to make him a pro at age fourteen. Sure, he was after money. That was just Jeff. But it had been a copout, a way to get out from under. Just as I think of going back to the tour and sending Kari somewhere, anywhere, to be raised by someone who knows how. Just paying for it would have been so simple. Jeff had wanted his little brother out of his face, wanted him where he didn't have to bother with questions and struggles and with resistance from Laura, where he didn't have to face a grieving child without any answers. Send money for a few years and have the kid for vacations. Have someone keep him busy and teach him and pull him through. Come back when he's all grown. Safe investment. It wasn't that Jeff hadn't cared about him. But Jeff was Jeff, and he wouldn't have overlooked the easy way out.
Is that what you did? Did my talent give you opportunity and a way out of a sticky job, too? I got good, and you got hungrier. Nothing would do but I had to go pro right away. It worked and it made us both rich.
Kitt was trying to think of what to say, but to his surprise it was Jeff who spoke first and the complete turnaround threw him off balance.
“You probably don't believe me,” he said, and the nervous twitch Kitt had noticed of late became almost a spasm, veins protruding and pulsating just under the skin. “You think I am just the bastard who raped her. But she's my kid. She hates me, but she's my kid and I love her.”
He wouldn't have believed that eight months ago. Maybe not even four months ago. But he was learning.
“I know.”
I know you love her, and loved her then, and still you raped her. You have destroyed yourself, and you almost destroyed Kari.
Jeff started sobbing, quietly and hopelessly. Kitt sat on the table that separated them and drew his brother's head against his chest and held him tight. A guard came nearer, and told him to stay on his side of the table.
“It's okay. Go ahead and cry. I'm here.”
Somewhere in his head there was a faint echo, as though the words didn't come from him, but from somewhere long ago.
On his way out he dropped in at the warden's office. He'd chatted with him before, and had found him a kind man.
“He's so depressed— I guess it's natural, but I wish there was something I could do.”
The warden shook his head. “You're doing it. You're coming to see him. You'd be amazed how many guys never get any visitors.”
“But I'm kind of a living reminder of why he is here. You'd think some of his friends would have stuck by him.”
The warden glanced in the visitors’ book, and turned back a few pages.
“He does have a friend who comes to visit.”
Kitt's mouth dropped wide open.
“I'll be. Who?”
“I'm not supposed to tell you that. But I guess it won't hurt. Guy by the name of Garner. You know him?”
For a moment Kitt was too stupefied to talk. When he recovered himself his voice held a newfound respect.
“Yes. And I never liked him. Shows how you can misjudge people.”
“He's been coming pretty regular. Twice a month, anyway.”
On his way home he pondered his newest discovery. Zack visiting Jeff, standing by. He'd always seemed cold and unemotional, and yet there he was, the only one of Jeff's former friends who cared enough to make the trip to the prison compound and offer support.
At home he followed an impulse and called Zack's number. His old coach sounded wary and tired.
“Fancy hearing from you.”
“I found out you've been visiting Jeff. Didn't even know you were in town. I just wanted to say thanks. I'm sorry, Zack. I was wrong about you.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes. I guess at times like this you really find out about people. So I want to apologize.”
“Okay.”
“Well, thanks for Jeff's sake. Just wanted you to know I appreciate it.”
He and Zack, they'd never be close. Temperamentally incompatible. But he was there for Jeff, and that's what mattered. It had been Jeff's idea to hire him and it had been Jeff's house where you could find him when they were in town. They were friends. Dave was the one Kitt had picked, and look what he had turned out to be. Who else have you been wrong about?
Zack had loyalty. More than you could say for any of the coupon clippers who used to frequent Jeff's parties and sit with him in the friends’ box at the tournaments, the guys who played up to him and ate his food and drank his liquor and graced him with their presence at his showy home. Where were they now? It wasn't righteous outrage that kept them away. They knew nothing of the charges hanging over Jeff's head. All they knew was that their old buddy had pulled some fast ones with the IRS and taken dubious liberties with other people's money. Kitt was willing to bet that these were everyday activities for most of Jeff's cronies. But Jeff had got caught, and they had no time for losers.
He'd looked so defeated you had to feel sorry for him. But Jeff wasn't hurting with any sort of remorse. He was hurting for what he had lost. Jeff wanted to go back to being rich and respected. Back to before he gambled and cheated and stole, and back to before he lost his fortune, raped his daughter, and lost his wife. What he wanted was a magic reversal of history, a chance to do it over without getting hurt. He wanted nothing to do with struggle and redemption.
What more would another five or ten years in jail do to Jeff that wasn't happening now? Could it make him any lower?
Yet time and again as sleepless nights paled into morning, Kitt ended up at the same thought: He was copping out. He knew what had to be done.
What if Kari never talked? What if he went over her head and made the charge and she denied everything? She'd never trust him again. Her dad had raped her and told her to be quiet about it. Her mom had dismissed her pain. What if he did nothing? He, too, would be telling her it was no big deal.
He'd give her until Christmas.
“All other things being the same,” said Linda, “If you can get a teenage girl past fourteen, fifteen, you're over the worst. Plain old teenage orneriness gets better after that.”
“What a relief,” he said. “She's thirteen. And all other things aren't the same. Do I tack on another couple of years to compensate for that?”
“It may not show right away, but there are some good signs,” the counselor assured him. “She may come kicking and screaming, but she's coming along.”
He'd had a particularly trying week with Kari, and he was dreading the months ahead with their holidays and nostalgia. After each brief letup in her hostility she almost entirely closed up again.
“She hasn't stayed out overnight,” he conceded, “and the paint job is toned down from industrial strength to twelve-hour coverage. But she does nothing at school and she goes from whiny to belligerent in a heartbeat. She can be so contradictory I think I'll never figure her out.”
“Give me an example.”
“Okay. At times she freaks out when a guy looks at her. I told you what happened at the water park a couple months ago. Near as I can tell, some jerk kid said something suggestive when she came ou
t of the water, and she totally lost it. She was out-of-control hysterical. But then some guy from her school comes over and she's either withdrawn and almost scared, or she comes on to him so hard I want to deck her!”
Linda nodded and smiled.
“The freaking-out part of course has to do with her feelings about her body. A little bit of normal self-consciousness combined with frightening memories.”
“I understand that. But then why the one eighty?”
“It happens, Kitt. It's common, in fact. All these reactions interplay with the normal teenage development, the interest in boys, the sexual development.”
“At thirteen?”
“Often even earlier. She has conflicting feelings about herself, about her body, about growing up. Sometimes the abuse makes her want to go back to being a little girl, when she was safe and innocent. So she becomes clingy with you. Or it makes her self-conscious, and in her mind her developing body was the cause of it all. Another variation of this sense of having been at fault, having provoked it. Then comes the rebellion: I can play this game, too, see? You throw into that mix the normal awakening sexuality, and you have a pretty confused kid.”
“And all this can be fixed?”
“Not overnight. Some of it will right itself with maturity. But she needs more than time.”
“I know it and you know it, but Kari doesn't know it. It's scary to think what it will take.”
“And you're not entirely wrong in worrying about that.”
“Some days she won't come out of her room, or she's looking for a fight from the minute she gets up in the morning. She wakes up screaming almost every night. Then there's this thing about food.”
“What about food?”
“She pushes her food around, makes little landscapes and pictures on her plate with it. She eats the edges off cookies in a perfect little circle. I'm not much of a cook, so I figured that was the problem, but it's the same when I take her out to eat. She can play with a piece of pizza for an hour, and after all is said and done, she's hardly eaten a bite.”
Linda frowned.
“This is a daily thing? Does she snack a lot?”
“Not at home. She's had a regular medical checkup and nothing was wrong. When I said something the other day about her losing weight she said she was just growing taller. But I know serious weight loss when I see it. My guess is she has lost fifteen pounds. And she's just a little thing, not much over five feet, maybe five one.”
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