by Zoje Stage
“Marshes is a unique facility that I found, as I said, a few years ago for another family. It’s modeled after a facility in the UK, and provides immersive treatment for children with severe behavioral issues. She’ll live there. Go to school there. Have her therapy. And she’ll have one-on-one supervision twenty-four hours a day. She’ll have someone with her in class, someone monitoring her playtime, someone available to her at night—”
“It sounds like a prison,” Alex said, hostile, his mouth full of bagel.
“Marshes has developed a very effective strategy. Part of that is removing the child from the environment that may have exacerbated their problems.” She took a moment to consider each of them. “I won’t lie to you—some of the kids at Marshes come from extremely abusive households…”
Suzette stopped chewing, a knot of panic in her throat. She’d thought the diagnosis of a mental illness would get her off the hook, remove her parenting from blame. She glanced at Alex, half expecting him to erupt. He kept his glowering eyes on Beatrix, but listened without interrupting.
“The children have anger issues, bonding issues. And a lot of them have problems communicating. But sometimes …
“One of the things we’ve come to understand is, there’s an environmental component to a lot of children’s behavior, but each child is also hard-wired in their own way. Sometimes the combination of environment and hardwiring doesn’t work, and that’s where a place like Marshes can be helpful. They’ll figure out how to understand Hanna and get through to her, and then they can communicate that to you and help you figure out how to make it work at home.”
“That sounds really good. That’s what we need,” Suzette said with more enthusiasm than she felt. But Alex didn’t look won over.
“Isn’t there just something … If she’s sick, isn’t there a medication we can give her?” Alex asked.
Beatrix fidgeted with her pen, her eyes darting between the two of them. “I’m sorry, it’s not that simple. For some conditions, that’s part of the therapy. Others require more in the way of behavioral modification. The psychiatrists at Marshes may yet recommend something, once they’ve done a full evaluation. Marshes is experienced with treating children that fall within the sociopathic/psychopathic diagnosis—”
“You think that’s what’s wrong with Hanna?” Alex asked.
His posture held an alertness, a desperation to have a name for the problem.
“Hanna’s situation is … unique. She seems to function well much of the time. Even tempered, well behaved. Perhaps a bit withdrawn. But the mutism. Did she speak at all over the weekend? Did her witch-self say any last words?”
“No, nothing,” Suzette said.
Beatrix made a note before continuing. “I’ve given Marshes some preliminary information about what I know so far—elements of delusion, psychosis. She’s a child with a great imagination, so what could seem like illness in an adult could be something quite different for a child. But the great concern is the calculated nature of her violence. Her clear intent and determination, and her overall lack of remorse—”
“She’s not—she regretted what she did,” Alex said.
“No, she regretted not being able to finish the job.” Suzette gazed at her husband, willing him to see the difference.
“I can’t make a clear diagnosis right now. She may have some empathy—or some kind of emotion—toward Alex, but it doesn’t extend toward you. But we don’t really understand … what she understands, or what she thinks she’s experiencing. So psychopathy can’t be ruled out.”
“Oh no,” Alex groaned. Suzette wrapped her arm through his, pressing herself tightly to him. Alex took in quick, shallow breaths.
“Is that curable?” Suzette asked, her voice high and tremulous. She loved Hanna too much to wish any of her own fate on the girl; she wanted Hanna to be all right. It horrified her to think of her child with an endlessly rocky future, always threatened by an abyss.
“Hold on—I see the panic in both of your faces. Let’s take this one step at a time. We’re learning more about this all the time. I believe there are differences between being a sociopath and being a psychopath, and I also believe receiving the diagnosis as a child is ultimately helpful—children with these conditions are more treatable than adults. They’re still developing and new patterns can be nurtured—through behavioral modification and the reinforcement of empathy skills. The effort is to reignite that part of their brain.
“Now, my delineation for a sociopath is that it’s more often an acquired behavior—that can originate from abuse, or a brain lesion of some kind. Sociopaths are liars who manipulate toward a desired outcome, but they tend not be as callous as psychopaths. Psychopathy can be genetic, the structure of the brain, and it can include chemical and physical components—a lesion on a particular part of the brain, not unlike the sociopath—but it’s marked by more-aggressive, remorseless traits: where a sociopath might manipulate, the psychopath attacks.”
Suzette saw a way out—a reprieve from the worst diagnosis. “Would something show up on a CT? A lesion? She just had a CT and there was nothing wrong.”
Beside her, Alex’s face grew brighter with hope. But Beatrix frowned.
“Typically, these abnormalities are found using a contrast-enhanced MRI. It’s an option that could be considered for the future.”
Deflated, Suzette and Alex nodded.
“I know how it sounds, but especially in the young, these behaviors can be modified; they can learn to understand empathy, even if it isn’t something that comes naturally to them. So these diagnoses, while frightening, don’t mean all is lost. Especially in the young. It’s a long road, just as it is when you’re dealing with any chronic condition.”
“Like my Crohn’s,” Suzette said to Alex, not wanting him to lose all hope. “It’s hard, but she might learn how to manage it.” When he glanced at her, his eyes glistened.
“You know Hanna has a joyful side, an engaged side. You’ve had real pleasure with her, and she’s so creative and intelligent,” Beatrix said, emphasizing all the positive words. “There’s something real and encouraging to work with here. All is not lost.”
Alex nodded, looking more optimistic than before. But Suzette couldn’t relinquish the fear that she’d done something—something the therapist and Marshes would deem abusive—to turn Hanna into a sociopath.
“How did it turn out for the other family?” she asked. “Are they back together, is the child okay?”
“They are. They’re doing okay.”
Suzette hated how tepid and cautious Beatrix sounded. The whole prospect of Marshes appealed to Suzette because it fulfilled two primary functions: get Hanna out of the house for a short time, and return her when they were all better equipped to live happily ever after. “Okay” smacked of mediocrity. “Okay” wasn’t a promise of future happiness.
“Isn’t there … anything else?” Alex asked. “Out-treatment?”
“Regular therapy sessions…” Beatrix shook her head. “It’s not enough. Suzette’s life will be in real danger if Hanna remains in the house. That, more than anything else, is crystal clear.”
Scarcely breathing, Suzette waited for Alex to look at her. Who would he choose? She dreaded the possibility where, to spare Hanna an inpatient facility, he’d suggest that Suzette move out. Leave them.
But he looked at her with longing, with tears.
“I should never have doubted you,” he said. “Maybe it’s my fault, that staying home isn’t an option for her anymore. If I’d listened to you sooner … I just couldn’t believe … anyone, when they said how bad she was, at school, everyone. And sometimes—I could never say this, I can’t say this—I’ve missed you so much, and I felt guilty. Guilty because you were right: being parents changed us, the two of us. And it killed me to think how it had been between us, before Hanna. You, all to myself. Then I felt like I owed her more, because what sort of father has moments of regret…”
“Oh Alex!” She
pressed her forehead against his, gripping his hair like she could pull him from an abyss. That they had been so in sync all along, and both of them too aghast to admit it.
“And then last night … He didn’t believe me, but the doctor couldn’t prove it. And Hanna played him. Snuggled up like I was her hero, even after what I did … I saw it, and wondered how many times … And you’ve told me for years … All that time I just wanted to protect, what we had—what we were supposed to have. I don’t even know what that is anymore. But I have to protect you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He sobbed, and collapsed in Suzette’s arms.
Beatrix gently pushed over the well-placed box of Kleenex. He grabbed up a handful and blew his nose.
Suzette held him, squeezed him, rocking him a little. How many people had sat on Beatrix’s couch and wept in realization that their sense of loss, of bewilderment, could not be wished away? Perhaps other parents had unraveled in the same way, sitting just as they were, facing a frightening diagnosis as their ephemeral hope was dismantled by reason.
“I know it’s hard,” Beatrix said. “But you won’t be alone. I continued to counsel the other family while their child was away, and I’d like to do that with you as well. I still don’t know very much about your family dynamics, but if you allow me to share what I learn with Marshes, that could be very helpful for them in understanding Hanna.”
“Of course,” Alex agreed without hesitating, sitting up, wiping the tears from his pinked cheeks. Suzette envied him. Ultimately, if Hanna were diagnosed as a psychopath, neither of them would be at fault. But if they decided her problems were a result of a dysfunctional household or bad parenting, Suzette would take the bulk of the blame.
“So what do we do next?” she asked.
“You’re on Marshes’ radar, and I’ll let them know when to expect you. They prefer to do intakes on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but if you needed to take her today or tomorrow—”
“Wednesday’s in two days—” Suzette was surprised by how quickly everything was moving.
“She doesn’t know anything about it, she’s not packed,” Alex said, his voice rising in protest.
“I wouldn’t recommend waiting,” Beatrix said. “It’s not impossible that Hanna will make a more direct attempt on Suzette’s life.”
That silenced him. He swallowed hard. “I’ll stay home. The whole time, until then,” he said to Suzette.
“Where is it? How often can we visit her?” she asked.
“It’s just outside of Harrisburg, so about a three-hour drive. The grounds used to be a working farm, so they have a fair bit of land. It’s quite a beautiful setting.” Beatrix hesitated. “Marshes will determine a visitation schedule, based on what they think will work best for Hanna. I don’t want to sugarcoat it—they may only suggest three or four visits a year. Sometimes family visits are disrupt—”
“A year? A year?” Alex couldn’t hide his shock. “How long will she be there?”
“Again, I don’t want to lead you astray. But a typical stay at Marshes is one to three years.”
Suzette’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t imagine not having Hanna under their roof again until she was ten years old. That’s not what she wanted. She needed a break, a few weeks, maybe a few months. Not a few years.
She and Alex looked at each other.
“Are you okay with…?” he asked.
“What else are we going to do?” An unforgivable thought wormed its way in: would it be so terrible, just the two of them again?
“What if she doesn’t like it?” Alex asked Beatrix.
“None of the kids like it at first. She’ll need some time to adjust. I know this is hard. The situation at home is difficult, but sending a young child away—”
“There’s nothing closer?” Suzette asked.
“Marshes is a very specialized facility, and really, we’re lucky to have one so close. I have colleagues who have to recommend out-of-state options for their clients; sometimes they end up relocating the whole family. I know how it seems—but it’s not a punishment. For her, or you.”
Suzette found some comfort in that. But Alex had one last grasping concern.
“But … If she doesn’t adjust … At some point, there has to be an agreement … We can’t just send her off to be miserable and not care what happens after she’s gone. If she’s miserable, if she’s worse—”
“She’s not going to prison. They’ll communicate with you. Plus, you can both see me—and I can communicate with them. And there will be visiting opportunities. If she speaks … supervised phone calls, and Skype chats can be arranged too. You’re helping Hanna, because you love her. And you want her to have the best possible future.”
“We’ll get her through this. We’re not giving up on her.” We’re saving us. Suzette squeezed Alex’s hand. She had to get the words right. She had to get him to accept what was happening. Maybe her face would heal better than she hoped, but until then … She couldn’t have Hanna around as a constant reminder. A constant threat. And the possibility of having Alex back—the two of them, as they were before Hanna—filled her with a giddy longing.
Bleary-eyed, he nodded mechanically. “What do we tell her? To get her ready?”
“Don’t tell her too much; there’s no point in making her anxious or upset. Tell her you’ll be taking a drive on Wednesday. To a new school. A quiet place in the country. I sense she likes quiet places.” She gestured with her head toward the glass, through which they could just make out Hanna humming as she worked on her puzzle.
“Do we tell her we’re leaving her there?” Suzette asked.
“We can’t just drop her off,” Alex added.
“You’ll help her pack a few things. You don’t need to pack everything; you’ll be able to take more clothes, seasonal, as she needs them. I know your instinct is to be honest. To prepare her. But Hanna doesn’t react to things as a typical child would, and we don’t want to make things harder than they already are. For any of you. On Wednesday morning … Focus on the positive. A nice drive. Off to meet nice people. They have therapy horses on the property—I’ve never met a little girl who didn’t like horses. Don’t go into details she might not understand, or you might provoke a reaction that you can’t control. Let Marshes handle that at the other end.”
Beatrix showed them the facility’s website on her computer. There were photos of the lush, sweeping grounds and a cluster of buildings, old and modern. From inside, the rooms looked bright and inviting, very much like a boarding school, not a medical facility. Alex and Suzette filled in an online form, which they would sign in person, giving the school various permissions and providing insurance and payment details.
Suzette felt gutted and in desperate need of a nap. It was all too much to think about; her thoughts whirled. She might have failed as a mother in certain ways, but she would never deny her child the help she needed. An angry flare shot up within her: maybe if her own mother had made any effort at all, Suzette could have learned from her instead of being left to cobble together the mother persona for Hanna that she had wanted for herself. Maybe it wasn’t rational, after hearing Beatrix’s pre-diagnosis, but she couldn’t help thinking that maybe, with better mothering, she would have been a better parent and none of this would have happened.
Lists formed in her head, things she wanted to make sure Hanna had with her. Her favorite clothes and pajamas, her yellow comforter, her pillow. Her toothbrush and her monkey washcloth. The special fragrance-free, dye-free soaps. She should take a few stuffed animals, but Suzette wasn’t sure which were still her favorites. Ducky? Hazel, the rabbit? How could she not know? And that book she liked so much. Or would it make her homesick? Or make Hanna hate her even more?
By the time she limped away from Beatrix’s house, she had no energy to speak. Alex walked between them, holding one of her hands and one of Hanna’s. He reeked of guilt and would probably fuss over Hanna for the next two days. Good. She was okay with that, now that she understood how he’d
tended, all these years, toward overcompensation. Such days were numbered.
Alex dropped Suzette at home so she could take a nap while he ferried Hanna on to the playground, to ease the burden of his shame. He wore his pain so openly that she couldn’t look at him, not without tumbling into grief.
“See you later,” she said, getting out of the car. “I’ll start getting some of her things together.”
He nodded, then turned to Hanna in the backseat. “Ready to have some fun?”
The child who responded, jiggling with glee in her car seat, didn’t need a mental hospital.
Maybe Hanna had been right all along in trying to get rid of her. Maybe I’m the real problem.
She let herself into the empty house.
HANNA
HOME GOT STRANGELY better in spite of everything that happened. Daddy and Mommy wanted to please her and it was like they were on holiday. Maybe it had been a mistake, trying to set Mommy on fire. If only she’d known how long it took for things—or people—to fully ignite. She wouldn’t try such a spell again until she was a stronger witch and could call down a bolt of lightning. She ruined their picnic and made Daddy mad. And now he was giving Mommy extra attention. The downstairs ended up all a-jumble, and even after they cleaned it up she was sure she could still detect the stinky fish. But she actually liked the springy bandage around her wrist; it made her feel like she could punch something and not get hurt, or ward off a beam from a laser gun. It was already getting dirty, but she hoped she could keep it for a long time.
Sometimes Daddy caught her staring at Mommy’s face, which had a gauze pad on it, held on with tape.
