Yes, My Darling Daughter

by Margaret Leroy

  Outside, the sleet is starting to thicken; big, feathery flakes of snow sift gently down. I can tell she’s musing on something. I wait for her.

  She stirs sugar into her coffee. As her hand moves around, her intricate rings give off glints and sparkles of light.

  “When I was a physio student,” she says, “I had a skeleton to study. I kept it under my bed. And I had no end of bad luck. My boyfriend had dumped me, and everything seemed to go wrong . . .”

  The warmth of the coffee spreads through me. I drink gratefully. Snow stitches its pattern on the window.

  “And Teresa, my friend—she’s Irish and superstitious as hell, and she said it was the skeleton that was making all this happen. And she marched me off to Brompton Oratory to get the skeleton blessed. We took it in a Topshop bag.” She shakes her head slowly. “I mean, can you imagine? And we met this priest—he was absolutely ancient, he had this kind of pleased air. I guess he couldn’t believe his luck. Two girls in very short skirts with a shopping bag full of bones.”

  She’s staring out the window, where the snowflakes turn and turn as they fall and fur the sills with white. Her expression is gentle with nostalgia.

  But I’m impatient. “And what did he say? Did he give it a blessing? Did better things start happening?”

  There are cut-off fronds of juniper on the table. She trails her finger through them, so they release their aromatic resins. Her bracelets make a faint metallic sound.

  “He stood there looking at us,” she says. “He had these very blue eyes, startlingly blue, like a child’s eyes. And he said—I’ve never forgotten—‘It’s not the dead we should be afraid of, but the living.’” Her appalling Irish accent makes me smile. “‘My daughters, always remember, it’s the living we should fear . . .’”

  11

  THE ARBOURS WAS once a private house. It’s a solid, whitewashed building, imposing amid its cedar trees and lawns.

  The receptionist has nail extensions—navy blue, with stick-on gems. We sit in the waiting room, which smells of damp and beeswax. Thank-you cards from children have been pinned up on the walls, and there’s a heap of ancient children’s books. I read Frog and Toad to Sylvie, self-conscious about my mothering, wondering if we’re already being analyzed, if the receptionist with the long, jeweled nails is marking my parenting out of ten.

  Dr. Strickland comes to greet us. He’s a scented, immaculate man, white-haired, with a neat goatee. He shakes my hand. His skin is cool and soft, like some smooth fabric.

  “I ask everyone who comes here to spend some time in the playroom,” he tells us. “It helps me to understand you. I’ll be watching you through a one-way screen, but you’ll soon forget I’m there. So just enjoy yourselves . . .”

  The playroom is all in primary colors, with lots of inviting toys—a stove, blocks and LEGO bricks, a heap of dress-up clothes. Sylvie goes straight to the stove and makes me a Play-Doh meal, which she cooks in the red plastic saucepans. I watch her as she plays—her decorous gestures, her silky, colorless hair. She’s so poised, so self-possessed today. It’s the only time I’ve ever wished that she would be really difficult.

  We’re joined by a woman with parrot earrings and a wide white smile. She says she is Katy, the play therapist, and she will play with Sylvie while I talk to Dr. Strickland. She directs me to his office, which looks out over the lawns. It’s a blowy day, wind wrenches at the branches of the cedars, but his room is hushed and silent. He gestures me to a chair. To the side of us there’s one-way glass looking into the playroom.

  “Right, Ms. Reynolds.” He picks up a fat silver pen, pulls a notepad toward him. His cologne is too sweet for a man. “So when did you first begin to believe that Sylvie has problems?” he says.

  I don’t like the way he says “believe.” But I talk about her tantrums and her waking in the night, and he writes it all down with the fat silver pen.

  “And she has a phobia of water,” I tell him. “Especially water touching her face.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Pace-Barden told me. Was there any traumatic event that might have triggered her fear?”

  “No, there was nothing,” I say. “I’ve thought about that a lot.”

  “So when did you first begin to notice the problem?” he says.

  “She always hated bath time, right from a tiny baby,” I tell him. “We manage. I put in two inches of water, and she just does a quick in and out with absolutely no splashing. When I wash her hair, I use one of those face shield things from Mothercare.”

  “You need to help her play with water in a relaxed situation,” he says. “Help her learn to feel safe with water.”

  “Yes. I’ve tried that,” I tell him.

  I think of all the things I’ve tried to make her less afraid—playing at hair salons with her Barbies, buying a special watering can for watering the flowers. I think of her shuttered face when I’ve suggested these things. No, Grace. I don’t want to.

  He frowns at the notes in front of him.

  “Now, the other things—the screaming and the waking in the night. Do they go back a long way too?”

  “Yes. But they seem to be getting worse. It’s almost every night now.”

  “Is there anything else that concerns you?”

  “Mrs. Pace-Barden was worried because she always draws the same picture,” I tell him.

  “What’s in this picture?” he asks me.

  “It’s just a house,” I tell him.

  I think he will ask, like Mrs. Pace-Barden, Did something happen to her there? But instead he smiles a brief, ironic smile.

  “I have the greatest respect for Mrs. Pace-Barden,” he tells me, “but if we took on every child who repeatedly draws a house, the NHS would be in an even more perilous state than it is . . . Now, let’s go back a bit,” he says.

  He asks about Sylvie’s birth, how well she fed, her developmental milestones. This all seems quite straightforward.

  Then he leans a little toward me.

  “Now, I think you’re in the unfortunate position of being a single parent?” he says.

  I nod. It’s the part of the consultation I’ve been dreading.

  “So what about her father? Does she see him?” he says.

  “No,” I say. Afraid he will think that this is an explanation for everything.

  “When relationships break down, it’s natural to feel a certain amount of anger.” He has a sibilant, unctuous voice. “Absolutely natural. And I’m wondering if you felt that?”

  I tell him yes. I’ve planned what I will say.

  “I’d have liked him to be there for her—to be a father to her.”

  “Of course,” he says. “That’s absolutely normal. And Sylvie herself of course will yearn for a father figure, and for those things you can’t provide, that only a father can give.”

  I hate him putting it like that. I don’t say anything.

  “Now, when you look at Sylvie,” he says, “do you perhaps sometimes see her father in her?”

  I shake my head. “I can see they’re alike, of course, but Sylvie’s very much herself,” I say.

  “All right. Thank you, Ms. Reynolds.”

  He moves his notepad between his palms, aligning it precisely with the edge of his desk. “Now, I’ll take you through the possible diagnoses,” he says.

  I feel a quick, warm surge of hope. I tell myself that he is the expert, this scented, immaculate man, and that now he is going to help us, to diagnose Sylvie and heal her.

  “As you know, I’ve been watching Sylvie play, and it’s really been very instructive. Given the history, one possible diagnosis would be autistic spectrum disorder. And Sylvie does have some rigidity of behavior and thought. But, against that, she has good eye contact and good communicative intent, which autistic children never have, and her fantasy play is excellent. Autistic children don’t play like Sylvie, they can’t create these rich symbolic worlds. Post-traumatic stress disorder would also be a possibility, but there’s no evidence in what you tol
d me of any traumatic event. Though obviously something may have happened that you’re not aware of. Sometimes we don’t know our children quite as well as we think we do . . .”

  “I’m sure nothing happened,” I say.

  He ignores this.

  “Now, I’ve also been looking for signs of ADHD, but Sylvie’s attentional skills are really very good. She has absolutely no difficulty concentrating. Rather the reverse, in fact. I’d say her ability to focus is perhaps a little exceptional.”

  Perhaps I should be pleased that he sees these good qualities in her. But I feel my heart sink. I glance into the playroom, where she’s showing Katy her new pink boots and smiling. She’s being a perfect little girl—in that way she sometimes has that seems too perfect, as though she’s acting the part. I’m willing her to get upset, so that he will see.

  “So my diagnosis would be a phobic disorder, possibly caused by a constitutional vulnerability in Sylvie and triggered by some unknown environmental event. And though she quite clearly doesn’t fulfill the diagnostic criteria for autistic spectrum disorder, she does have a mild impairment of social and interpersonal functioning. Perhaps made worse by the fact that there are certain issues around your parenting of her . . .”

  I wonder what he is going to say about me. I feel a dull, heavy ache in my chest.

  He leans toward me, his fingertips pressed together in mock prayer.

  “There was something that concerned me when I saw the two of you play.” His voice is intimate, confiding. “I noticed that she doesn’t call you Mum or Mummy. And I wondered why you’d objected to that?”

  “It was Sylvie’s decision,” I tell him.

  A picture slides into my mind. Sylvie is two, and we’re in the garden by the mulberry tree. I kneel in front of her, cradling her face in my hands. Sweetheart, I want you to call me Mum. That’s what children do, that’s what Lennie calls her mother . . . She turns away from me, her silk hair shading her face. No, Grace.

  “She’s never called me Mum,” I say.

  Doubt flickers over his face. I know he doesn’t believe this.

  “You see, what concerns me here is your rather weak boundary setting. That there isn’t a clear enough boundary between yourself and your child. That’s so important for successful parenting. Sylvie needs to know you’re the adult, that you’re the one in charge. It’s not so healthy for children to feel their parent is their best friend.”

  “I don’t think she sees me like that,” I say.

  But I know he isn’t listening: I know he’s sure he has found the key to decoding our relationship.

  “Over-involvement can be a danger for single mothers,” he says. “Perhaps especially with a daughter, and when you have only one child. Sometimes the mother will see the child almost as part of herself, and that’s terribly unhealthy for the child. You need to maintain that boundary. It’s crucial for Sylvie’s mental health. I’d really like to see her calling you Mum.”

  I don’t say anything.

  His glance flicks down to his wristwatch. I know the consultation is coming to an end. Despair drags at me. If he can’t help me, who will?

  “Now, unless there’s anything else you need to ask . . .” he says.

  In the playroom, Sylvie is trying on dress-up hats and laughing. I feel a stupid anger with her for behaving so perfectly. I’m willing her to scream, to do something unnerving or strange, but she pulls on a hat with a feather and grins at her reflection in the mirror. Two minutes and it’ll be over, and my chance to get help will be gone.

  I clear my throat, but I’m not looking at him.

  “I read something in a newspaper—about children with problems like Sylvie’s.” My mouth feels thick and dry. I hadn’t planned to say this, but I don’t know what else I can do. “It said that some psychiatrists will do regression to try and help the child—you know, hypnotize them . . . Take them back . . .” My voice fades.

  His face tenses, sharpens a little. I feel it’s the first time I’ve really got his attention. I don’t know if this is a good thing.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, “but I think you must be referring to the past life lobby.”

  “Well. Kind of.”

  My voice is thin and high.

  He screws up his mouth, as though he has a bitter taste.

  “I’m afraid it’s true, there are such people,” he says. “Sadly, even the medical profession does have its lunatic fringe.”

  “I thought I’d just mention it . . .”

  I look out into the gardens, at the lawns, at the great, swaying cedars. I would like to be out there, to feel the cool air on my skin.

  “Ms. Reynolds.” He picks up his silver pen, leans forward. He’s brisker suddenly, more formal, an edge of concern in his voice. “Do you have a particular interest in these kinds of things, would you say?”

  “Not really. It was just that the little boy in the article sounded so like Sylvie . . .”

  He coughs slightly. “What I’m trying to get at, Ms. Reynolds—could you tell me, have you ever experienced anything that would incline you to believe in the paranormal?” His words are measured, careful.

  I don’t see why he’s asking this.

  “What kind of thing?” I ask him.

  “Sometimes people can hear things, voices in their head that sound like other people. Is that something you’ve ever experienced?”

  Shit.

  “No. Nothing like that,” I tell him.

  “Any hallucinations at all? Seeing things that aren’t there?”

  “No. Never.”

  “And in your family? Mother, father, grandparents—any problems with mental illness or anything like that?”

  “No. My mother wasn’t a very happy person, but no, nothing like that.”

  “And her father’s family? What about them?”

  “I don’t really know,” I tell him. “It wasn’t that kind of relationship. To be honest, I don’t know anything about them . . .”

  My voice fades. I feel a brief, hot shame.

  He nods, as though this is what he expected.

  “I also have to ask you this—for Sylvie’s sake, you understand. Are you—or have you ever been—a user of illicit substances? Cannabis? Amphetamines?”

  I shake my head. Though I did once eat some hash brownies at a party at Lavinia’s—she grows cannabis plants in her window boxes; we had a riotous evening, but afterward I was sick.

  “Right, then.” He permits himself a little quiet sigh. “Look, I really don’t think we need to invoke the paranormal to understand your daughter. The truth is, sometimes it’s easier to embrace some extravagant theory than to examine our own behavior,” he says.

  “I just thought I’d mention it,” I tell him. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.

  He leans back in his chair again.

  “So there you have it, Ms. Reynolds. Sylvie has a phobic disorder and some slight impairment of social functioning, probably exacerbated by rather weak boundary setting. I can see, of course, that you find her behaviors difficult. But I really don’t feel she fits the criteria for our service.”

  I swallow hard.

  “So you can’t help us,” I say.

  He frowns. Perhaps I put it too baldly.

  “I didn’t say that exactly, Ms. Reynolds. But sometimes the best way in isn’t via the presenting problem. Sometimes we need to intervene in a different part of the family system. And I do feel that there are issues here about boundaries and over-involvement, and also some unresolved anger about Sylvie’s father and how he treated you. And what I think we should do here is to focus on you rather than Sylvie. To assist you with boundary setting and to help you handle Sylvie’s behaviors,” he says.

  There’s a weight like lead in my stomach.

  “I have an excellent colleague, Dr. Jenny Martin,” he says, “who I’m sure would be able to help. She’s really very approachable. If you’re happy with that, then I’ll fax her my notes and you can ring fo
r an appointment.”

  He gives me Dr. Martin’s number and takes me through to find Sylvie. She says goodbye to Katy and slips her hand in mine. She looks up at me with a little pleased smile, perhaps expecting praise for her immaculate behavior.

  We walk slowly out through the grounds of the clinic. The boughs of the cedars creak as they move, with a strange, high sound like a human voice.

  “It was nice there,” says Sylvie. “I liked the stove, Grace. The stove was nice, wasn’t it?”

  I feel despair. All that effort—the time off, the planning what to say, Sylvie’s boots I could barely afford—and all for nothing.

  “I knew you’d like the stove. It’s just the same as the one in Lennie’s bedroom,” I say.

  “She isn’t Lennie,” says Sylvie.

  I don’t say anything.

  12

  ONE SATURDAY, WHEN Leo and Josh have gone sailing, we take the girls to the zoo. It’s a beautiful afternoon—pellucid sunlight, razor-sharp shadows, a keen chill out of the sun. We buy ice creams, though really it’s too cold for them. The girls run on ahead of us.

  “Sylvie seems great today,” says Karen.

  “Yes. I hope so.”

  I tell her about Dr. Strickland, about being referred for counseling myself. Karen listens intently.

  “Don’t just dismiss it, Grace,” she tells me when I’ve finished. “Maybe it would be good for you to see someone on your own. You’ve been under such a lot of stress. You never know, it might be useful.”

  “But it isn’t my problem, it’s Sylvie’s.”

  “I know that’s how it must seem. But problems aren’t always all that clear-cut in families,” she tells me.

  The girls have finished their ices and come to drop their cones in the bin. Sylvie gives me a quick, light hug. I bend to her, and she kisses me with sticky, scented lips. I bury my face in her hair. The sun has brought out its musk.

  “You smell of the sun,” I tell her.

  “Really, Grace. How can I smell of the sun?” she says. “Really.”

  It’s her sensible voice, showing she knows how the world works. She rushes off, laughing, with Lennie.