by Jane Preston
“What game?” The therapist suddenly felt a prickling of nerves at the back of her neck.
“Oh, it’s a fun game. Daddy says he’ll teach it to me his own very special way.”
“Did your daddy tell you when he’s going to teach you this new game?”
The girlish chin lifted with delight. “Yes, when he takes me to the fairgrounds in two weeks. We get to ride on the big wheel.”
“You mean the Ferris wheel?”
“Yes, that’s it.” She giggled again.
“Maureen, do you like spending time with your daddy?”
‘Oh, yes, he’s the bestest daddy in the whole wide world!” The child was obviously thrilled.
“OK, Maureen, that’s good. Now I want you to visit a time shortly after your visit with your father to the fairgrounds. Let me know when you’re there.”
The therapist didn’t have long to wait. With dismay, Dr. Brice became aware of the chin sinking noticeably and the proud line of the girl’s shoulders falling away.
“I’m there.” The words were almost imperceptible.
“Maureen, what are you doing right now?”
“I’m playing by myself in my bedroom. My doll Becky is with me. She’s upset.”
“Why is your doll Becky upset, Maureen?”
“Because she says my daddy is a bad man. And I told her he’s not. He’s not!” A momentary sob emitted from the prone woman. She stirred briefly under the blanket.
“Maureen, why does your doll Becky say your daddy is a bad man?” The odd sensation at the back of the therapists’ neck persisted.
“Becky says I shouldn’t play the game with him because he’s a bad man. But I told her he’s not!”
Dr. Brice sensed that a different approach was needed. The little girl apparently wanted to feel good about her father. Now was the time to follow her professional hunches.
“Maureen, does your father smoke?”
“You mean cigs? Yes, for a very long time.”
“Does he have a lighter, you know the kind that clicks when he lights his cigarettes?”
“Yes, he does! Hey, how did you know? That’s part of the game.”
Dr. Brice shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What game, Maureen?”
“The game we play.” Suddenly, her shoulders raised up proudly, along with her chin. “Daddy said it’s a big girl’s game and only he and I can play it.”
Dr. Brice’s voice was soft but firm. “Please tell me about the game, Maureen.”
“Well,” she started, and then paused, apparently deciding whether or not to cooperate. Her jaw set in a firm line. “Daddy told me to never, ever tell anyone. Only Becky knows…” Her voice trailed off, wary and doubtful.
“I understand, Maureen. But you and I are friends and I only want to be helpful to you.” The therapist held her breath.
“Well, okay then. But promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise.”
“OK. We only play the game when Mommy’s not home. Daddy goes into another part of the house and clicks his lighter and loudly whispers: ‘Click. Click. I’m here.’ And I have to guess exactly where he is in the house.” The girl-woman on the sofa took a deep, ragged breath, still in trance; her legs began to twitch ever so slightly. The psychologist decided to remain silent and allow her client to continue.
“And if I can’t guess exactly where Daddy is, he gets to move to another part of the house, click his lighter twice and whisper loudly: ‘Click, Click, I’m here.’ Then I get to guess again.”
Another pause followed, this one longer, more troubled. A nervous hand fluttered into the auburn tresses, followed by a darkening of the child-woman’s brow. “And, well, I can’t always, I can’t always tell exactly where daddy is in the house. I try my bestest, but…but…” Her lower lip started to droop and visibly tremble.
Dr. Brice instantly sat straight up in her seat. She reached out to comfort the woman on the sofa. “Maureen, that’s okay. We don’t need to go there right now. Thank you for sharing with me, Maureen. For now, I think it’s best if we bring you out of trance.” Taking another audible breath, she prepared to start the countdown. “When I reach the number one, I want you to be back in present time, Maureen. Ten, nine, eight….”
By the time Maureen had rubbed her eyes, sat up and slipped on her shoes, her therapy session was over. Dr. Brice had decided to leave all explanations for the next appointment, when there would be plenty of time for more in-depth discussion.
Pleasantly surprised to find that she felt better than she had in a very long time, Maureen sensed that a great weight, an invisible Atlas-sized burden, had been lifted from her slender shoulders. She sighed, feeling comfortable and relaxed.
Some decent writing might actually be possible this weekend, she silently ventured. Amber and Jared, ready or not, here I come, the author thought happily, as she exited through the home-office door.
Moments later, the therapist, taking a slow drink of water from a tall, perspiring glass, felt pleased that the session had produced signs of real progress: she had a much keener understanding of the troubled Maureen.
What concerned her, however, was the growing, unshakeable feeling that Maureen Beckley was a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
***
It was a beautiful night for a swim; the stars dazzled as only they could, staging what appeared to be an unequaled show of brilliance against the expansive midnight blue skies. Maureen caught her breath as she surfaced from the rejuvenating dive into the pool. She loved being alone in this Olympic-sized body of water, treading through the sparkling sapphire depths, all of her cares blithely ebbing away.
She rolled over in the water and began an unhurried, skillful back stroke towards the deep end of the pool. The peaceful nighttime respite only enhanced her general feeling of well-being since the therapy appointment late this afternoon. Instinctively, Maureen sensed that she and Dr. Brice were getting to the bottom of her trust issues with men in remarkably short order.
Then, she told herself as she easily glided, I can get on with my life.
Her solitary back strokes were expertly performed under the limitless heavens. Closing her eyes, she was transported to an immense dimension of tranquility. One where there were no troubles or unhappy surprises.
Or broken hearts.
Nearing the last part of the deep end, Maureen had the vague impression of something a split-second before she brushed up against him, the unseen obstacle her intuition had perceived. She let out a brief cry and spun around to come face-to-face with Sterling Matthews, who was patiently treading water.
She shook her head to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Sterling? Sterling! What are you doing here?”
He smiled. “So you come here, too, huh?” His brows lifted, revealing the intense pools of endless color in his eyes. Maureen knew she should be completely outraged and demand that he leave. He was not honoring her decision to exclude him from her life.
But as she took in the vision of his damp caramel locks, swept back from his tanned face to reveal a perfect set of cheekbones, she was forced to acknowledge that the intense desire for him was still very much alive. To her dismay, her attraction had survived.
Sterling Matthews was his same gorgeous self.
“Maureen,” he murmured, his unforgettable hazel eyes mesmerizing her. “I’ve missed you so very…very much.”
Before she could launch into the burning questions – like, how did you know I swim here? And, have you been here before, watching me? – she was only mildly surprised to find the two of them gravitating like magnets towards each other and, at last, joining lips in a way she had experienced only in the deepest dreams of her heart.
This can’t be happening, she told herself a dozen times, while their kisses deepened, taking her further afield from her good intentions. Today’s therapy session was a distant memory as Maureen let go, allowing herself to be totally captivated by this unknowable man.
Twenty minutes
later, after arriving safe and sound at home, her hair still dripping with moisture from the pool, Maureen shuddered at the enormity of what had taken place. Her hands shook slightly as she filled a large mug with water for tea, put it in the microwave and pushed the start button.
He’s been spying on me at the pool. I know he has.
Following the impossibly romantic, impromptu swim together, he'd tried to get her to agree to meet him again. Now, standing motionless in her kitchen, she felt proud that she'd finally mustered the strength to flee from him and scurry to her car.
But as she reflected on how his fit, lithe body looked in his swim suit, she couldn’t stop the shadow of a smile that began to play about her lips, the lips that had just been passionately kissed by Sterling Matthews.
The microwave beeped and Maureen knew it was time for a steaming cup of tasty nighttime tea.
Just what the doctor ordered, she told herself wryly.
***
It was the same dream again. The one where he was alone in the pool with Maureen and they were slowly swimming towards each other, anticipating a memorable kiss.
As her graceful strokes brought her closer, Maureen’s beautiful features suddenly became twisted with pain and he heard her chilling scream; she started to sink into the untold depths of the turquoise water.
Waking up in a cold sweat, Sterling sat up and noticed that his slender hands were trembling. He promptly extricated himself from the clinging, too-warm bedclothes.
I will never forget her, he thought.
Even after she’s gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maureen decided on the next day, during her late afternoon drive to the therapist’s home-office, not to mention the unexpected episode with Sterling in the swimming pool. It was nothing, she told herself repeatedly, trying, with a good deal of success, to convince herself that it would never happen again.
She was getting well, with the professional help of the good Dr. Brice, and she’d simply had a setback, a minor slip.
It could happen to anyone, she went on in her private soliloquy. By the time she turned into the therapist’s gravel driveway, Maureen was feeling quite confident that she’d soon be right as rain, as the British were known to say.
Dr. Brice seemed especially eager to begin the hypnosis. And, as before, Maureen was in the trance state in a remarkably short amount of time.
“Now, Maureen, we’re going back to a time in your childhood when you're nine years old and you and your father are spending time together. Please let me know when you are there.”
Several seconds later, the therapist heard: “I’m there.” She was always amazed at how seamlessly Maureen’s voice changed to that of a young girl’s.
“OK, good. Where are you now, Maureen?”
“I’m in my bedroom.”
“And where is your father?”
Dr. Brice took note of a sudden, nervous jerk of Maureen’s leg. “I don’t know. He just did the ‘click, click’ thing.” A lengthy pause followed. “Um, I think he might be…well…I think he might be in the hallway just outside my bedroom door. He sounds close. Very close.” The girl’s voice went up at the end of the sentence, tentatively, as if awaiting something.
“Maureen, are you okay?”
The girl-woman bit her lip, her eyes starting to move rapidly below her closed lids. “Well, when he gets this close…if I don’t guess exactly where he is…well…” A hesitant pause followed.
“Yes, Maureen, please tell me.” The therapist’s voice was soft, gently encouraging.
Another pause. Then a barely audible groan. Then a whisper. “Oh. No. I didn’t guess it. I said the hallway. But he's in the den. Now….now…he's - ” The youthful voice broke off, the leg twitched again, this time more noticeably.
The psychologist waited. The body of the prone girl-woman shifted uneasily on the sofa, the striped, wool blanket twisting with her movements.
“Daddy’s coming. He’s laughing. I lost the game.” The pause that followed was punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.
Then the youthful voice rose in blatant fear. “No, no, Daddy, no, please don’t –“
Leaning forward, the therapist laid a reassuring hand on the client’s shoulder. “Maureen, you’re safe. You’re okay. But can you tell me what's going on?”
“My daddy – he says it’s okay. It – it’s just part of the game. I should like it, he says.” The body wriggled with tension, both legs twitching violently now. “B-but, I don’t –“
“What is your father doing, Maureen?” Now, Dr. Brice’s voice was urgent and insistent. She needed to know in order to proceed with her client’s treatment.
The sinking feeling in the psychologist’s stomach was confirmed when she heard the words: “Daddy’s putting his hand d-down there. He always says it’s a good start.”
***
Maureen was sitting on the sofa, her navy pumps back on, and sipping on the hot, aromatic jasmine tea which had been placed in front of her in a sky-colored cup by the kindly Dr. Brice. She wants to tell me something, the novelist guessed. But what? The psychologist’s expression was not easy to read.
“Well, doc, how’d I do this time?” Maureen queried, making an effort to lighten the tension that seemed to have settled on the therapists’ well-trained professional face, which gave the impression of a woman twenty years older.
Ironically, Maureen felt great, as if she’d been at an all-day spa.
“Maureen,” The doctor started. “I was waiting to see what more came of these hypnosis sessions before discussing it with you.” Here, Dr. Brice paused and took a sip of her own cup of steaming tea, replacing it carefully in its blue ceramic saucer. “But I think you need to know now.”
“Know what, Dr. Brice?” Suddenly, the dreamy, spa-like feelings were replaced with the same tension Maureen saw on the counselor’s face.
“Maureen, your hypnosis sessions strongly indicate that you suffered repeated sexual abuse as a child.” The therapist took a deep breath and added gently, but firmly: “And, unfortunately, Maureen, the abuser was your father.”
Those were the last words Maureen really heard that day.
On the way home, all she could think about was the color blue – how lovely it really was - and what she wanted for dinner. Turning into the parking lot of her favorite Mexican restaurant for take-out, the thought suddenly occurred to her: That doctor doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Imagine saying those awful things about my father.
Later that evening, eating without tasting the usually-scrumptious two cheese enchiladas, rice and beans, Maureen was seated in front of the television, staring at the blinking big screen. She had absolutely no idea what program she was watching.
A couple of hours sped by and, before she knew it, bedtime was upon her.
***
It was while Maureen was at her writing desk the following morning, her trusty hot green tea sitting companionably beside her laptop, that she started to recall what the therapist had said to her the day before. A good night’s rest had made her more frisky, strong and ready to face the world.
Taking another slow sip of the steaming beverage, the novelist allowed her thoughts to focus on yesterday afternoon’s session with the psychologist; her head tipped slightly to one side in contemplation.
Maureen knew she had blocked out most of what the therapist had told her, so stunned was she by the unnerving session. But now her memory of those troubling moments was vividly returning with full force.
After the shattering revelation that Maureen's father may have repeatedly assaulted her sexually during her childhood, the psychologist had gently recommended that, in order to continue the healing process, Maureen needed to start working through the difficult feelings that had been repressed as a result of the abuse. In her quiet, professional way, Dr. Brice insisted that without deep emotional release work, done privately and safely with clear guidelines, her client may very well continue to make unhealthy life decisions,
especially in her relationships with men.
Another sip of this morning's ubiquitous green tea, still deliciously hot, was in order.
Even as the familiar, beloved steam embraced her face, Maureen’s thoughts were far away in those moments, reliving the expression on Dr. Brice’s face: it was deep, almost maternal, concern. The way her mother had sometimes looked at her in the past, although Maureen was certain she’d never known anything untoward in the young girl's relationship with her father.
In addition to the well-thought-out psychological advice, Dr. Brice had, for the first time, referred to a healing system she called “Greening Your Emotions.” Maureen had never heard the term before and inquired about it.
