Private Eyes

The hands stopped circling but remained in the air. Her mouth was slightly parted but no sound came out. A slack look came onto her face. Dreamy.

Hypnotic.

Spontaneous hypnotic induction?

Not uncommon in children her age: young kids readily cross the boundary between reality and fantasy; the bright ones are often the best hypnotic subjects. Combine that with the solitary existence Eileen Wagner had described and I could see her visiting the cinema in her head on a regular basis.

Sometimes, though, the feature was a horror flick…

The hands dropped back into her lap, found one another, and began rolling and kneading. The trancelike expression lingered. She remained silent.

I said, “The burglar wears a big hat and a long coat.” Unconsciously, I’d lowered my voice and slowed it. Taking her cue. The dance of therapy.

More tension. No reply.

“Anything else?” I said gently.

She was silent.

I played a hunch. An educated guess born of so many other forty-five-minute hours. “He’s got something else besides a hat and a coat, doesn’t he, Melissa? Something in his hand?”

“Bag.” Barely audible.

I said, “Yes. The burglar carries a bag. For what?”

No reply.

“To put stuff in?”

Her eyes snapped open and her hands clamped down on her knees. She began rocking again, harder and faster, head held stiff, as if her neck were jointless.

I leaned over and touched her shoulder. Bird bones beneath cotton.

“Do you want to talk about what goes into the bag, Melissa?”

She closed her eyes and kept rocking. Trembled and hugged herself. A tear rolled down her cheek.

I patted her again, got a tissue, and wiped her eyes, half expecting her to pull away. But she allowed me to dab the tears.

Dramatic first session, movie-of-the-week perfect. But too much, too fast; it could jeopardize the therapy. I dabbed some more, searching for some way to slow it down.

She killed that notion with a single word:

“Kids.”

“The burglar puts kids in the sack?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So the burglar is really a kidnapper.”

She opened her eyes, stood up, faced me, and held up her hands as if praying. “He’s a murderer!” she cried, emphasizing each word with a shake. “A Mikoksi with acid!”

“A Mikoksi?”

“A Mikoksi with acidthatmeanspoison! Burning poison! Mikoksi threw it on her and he’s going to come back and burn her again, and me, too!”

“Who did he throw poison on, Melissa?”

“Mother! And now he’s going to come back!”

“Where is this Mikoksi now?”

“In jail, but he’s going to get out and hurt us again!”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he doesn’t like us. He liked Mother but then he stopped liking her and he threw poison acid on her and tried to kill her but it only burned her on the face and she was still beautiful and could get married and have me!”

She began pacing the office, holding her temples, stooped and muttering like a little old woman.

“When did all this happen, Melissa?”

“Before I was born.” Rocking, face to the wall.

“Did Jacob tell you about it?”

Nod.

“Did your mother talk to you about it, too?”

Hesitation. Shake of head. “She doesn’t like to.”

“Why’s that?”

“It makes her sad. She used to be happy and beautiful. People took pictures of her. Then Mikoksi burned her face and she had to have operations.”

“Does Mikoksi have another name? A first name?”

She turned and faced me, truly puzzled. “I don’t know.”

“But you know he’s in jail.”

“Yes, but he’s getting out and it’s no fair and no justice!”

“Is he getting out of jail soon?”

More confusion.

“Did Jacob tell you he was getting out soon?”

“No.”

“But he did talk to you about justice.”

“Yes!”

“What does justice mean to you?”

“Being fair!”

She gave me a challenging look and put her hands on the flat place where one day her hips would be. Tension rumpled the sliver of brow beneath her bangs. Her mouth curled and she wagged a finger. “It was no fair and stupid! They should have a fair justice! They should have killed him with the acid!”

“You’re very angry at Mikoksi.”

Another incredulous look at the idiot in the chair.

I said, “That’s good. Getting really angry at him. When you’re angry at him, you’re not so scared of him.”

Both hands had fisted. She opened them, dropped them, sighed, and looked at the floor. More kneading.

I went over to her and kneeled so that we’d be at eye level if she chose to raise her eyes. “You’re a very smart girl, Melissa, and you’ve helped me a lot by being brave and talking about scary things. I know how much you want not to be afraid anymore. I’ve helped lots of other kids and I’ll be able to help you.”

Silence.

“If you want to talk some more about Mikoksi or burglars or anything else, that’s okay. But if you don’t, that’s okay, too. We’ve got some more time together before Jacob comes back. How we spend it is up to you.”

No movement or sound; the second hand on the banjo clock across the room completed half a circuit. Finally she lifted her head. Looked everywhere but at me, then homed in suddenly, squinting, as if trying to put me in focus.

“I’ll draw,” she said. “But only with pencils. Not crayons, they’re too messy.”

***

She worked the pencil slowly, a tongue tip extending from one corner of her mouth. Her artistic ability was above average, but all the finished product told me was that she’d had enough for one day: happy-face girl next to happy-face cat in front of red house and a fat-trunked tree full of apples. All of it under a huge golden sun with prehensile rays.

When she was through she pushed it across the desk and said, “You keep it.”

“Thank you. It’s terrific.”

“When am I coming back?”

“How about in two days? Friday.”

“Why not tomorrow?”