Serpentine

Chapter 18

I spent the next two days with children under stress. The custody cases weren’t the worst I’d seen but neither were they ideal. Nice, well-balanced kids; I’d work hard to keep it that way.

The eighteen-month-old trauma victim was a chubby, black-eyed girl named Amelia with a surprisingly quick smile. Good temperament; a plus. When her mother, a five-eight, hundred-pound graphic designer named Lara, warily introduced me as a doctor, she said, “Da-ka.”

The collision had sprained Lara’s shoulder and ankle. The latter was swaddled by an elastic bandage, and every step was clearly painful. As was the session we’d had last week when I’d taken a history.

This morning, she said, “She keeps waking up. This has been hell.”

I said, “Sorry for what you’ve been through.”

“Not sorrier than me.” She began playing with her phone, leaving Amelia to toddle around the office.

I keep toys to a minimum, using the few that play a role in therapy. For a child this age, the playhouse would do. I’d positioned it in the center of the floor, and it didn’t take long for Amelia to get to it.

Cheerful and relaxed as she sat down and began exploring. Good sign.

Then she spotted the miniature cars in the garage, shrank back and hugged herself. A run to her mother ended with a swing up to the maternal lap.

“See what I mean? She freaks out. Just getting here in the loaner was an ordeal.”

I picked up the cars. “It’s understandable.”

“You really think you can help her?”

“I do.”

“Hard to believe,” she said. “But my lawyer said try. He also said you’ll document everything for the case.”

Amelia looked at her.

I said, “Bad cars,” and tossed them onto the floor.

Amelia’s gaze switched back to me.

“Bad,” I said, louder. Extending a foot and kicking the vehicles.

“Bah,” she said. Looking to her mother for guidance.

Lara folded her arms across her chest. “What would you like her to do, now?”

I picked up the cars and tossed them again. Amelia scampered off the sofa and did the same.

Her mother said, “Really? Again?”

I said, “Bad bad cars. You can throw them again.”

I pantomimed a toss.

Another glance at her mother.

Lara rolled her eyes. “If he says so.”

Amelia turned to me, turned doubtful by her mother’s tone. I retrieved the toys and threw them nearly to the far wall. “Bad cars!”

Inhaling and squeezing her hands into tiny fists, Amelia ran over and aped my motions. Picked the cars up. “Bah bah bah.”

She began breathing hard.

“That’s okay? The way she’s panting.”

I nodded.

“If you say so.”

We watched as Amelia went through car-assault eight more times. I use hard-plastic miniatures able to take the abuse. Sometimes I spackle and repaint the wall.

By the time Amelia left the office, insistent upon walking unaided, one of the cars was clutched in her tiny hand.

Her mother said, “That’s the doctor’s.”

I said, “That’s okay, now it’s Amelia’s.”

Swinging the vehicle overhead, the child trotted away, laughing. Her mother muttered, “Go know.”

I walked them out of the house and down to a Mercedes of Beverly Hills loaner SUV.

Amelia’s mother opened a rear passenger door and said, “Okay.”

Amelia hesitated for a second, then climbed in and allowed herself to be buckled in. All the while passing the toy from hand to hand.

“Ooom, bah bah bah.”

I said, “Oom va-roooom.”

She tittered then broke into a giggle fit.

Lara smiled despite herself. Before she got behind the wheel, she faced me, biting her lip.

I said, “A question?”

“So that’s it?”

“No, we’ll need more sessions. In the meantime, don’t do anything different. But if she does want to get mad at the cars, don’t stop her.”

Amelia began humming.

“Okay... maybe this will actually be useful. I guess.”

Amelia said, “Vuhooom!”

Lara said, “Um, do you do eating disorders?”