Chapter Four - Rachel #2
I know the words are supposed to be comforting, and, in a way, they are, but the all-consuming guilt that wracks me every time I think about what my three-year-old experienced a few weeks ago can’t be eased by anything less than a Men in Black memory eraser.
I look over my shoulder to where my daughter sits a few yards away in the waiting room of Dr. Danver’s office, brushing a doll’s hair with a gentleness that shouldn’t be possible for a child of her age.
She doesn’t look like the victim of a kidnapping. She doesn’t curl into herself, refusing to play with toys or eat like I heard can happen in the aftermath of a traumatic event. In fact, the only physical sign that something happened to her is the faded three-inch-long cuts on her upper shoulder.
Well, that and the fact that she can’t stop her eyes from flitting my way every few seconds.
Dr. Danver crosses her ankles—seeing as the conservative pencil skirt won’t allow her legs to move any more than that—and gives me a warm smile.
Everything about this woman is warm, from the gray mixing naturally with the light brown hair pulled into a simple bun at the base of her head to the laugh lines etched around her kind, hazel eyes.
“How did she seem… when she told you what happened?” I ask, grabbing onto the fabric of my pants to stop from popping my knuckles.
She scans her notes, expression never veering from pleasant. “A bit apprehensive, but I have a feeling that’s more her personality than her experiences.”
It is, and it makes me feel just a bit better that she seemed to pick up on that.
“I’m going to recommend two months of biweekly sessions to start.”
“You think that’ll be enough?”
She nods. “We don’t want to overwhelm her.
The goal is coping and moving forward. You’ll want to avoid anything that could trigger her trauma.
Eventually, we’ll ease those things back in doses she can handle so she doesn’t grow to view avoidance as a coping mechanism.
For right now, we just want her comfortable again.
We’ll start pushing those limits once she’s had time to heal.
This can be tricky when it comes to the movies and shows she watches.
For instance, she may be susceptible to a movie where the heroine is abducted, even if it’s only a seemingly harmless cartoon, so be on the lookout for things of that nature. ”
I nod, scribbling notes on the mini-notebook I keep in my purse. It’s usually reserved for when I think of things I may need to do for Mrs. Caster, but it’s coming in handy now.
“Because a three-year-old doesn’t understand the idea of coping, you’ll want to be intentional about how she expresses herself. Try choosing activities where she feels safe and is using skills that build confidence.”
“And what should we do in the meantime?” I ask. “She barely leaves my side to go to the bathroom, and I’m not sure I have the heart to push her into being independent.”
“There doesn’t need to be any pushing, but encouraging independence whenever possible will do wonders.
Showing her that she’s capable and safe will heal a lot of the fear she’s carrying.
There’s no right answer when it comes to getting back to normal.
Just do what feels right for you and Lyla, and know it’ll take time to find your new normal. ”
I go through the motions of writing down her advice as a way to busy my hands, but it isn’t necessary. I won’t be forgetting her words any time soon.
“Have you considered getting professional help as well?”
The question comes out of left field, and since this is the second time today someone’s broached the idea, I’m starting to wonder what kind of energy I’m giving off.
I decide to play off the concern. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Dr. Danver smiles, and there’s the slightest hint of pity this time. “Lyla isn’t the only one who endured a traumatic experience. Coming here was a great first step toward her recovery, but in my professional opinion, I think you should do the same.”
It’s not the most absurd idea.
After all, she’s right. I went through the exact same thing as my daughter, but there’s one difference.
I deserve the guilt.
When the cruel voice in my brain hisses that what happened is all my fault, I don’t disagree.
I couldn’t protect my daughter when she needed it most. I couldn’t shield her from the dangerous lifestyle her father lives, and she suffered as a result.
All therapy would accomplish is having a professional tell me what I already know—to keep as much distance from Ryder as possible.
And I plan on it.
We stand, and I reach my hand out to the woman. “Thank you so much for your help and your discretion.”
She takes it in a firm shake. “Of course.”
I take Lyla’s hand, and we walk out of the office, a six-story building full of office spaces for various medical professionals.
The feeling sinks in as soon as we step outside.
I grip Lyla’s hand just a bit tighter as a sensation like ants crawling up my back takes hold of me.
It feels like someone’s watching us, but when I scan every detail of our surroundings, the only people in sight are a group of middle-aged doctors enjoying an early dinner at a park bench on the grassy side of the building.
I can’t, for the life of me, pinpoint what triggered the feeling or why it won’t go away, but I cling to the charm on my necklace as I hurry toward our car.
The silver Range Rover is still new to me, which is why it takes me a few seconds to locate it.
I hadn’t wanted to get a new car, but Ryder insisted on it to go along with my cover story.
He even had one of his soldiers crash my car so we’d have photographic evidence—as if anyone was going to genuinely question me on the matter.
The watchful sensation doesn’t ease, so I let go of my charm to grab my phone, my eyes still scanning our surroundings with a near-manic urgency as I dial Meredith’s number.
“Did you tell Ryder you’d be late tonight?” she asks as soon as she picks up. Hearing my friend’s voice brings a wave of calm, even if the sensation of being watched doesn’t fully go away.
I wrinkle my nose. “No, I only sent that text to you.”
“Busy day?” I hear fabric rustling in the background, and I already know she ignored my text telling her that she should relax and that I’d unpack my clothes tomorrow.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. It’s not a lie, but it also isn’t the reason I didn’t message Ryder, not that she or anyone else needs to know that. “I’m just going to grab dinner, then I’ll be on my way.”
I get Lyla buckled in while Meredith tells me how Dominic’s been bugging her all day about seeing Lyla, and it’s only when I’m in my own seat with the car on that the feeling of being watched finally subsides.
I end the call with Meredith and back out of the spot. By the time I leave the parking lot, I’ve already convinced myself I’m just being paranoid. Talking to Dr. Danver about what happened at the factory just got me riled up. I even laugh when I realize just how tightly wound I am.
Still, I don’t let myself fully relax because there is a reason to keep myself guarded and on high alert.
And he’s currently waiting for me at home.