Chapter 8
“Okay, Mara. Before we get started, let’s do a check in. How are you feeling about today?”
On my laptop screen, Mara shifts in her chair, finger twirling her blonde ringlets. Her sweet face is still round with the last traces of girlhood, eyeliner smudged beneath one eye, evidence of a long day at school.
I hear her pen tapping through my speakers. This is what she does when she’s nervous. Every single time. We’ve spent the last four months building toward this. Talk therapy, coping tools, establishing her safe place. She and I feel she’s ready, but it’s still a big step for her.
“Nervous,” she admits. “But I still want to try.”
“That’s all I need to hear. And remember, you’re in control. If at any point you need to stop, we stop. No questions asked. Got it?” I raise my brows and look at her.
“Got it.”
“Good. Remember your safety word.” I pull up the bilateral stimulation program on my end and send her the link.
“See the dot?” On her screen there should be a green dot, the visual she’ll follow with her eyes.
She nods.
“Perfect. Now, let’s set up the target. Bring up the image of what happened. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?” While I’m talking, I pay close attention to Mara’s body language. How she glances down and away. Not making eye contact with me.
“The way he looked at me.”
“And when you picture that, what do you believe about yourself?”
There’s a long pause while her eyes drop to her lap again. “My body isn’t mine.”
“And what would you like to believe instead?”
“That it does belong to me.” She says it like she’s testing out the words for the first time, a language she’s just learning.
“On a scale of one to seven, how true does that feel right now? That your body belongs to you.”
“Two. If that.”
“That’s okay, Mara. That’s our starting point.” I jot VOC - two down on my notepad. “Now, when you picture him and that belief of your body not being yours, what emotion comes up?”
“Shame.” Not even a second of hesitation on that one.
“I want you to hold the image of him, and the thought that your body isn’t yours. Don’t try to push it away or change it. Just let it exist. Try to notice where you feel that in your body and follow the dot.”
I activate the bilateral stimulation on my end and Mara’s eyes start moving left to right, left to right, following the green dot across the screen. This goes on for thirty seconds, while I study her face, the squinting of her eyes and quickening of her breath.
Tapping the button, I stop the movement of the dot. “Now take a deep breath in and let it go.” Pausing, I watch her through my screen as she breathes in and out.
“Now tell me, where do you feel it in your body?”
Her hand drifts from where it rests on her desk. “Here. In my stomach. It’s like a queasy feeling. And I feel sweaty.”
“On a scale of zero to ten, how disturbing does the memory feel right now?”
Mara’s nose scrunches and she clamps her eyes shut, a tear tracking down one cheek.
“It’s okay, Mara. There is no wrong answer.”
I give her a second to collect herself until her eyes are back open. “Eight.”
On my notepad I write down SUDS - 8.
“Stay with that and watch the dot again.”
Her eyes follow the path of the dot, back and forth over and over.
This is the part people don’t understand about EMDR. It looks like nothing from the outside.
A teenage girl watching a dot move on a screen.
But in her head, her brain is doing the thing it couldn’t do on its own.
It’s unsticking the memory from the place where it’s been trapped, letting it move from this is happening right now, to this happened but it’s over.
“Take a breath again and tell me what you notice?”
Mara’s brows furrow and then smooth. “My stomach doesn’t hurt quite as much. Like, it still does but less.”
“Great!” I give her a quiet round of applause. “That’s your brain progressing. You’re doing such a great job.”
We do three more sets and by the time our session is wrapping up, her SUD has dropped from an eight to a seven. There’s still a lot of work to be done, but there’s a change behind her eyes that wasn’t there an hour ago.
“Tell me, how does that belief feel now, that your body belongs to you?”
She’s quiet for a long time and I hear the tapping sound again. “Maybe a three?”
I hope the pride I feel for this kid shows on my face, because I for one, am positively beaming. “You know that’s an awfully big jump from a possible two to a three, right?”
For the first time in our session, this earns me the smallest lift of her lips. Just barely. A flash of silver braces and gone. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
We spend the last few minutes in her safe place, the meadow she described to me weeks ago, with the tall grass and the ripples she hears from the creek.
We go through our 5-4-3-2-1 method of what she sees, feels, touches, smells, and tastes in that meadow until her face is relaxed and her shoulders aren’t as hunched forward.
“You did really hard work today, Mara. I’m proud of you.” And I mean every single word. This kid has been through a lot. “Before our next session, if anything comes up, memories, dreams, thoughts, write them down. Don’t judge them. Just be aware of them.”
“Okay.”
“And Mara? What you did today took courage. Don’t brush past that.”
She gives me a small nod, and then her face disappears from my screen.
I close my laptop and sit for a moment in the quiet of the apartment with a satisfied smile on my face.
I’m still new in this town, still adjusting to a new way of life, but this—spending each day with my clients—is familiar.
It’s a life I recognize as my own, outside of everything else.
But there’s a reason I schedule my EMDR sessions the last hour of my work day.
It’s more rewarding than I ever imagined, helping people heal, but it takes a lot out of not just the patient, but also me.
During my master’s program, I became fascinated with the way trauma affects the mind and body, and I knew I wanted to become certified in Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy.
It was hard, though. Becoming certified meant experiencing the therapy first-hand, which really forced me to face some of my own trauma.
The same trauma my brother lived through.
It’s been a week since everything happened with Austin.
One week since the paparazzi invaded Singing River for a glimpse at Austin and Penny, and one week since Austin came clean as to why he drinks so much.
It seems our father—if you can call him that—has harassed Austin for years.
The thought makes me so mad I could spit nails.
I wish Austin had told me long before it got out of control.
For a while now I’ve encouraged him to find a therapist. Had I known how bad things really were, I would have pushed harder.
One week has also passed since our aunt informed us Mom might finally leave our abusive father.
For years, his buddy was the police chief, protecting him from any repercussions.
But it seems he’s retired, and according to my uncle Brad, the new chief is nobody’s fool.
I’m trying to manage my expectations, but Aunt Ashley and Uncle Brad sounded more hopeful than I’ve ever heard them.
It has also been one week since I fell apart in Liam’s arms.
I’ve kept busy to avoid examining why I was so comfortable turning to him, allowing him to see the messiest parts of myself.
Yes, we are quickly becoming close friends, but that was another level of friendship.
There’s just something about him, the way he listens, I mean really listens, as if nothing I could ever say would be the wrong thing. With Liam, I feel safe.
And like my thoughts conjured him, my phone vibrates with a text message.
My Favorite Person
Favorite movie?
Why?
My Favorite Person
Movie night?
My Favorite Person
Mutt misses you.
The text is followed by a picture of Mutt, belly up on the floor, tongue lolling out. I heart the photo and type out my favorite movie.
The Conjuring
My Favorite Person
Shudders. Something is seriously wrong with you.
You’ll be fine. I’ll even hold your hand on the scary parts.
My Favorite Person
Promise?
Pinky swear
My Favorite Person
Be here at 6?
Send the address.
I’ll provide the beer.
My Favorite Person
I’ll provide the fun.
I bet he will.
My Favorite Person
Hey, come hungry.
Another text comes through with a pinned location. It’s not right in town, but not too far away. I guess tonight I’ll be driving Austin’s stupid G-wagon.
Checking the clock, I see I have just enough time for a quick shower before I have to head out. Not having any beer on hand, I’ll need to stop by the store on my way.
“Turn right in eighty feet.”
The main word people have used to describe my driving is aggressive. Living in the city will do that to you. You’ll get run over otherwise. And my lead foot is fully activated today as the turn off to Liam’s place zips right past, forcing me to go farther down until I find a place to turn around.
This time, I take it slow, and turn onto a long gravel drive.
The first house I come to is a two-story white farmhouse with a sprawling garden off to the side.
Liam told me he lives on the same land as his parents, so this must be their house.
That’s confirmed when I spot his mom in the garden, picking vegetables, a golden retriever trotting along behind her.
She straightens as I approach, shielding her eyes from the sun to get a better look. When she sees it’s me, her face lights up and she waves with her whole arm. Slowing to a crawl, I lower my window.
“Had a sandwich this week with the best tomato ever!” I shout.
She cups a hand around her ear.
“Tomatoes!” I shout, louder this time. “Best I’ve had!”
She presses a hand to her heart, and I proceed on my way.