Secrets, Lies and Dragonflies

Chapter 6

The topic of death.  Everyone has such a different reaction around me when it comes up.  Take Counselor Cassie, for instance. She stops flipping the pages on her yellow writing pad and nonchalantly lifts her head like she's trying not to spook a wild animal away.  She eases into the death topic like she's tossing little treats to get me to come closer. "Yes.  That is sad," she says.  "Prince. Michael Jackson.  They are certainly missed by lots of fans....and their family."  

I nod.  My eyebrows rise high, crinkling my forehead.  Keenly aware that she's trying to trap me, I search the room for that one object with which I can change the subject.  Already talked about the sand tray, the book collections, and the dolls in the basket. I spot the deck of cards.  That's it.  I'll ask to play a game before—

"So...."  She leans in, propping an elbow up on her crossed leg. "I know you don't like to open up too much about how you're doing since you found your mom. And that's ok..." she says, examining me with her magnetic pewter gaze. 

It's useless. Nothing can justify me pulling away from her stare.  It melts right through those ridiculously huge spectacles.  She's just one of those people you can't ignore. Or blow off.  It's the same look I avoid when things get a little too quiet around Aunt Amy's house.  Am I acting too shifty? Or too disinterested?  

"Mackenzie, it's perfectly healthy and normal to struggle through processing a traumatic event.  How do you acknowledge and deal with the fact that someone so important in your life is suddenly gone? Are you to continue on like a new chapter in a book, turn the page so to speak?"

For so many sessions, she tried the twenty questions about how I felt losing my mother, my home, my world as I knew it.  She finally stopped insisting on delving into that day.  We settled into an unspoken agreement to leave well enough alone.  Until now.  

"But...you can't really move forward if... if you're still clinging to the events of the past," she says.    

Her last bit of advice this time strikes me differently.  Focus, Mackenzie Temple!  I've rehearsed this moment in my head a hundred times and tried to imagine how I should behave if I couldn't avoid this line of questioning.  The last thing I want is to raise her suspicions.  The way I figure it, I can take this session into one of three directions.

First, I could sustain this awkward silence.  Maybe not the best route since I'm already feeling my neck turning beet red, which means my next reaction to this uncomfortable silence is erratic conversation. I'll start babbling and say something I shouldn't.  Probably a tactic she's trained to do to get us "traumatized" kids to spill our guts.  Onto option B.      
I could unleash the whole rebellious, I hate the world, predictably unpredictable adolescent routine and call Counselor Cassie out for insulting my mother's death by qualifying it as "traumatic event."  The Carolina Chronicle posted headline after headline with leads like, "Girl Found Lying across Dead Drunk Mother" and "Local Children Orphaned When Father Sent to Prison."  All of the articles and commentaries about us went on and on dissecting the trauma we were currently experiencing, were about to experience in the future or we had undoubtedly already experienced at the hands of our horrible parents.  I wanted to scream HE'S NOT OUR FATHER back to every writer and TV news announcer who had no idea what they were talking about. If I hear the word "trauma" one more time, I think I might inflict some on someone myself.  And in theory, freaking out on someone sounds liberating. But not today.  And definitely not on Counselor Cassie.  I need her on my side.

My third, ain't-gonna-happen, alternative is to put it all out there.  I could start with the dreams.  Like last night, when I awoke to Aunt Amy kneeling by my side, wiping sweat from my forehead and asking me why I was screaming.  All I could remember was a dog chasing me with really massive fangs. And a stunning blue sky spinning.

There are other dreams that are more like distorted slices of time from when mom was alive and we were back at our house; the house that mom and Rob built.  And I think I forget mom is dead. 

In one of them, I'm getting off my bike in front of my house and hear something rattling inside.  When I walk up to the front door, I notice it's red.  I don't realize until I pry it open that it's wet with blood.   

Then there's the dream where I'm inside our house standing in the foyer. At the top of the stairway on the second story platform, I see an extremely tall, shadowy figure hovering over the railing, peering down at me. A long black cape and hood cover his face.  When I look down, my mother's lifeless body rests at my feet.  Everything goes blank after that.  

But the one that tortures me endlessly—the same one I can never get enough of—is the one where mom is at the top of the stairs with me.  I'm beyond overwhelmed to see her and can't understand why she's been gone for so long.  She's avoiding my gaze, but when she finally turns to face me, she starts asking me "Why?"  She repeats herself over and over.  "Why?  Why?..."

Then everything comes rushing back.  I know what she's talking about.  My gut wrenches.  I fall to my knees, sobbing and begging for forgiveness.   

When I awake to the cruel reality that these are just dreams, I'm enraged.  Desperate to return, I try to fall back to sleep to no avail.  It always feels so real.  Pieces of the dreams fade quickly and I'm left with only a small snapshot of the moment I get to be with her. 

Counselor Cassie lets the awkward silence persist. 

I can't take it anymore. "I know how important it is for me to work on getting past the...trauma.  Of everything that happened.....and coming here is really helping me...you know...let go of the past...and work on my future...."

Her breath slows; the anticipation of my imminent breakthrough the likely culprit.         

I settle in for the option most sensible for a girl like me.  Sticking to the illusion, I embellish the lies.  "Really, I think volleyball helps me stay busy.  Coach said if I keep playing like I have, then I may be looking at a scholarship.  And coming here to talk and feel like someone is listening definitely helps.  Plus I have really great friends.  I mean, through everything that's happened, they've stuck by me.  I guess I'm pretty lucky."

She lets out a deep sigh. 

I know she wants to help, but she'll hear exactly what my case worker needs for her report. 

She picks up her pad.  "Okay." 

I ignore the imaginative eye roll and add other things to fatten up my case.    Things I think the judge would want to hear in order to give Aunt Amy full custody of my brother and me.  Things that will give him no reason to worry about little old Mackenzie Temple and her nine year old brother. I wrap it up with, "And best of all, I get to help raise Spencer the way mom would want.   Thanks to Aunt Amy.  She's the only reason we're able to get through the.....you know....traumatic event. That's why I want to go to college.  I can't possibly grill him about school if I don't show him it can be done, right?"   

Giving me a cordial nod of approval, she writes as I talk and says things like, "You're so strong....a loving and dedicated sister....such a hard worker."  All things I think a judge would like to hear. 

We take up the rest of the session talking about my fall school schedule dilemma.  Lindsey has orchestrated a plan for us to be together as much as possible next year.  Tomorrow we agreed to go over our options as a group and sign up for the same electives before we turn in our forms to the guidance office.  I have to decide whether or not to inform them I was selected for a special writing program.  Only ten students in the school were chosen.  Accepting means I won't be able to partake in Lindsey's ingenious idea.   

Counselor Cassie offers lame advice about respecting my gifts.  She says true friends will understand. 

More psychobabble if you ask me. First, she's clearly forgotten what high school is like.  And second, she has no idea how much my friends mean to me.  Although, I have to admit, the writing program does sound amazing.  But how could I possibly chose that over the people who have stuck by me all this time?