Letting Go (Healing Hearts) (14 page)

“Hello. Diane Simmons?”

She glanced up. “Dr. Rhiner?”

He smiled and nodded. “Let’s go to my office and talk, shall we?”

She followed the tall, middle-aged man down the hall. He gestured for her to take a seat, then eased into the chair across from her. The table next to Diane held an interesting assortment of magnetic puzzles. She picked one up and played with the stars clinging to the black base, suddenly afraid to talk.

“So, Diane, what brings you here? Does it have to do with your suicide attempt?”

She set the puzzle down and glanced up. “It’s hard for me to talk about, but I can’t afford to get depressed and return to the hospital, so I’ll get straight to the point. I’m still taking anti-depressants. They help some, but now I’m having these strange dreams. Last week I dreamed about a guy who came to my office. We were talking in his car, and then his face morphed into my father’s and he said something horrible to me.”

“What did he say?”

Diane’s eyes burned and she sucked in her tears. “I can hardly stand to think about it, let alone say it out loud.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just wait until you’re ready. We can talk about something else first if you’d like.”

“No, that’s okay. That’s the reason I’m here. He—my father—he . . . in my dream he called me stupid . . . ” She glanced at Dr. Rhiner and blurted, “Then he touched my thigh and said, ‘At least you’re beautiful.’ As if that was supposed to make me feel better.”

“Hmm . . . ”

“So, what do you think that means? Why am I suddenly having weird thoughts about my father?”

“Have you talked to anyone about this? Anyone who knows you?”

“No. The few times in my life when I brought it up to Mother, she changed the subject. When I pressed her, she said there was nothing wrong with a dad admiring his daughter and it was only natural considering how attractive I am. Those are Mother’s words, not mine. I know I’m not ugly, but she seemed to think I was much better-looking than I actually am.”

Diane winced. That sounded weird, as if she was begging for a compliment.

“What do you mean? How do you know she thought you were better looking?”

“Mother used to enter me into beauty contests. I didn’t have a normal childhood.”

Her finger stung. She peered at her hand and discovered that while talking she had picked at a cuticle until it bled.

“Um, may I have a tissue?” She sucked on her finger. She couldn’t stand the sight of blood or the tinny taste.

Dr. Rhiner handed her several. “Do you usually pick your skin when you’re nervous?”

“No. Usually I twist my sleeve. But the sleeves on this blouse aren’t long enough to twist.” She chuckled at how stupid her answer sounded and wrapped her finger with the tissue.

“Why do you call your mother ‘Mother’ and not Mom?”

“I guess because she’s never been like a normal mother. Plus that’s what she insists I call her.” She examined her finger, which had stopped bleeding.

“Are you uncomfortable with me talking about these things?”

She glanced up. Was she uncomfortable?

“A little bit.”

Dr. Rhiner was a nice, grandfatherly-type man, so she decided that her anxiety probably had more to do with what she was talking about than who she was talking to.

“Is there anything I can do to put you more at ease?”

“I don’t think so. You know, you’re about the same age as my dad would have been if he hadn’t died, but you don’t remind me of him at all, so I don’t think that’s it.”

“Is it the content of your dreams that’s bothering you?” The doctor’s intense gaze made her insides quiver.

Tears burned behind her eyes. Something was bothering her. Maybe his attention reminded her of something painful. Or was it because she couldn’t recall ever having a man listen to her so intently before? Maybe both.

“I . . . I’m not sure. That may be part of it.”

Nibbling at her bottom lip, she tried to hold a smile. Her gaze shifted to a plaque on the therapist’s desk.

When God closes one door, He opens another.

“Why do you feel like crying?”

His gentle voice caused her to glance up. The wall holding back her grief burst wide open. Silent tears streamed from her eyes. She broke eye contact, afraid she would start sobbing.

Dr. Rhiner offered another tissue. She accepted it, covering her mouth as she sobbed anyway. “I . . . I’m sorry. I’m not sure what’s come over me.”

“It’s okay to cry. You know what’s bothering you. Tell me what’s upsetting you right now.”

His kind eyes reassured her, but she didn’t know where to start.

“Well, I . . . I’m not sure, exactly. Maybe because you’re actually listening to me, and I just realized today that no man has ever really listened to me before.”

“No man?”

“Not that I can recall. Then it hurt when I thought about how I had to pay you to listen to me. My own father never listened. He just . . . he just . . . ”

“He just what, Diane?” His calm demeanor encouraged her.

“He just listened when he wanted something from me.” She choked on her tears.

“How did you feel when he treated you that way? You seem more sad than angry.”

She nodded. “I’m both, but more sad, I guess.”

He picked a notepad off his desk and grabbed a pen. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes. That way I can remember what we talked about the next time we get together, and you won’t have to remind me.”

She wiped her nose with the tissue in her hand. “That’s fine.”

“Good. So tell me what’s upsetting you.”

She thought about his question. “I don’t remember my dad ever listening to what I wanted to talk about. I just remember that if I didn’t do what he wanted me to do, he would insult me or ignore me. That hurt a lot.”

“I can imagine.”

Swallowing hard, she said, “I’m not sure which bothered me more, but I suppose they both felt like rejection. His love just seemed so . . . conditional.”

“What were the conditions?”

“Well, for one, if he approved of what I’d done, he rewarded me with whatever I wanted. Usually I wanted new clothes. Daddy spoiled me that way, and Mother hated that. I think she was jealous of the attention he gave me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Sometimes she looked at me as if she wanted to claw me, like a feral cat.”

“That’s interesting. What happened if you didn’t do what your dad wanted? What would he do then?”

“If he didn’t approve, then he ignored me until I practically begged him to forgive me. I wanted him to love me. But he always confused me.”

“Tell me what confused you.” Dr. Rhiner propped his hands under his chin as he listened.

She scrunched her face, bile climbing in her throat. “I’m ashamed to even say it. It’s so . . . gross, and so . . . embarrassing.”

He waited for her to continue. He didn’t look shocked or appalled.

She picked up her purse and dug around inside. “Ah, here they are.” She held up a roll of antacids. “I have to carry these with me all the time or I can’t function. Some days are worse than others.”

“Is what you are about to tell me bothering your stomach?”

She nodded and ripped open the roll. She popped two into her mouth, chewing them thoroughly.

“May I have a drink?”

“Sure.”

He went to fill a paper cup with water from the cooler and brought it to her. She took the cup and emptied it.

“Thanks. So where were we?”

“I think you were about to tell me what you meant when you said you were confused and that what happened was gross and embarrassing.”

“Right. I’ll try.” She shut her eyes. “My early memories are very fuzzy. Most of my childhood is a complete blank. I honestly can’t remember a thing. I see pictures of myself at certain ages, but it’s like my brain erased those years completely.”

“Have you thought about why that might be?”

“Honestly? I try hard not to think about it.”

“Did something traumatic happen when you were a child?” He doodled on the notepad.

Let’s play our secret game before Mommy gets home.

She shuddered and shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t remember much. I . . . I don’t want to.”

“Why did you close your eyes and tremble? Were you thinking about something?”

“I hear my father’s voice in my head sometimes, and he’s saying things to me. Embarrassing things.”

“Tell me what you just heard.”

“I can’t. Not yet. I’d rather tell you about my actual memories or my dreams.”

“Okay. We can save the topic of hearing your father’s voice for another day.”

“Yes, next time. Anyway, when I was about ten and started developing—you know, breasts—I remember my dad watching me. He’d ask me personal questions and stay in my room when I changed my clothes. He’d have this weird look on his face.”

“Describe the look to me.”

“I don’t know how to describe it.”

“What do you think he wanted?”

Her head hurt from trying so hard to remember what she’d blocked out, and she rubbed her forehead. “Me? I’m not sure. He used to ask me to try on different clothes, and he had me pose in them. My dad was a photographer. Can you guess his favorite subject?”

The doctor nodded. “How did that make you feel—to pose for your dad?”

“Well, sort of powerful, I guess. I knew when my daddy smiled at me that he loved me. But then he would look at me as if I—well, as if I wasn’t his daughter. If I said I didn’t feel like having him take my pictures, he would get angry with me and not talk to me. Not until I broke down and told him I’d do it because I wanted him to feel better. Then he’d act as if he loved me again.” Tears streamed down her face.

“This is painful for you to talk about, isn’t it?” He leaned back.

Images passed through her memory that she wanted to forget, and her cheeks heated.

“A few times he had me pose in a bikini. He said I was the perfect model, and he wanted to use my photo for a swimsuit ad. I never saw my picture published anywhere. I think he said that so I’d agree to do it.”

“Anything else bother you?”

“In the ninth grade not long before he died, I remember him offering to pay me and a friend a hundred bucks to model some lingerie for a photo shoot. My friend said no way and told me she thought my dad was weird. I always thought what he asked me to do was normal until she said that.”

“It’s not unusual for girls who were abused to think things were normal in their family until a friend points it out to them. That’s often when the abuse stops—when the victim realizes it’s wrong. How did you deal with what your friend said?”

“Are you saying he abused me?”

“That’s what it sounds like you’re describing to me. So how did you handle the situation?”