Across the Valley
Chapter 1
*Presently*
Nobody believes you. Those three words echo in my head as I sit in the chair of an empty, dull-looking waiting room. I anxiously await my first meeting with the court-ordered counselor, attempting to push any images of the incident out of my brain and compartmentalize them into one small shoebox to leave untouched on the top shelf of a tiny closet, buried in the depths of my mind. If only it were so simple to leave these things unsaid, but it becomes increasingly difficult to suppress the memories when I am constantly required to share my side of the story.
I get pulled out of my thoughts by a door abruptly swinging open and a sharply dressed woman peeking around the corner. She glances at me and then motions for me to follow her into a long hallway of tall wooden doors. We quietly make our way down the corridor, then settle on the very last door on the right. As we make our way inside, she slowly closes the door behind us, careful not to let it make any creak.
“I’m Doctor Josephine Wood,” she says, quickly shaking my hand and taking a seat on a rather large leather chair. I take my seat on the tight, velvet green couch directly across from her, with an uncomfortably close range of space between us of about two feet. The distant buzz humming from the vents in the waiting room can faintly be heard over the lack of dialogue between us. The silence is blaring, causing my head to pound so aggressively that I am convinced this woman can hear it beating herself.
It is difficult to maintain eye contact with the earnest woman in front of me. I feel like I am inside of a fishbowl, on display for her. Or like a zoo animal behind a cage and I am waiting for her to throw peanuts and howl at me to entertain her. I know that she knows about my story, About my case. I don’t doubt she has read about me in the media, and what everybody is saying about me. The things that I have done. Before I have gotten the chance to claim my innocence, she has already made her conclusions about me. She made them before I shook her hand to introduce myself, and well before I even walked through that door, into her incredibly unwelcoming office.
The room goes silent for what seems like a dramatically long time. I feel those eyes peering into me, watching every small facial gesture or body movement I make. The intensity is enough to make my palms sweat despite the overwhelming cold draft floating around in this small, dimly lit room. I remember what it feels like sitting in her seat, asking the questions. It feels demeaning to sit on this side now. To not only lose my license, but to be forced into the role as a patient. It is soul-crushing.
“Look, you and I both know why you are sitting here today. We can’t change the events that took place, but we certainly can work towards accepting what happened. But to do that, we need to be open to discussing the hard stuff,” she says with a smooth tone yet a patronizing look on her face. I can taste the fake sincerity in her voice. Or, perhaps the artificial scent of lilies coming from the single wall plug-in air freshener actively polluting the only breathable air in this room is finally getting to me.
I blankly look at her while clenching my jaw and leaning forward in my seat. At this point, I am getting agitated. A knot forms in the back of my throat and I feel my skin starting to flush. This woman has no clue what I went through. Nobody does. No doctor or professional can begin to understand the story I have to tell. What happened cannot be explained by DSM-5 evaluations or psychiatric treatments. It was real. She was real.
“You won’t believe me,” I challenge. “It doesn’t matter who I tell, because nobody is willing to believe me.”
“And, what won’t I believe, Charlotte?” Forget it. She isn’t different from the others.
She won’t be the first to actually listen. “It doesn’t matter,” I huff and lean back in my seat.
How do I even begin to defend myself after intentionally killing someone? And how could anyone ever comprehend why she made me do it?
Chapter 2
*Several months earlier*
“Small cappuccino for Charlotte!” A small woman with green hair yelled over the noise of coffee grinders and blenders to a sea of people in business casual attire. I politely maneuvered through the crowd and up to the stand where I saw the little cup with my name scribbled diagonally on the side. I thanked her for the cup and received a gentle nod and smile in return, as she made her way back to the madness of morning rush-hour coffee.
The little bell above the door jingled as I made my way outside, and I felt the chill air slightly breeze around me as I realized I did not bring a proper coat for the imminent change of autumn weather. Without paying attention, I nearly collapsed into twin girls running and laughing into the coffee shop with their parents walking close behind them. The woman who I assumed was their mother gave me a quick but sincere apology as she darted inside to tame them.
I always loved this time of year. There was something so special about watching the leaves change into those deep reds and yellows, covering the streets entirely. Despite being underdressed, I loved how the crisp morning air felt while enjoying my coffee before making my short commute to work. These small moments brought me joy. As I hopped into my car, I couldn’t help but feel extreme abundance for the life I had here and getting to work in the field that I did. I felt empowered.
I started with a new client that day. The parents who contacted me gave hardly any information about their little girl’s case. I was only informed in an email that she was recommended psychotherapy and needed to begin Monday. I enjoyed working with children the most out of all the clients I took on. They always offered the most fascinating insight into the thought patterns and behaviors they experienced. I often believed the children I worked with were more emotionally attuned than most adult patients I saw. Many of the adults I worked with found it difficult to even accept the deeper reasoning behind why they felt what they felt. From experience, children often had their experiences severely neglected. I guessed that explained why their symptoms remain overlooked until seeing me.
After pulling myself out of these thoughts, I entered the facility where I worked and unlocked the door to my office. I turned the lights on and cleared my desk of the miscellaneous files that I left for “the next day” to organize and will inevitably leave again for “tomorrow”. I took out my laptop and began arranging my agenda for the week ahead. After my planning, it was time to meet my new client.
I walked through the corridor over to our separate waiting room, where I first laid eyes on a very tired-looking woman. Her petite frame was enveloped by a thick cream cardigan and her hair was clipped back, leaving a few pieces framing her gaunt face. Next to her sat a young blonde girl intently focused on a picture book titled “Flowers of Spring”, a detailed image of a lily of the valley taking up the front cover. The woman looked up at me from where she was sitting, then immediately rose to her feet and walked over to me with her hand out.
“Doctor Charlotte?” the woman pressed.
“You must be Enid. It is a pleasure to meet you,” I replied, shaking her hand. Her eyes were hollowed in her skull with dark circles forming around them. She looked completely exhausted. I looked down at the small girl who now had the book closed and her gaze on me. She quickly looked away when I caught her eye.
“This is my daughter, Lilith. We were referred by her psychiatrist who suggested we come to you in addition to her medications.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Lilith,” I said while bending down to her height. She held a timid expression as she backed her body behind her mom, grabbing her mother’s hand. I stood back up and smoothed the wrinkles from my pants. “We will be bringing her back to our healing playroom where she will get acquainted with the space, and we can familiarize ourselves with each other in my office,” I smiled at her.
After situating her daughter, I took the woman back into my office. She sheepishly sat on the sofa as I took a seat next to my desk. I watched her as she examined the room around her, taking in the shelves full of books, the plants that resided in every corner, and the art leaving no clear wall space. I offered her a cup of tea, but she politely declined. I poured myself a cup and then initiated the conversation.
“Please share with me what’s going on,” I requested, taking a sip of my tea. She hesitated for a moment, almost like she was trying to find the right words to use.
“My daughter…something is going on with Lilith. She was diagnosed with bipolar disorder a while back. It was manageable for a long time and the medication she was on before seemed to be working. But I don’t know what has been happening with her over the last month. It seems like she has regressed. I stay up with her almost every night now because she can’t fall asleep. She either has horrible tantrums or she goes mute and refuses to speak to us. I’m trying my best to understand her disorder, but I am struggling,” she paused and inhaled deeply. She was trying her hardest to hold back tears, but they started slipping down her cheeks. I handed her a tissue, and she proceeded to wipe her face. When she didn’t continue, I spoke up.
“Finding the right treatment that works can be a long process of trial and error, especially as your daughter is experiencing severe symptoms of mania. I will do my best to provide her with therapy that hopefully helps her with the extreme behaviors and mood swings she has been experiencing.” I gave her a sympathetic smile and she slowly nodded her head with sad eyes. “Your patience matters a great deal in this process.”
After escorting her back to the waiting room, I made my way inside the room where Lilith was. I opened the heavy wooden door to see her sitting at the miniature table, scribbling on a piece of paper with a violet crayon. She wasn’t drawing anything in particular, but instead covered the whole sheet in purple.
“Is purple your favorite color?” I inquired.
“No.” She stated firmly without taking her eyes off the paper. I walked closer to the table and then took a seat next to her. I saw the crayon which was once sharp, now a shortened stub.
“What is your favorite color?” I pressed further.
“Yellow.”
“Why did you choose purple?” I asked but she didn’t answer me this time. I decided to drop the topic. “I’m Doctor Charlotte. Do you know why you are here, Lilith?” Again, she didn’t respond so I decided to continue, “I’m going to help you through the big things you’ve been experiencing. Do you want to tell me about what has been happening?” She stopped coloring.
“I can’t sleep,” she muttered, looking up at me with an expressionless face.
“Do you want to tell me why you can’t sleep?” I encouraged. I tried my best to get her as comfortable with me as I could. Children can take a while to open up, and I don’t blame them. Nobody wants to talk about the things they are struggling with to a complete stranger. And as I expected, she softly shook her head “No” and picked up the crayon again to keep scribbling. I resorted to a new strategy to get her to start feeling comfortable with me.
“Do you like to play any games?” She thought about it for a brief moment, tilting her head and poking her tongue out.
“I like to play line tag at school.” I knew what line tag was, but I asked her to describe it anyway. “It’s a game where you… where someone is it’and then we’re on the basketball court where the lines are, and you have to stay on the lines while you get chased,” she finished, all while continuing to cover more white space with the purple wax.
“That sounds like a fun game,” I told her with an eager tone, but she didn’t look up at me. “Are there any other games you like to play?” I scooted closer to her.
“Red light, green light,” she stated.
“I like that game too.” She continued focusing on the paper in front of her, forcing what was left of the crayon onto the page. “What about hide-and-seek?” She looked at me this time. “Do you like to play hide-and-seek?”
“Yes,” she said with a small grin. Her full attention was on me now. I knew I was getting somewhere and I felt encouraged to keep this exchange going in an attempt at building some sort of relationship with her. I leaned forward a bit. “What do you like more? To be the hider or the seeker?”
“The hider.”
“I think I like to be the seeker more.” I smiled, and she smiled back. I noticed she was missing a front tooth on her bottom row.
“Do you have lots of dreams?” she asked, pulling my attention away from the details of her smile. I was surprised by her expressing more interest in the conversation. I didn’t usually have a breakthrough this quickly when working with adolescents.
“Yes, I do.”
“I do too,” she said while focusing her attention on the ground and fidgeting her feet.
“How do you have lots of dreams when you’re having trouble sleeping?” I asked with a hint of humor in my tone. Her smile faded though. I felt a shift in attitude from how our conversation was previously going. Her feet stopped moving and she looked around the room, then settled her gaze back on me. “What do you dream about?” I asked, breaking the silence. She seemed hesitantas if she was beginning to feel uncomfortable with me again. I decided to leave that subject behind, as I could tell she didn’t want to speak on it, and I wanted to respect her boundaries.
The rest of our session was filled with random discussion here and there, mostly coming from my end. It was clear she wasn’t fully trusting me yet, but we made a start today and a pretty good one, at that. I felt confident we could make progress here. As I started wrapping up our final exchanges, I remembered the book she had with her in the waiting room. I noticed it under the almost completely shaded paper she created. I grabbed it for her as we both stood up to exit the room.
“I saw the flower you were looking at earlier. A lily of the valley,” I commented as I reached for the door handle.
“She gave me one in my dream,” she remarked. I looked at her with confusion. But before I had the chance to ask her what she meant, she had already darted out the door to where her mom was standing at the end of the hallway.
“Thank you, we will see you next week,” Enid declared, as the two of them walked out of the building. I was left there in the hallway, thinking about what she said to me. She gave me one in a dream. I had a foreboding feeling in the pit of my stomach that I couldn’t shake.