Chapter 9 - SHE WAS AFRAID OF JUICE
For months, Matilda drank almost nothing unless she opened it herself.
Sealed water.
Milk cartons.
Bottles.
Orange juice was the worst.
At restaurants, if a server brought her a glass, she pushed it away.
At Henrietta’s, she watched food being prepared.
“What did you put in it?”
Every time.
Nobody acted offended.
That mattered.
Her therapist, Dr. Keene, called the process safety rebuilding.
Choice.
Transparency.
Predictability.
Matilda began helping prepare meals.
She poured her own drinks.
Opened containers.
If she needed medicine, I showed her the packaging.
Explained what it was.
Let her smell it.
Asked permission whenever possible.
One evening she developed a fever.
I brought children’s acetaminophen.
She stared at the bottle.
“What is it?”
“Medicine for your fever.”
“Does it make my brain fast?”
“No.”
“Can I smell it?”
“Yes.”
“Can Grandma check?”
“Yes.”
Henrietta checked.
Matilda swallowed the medicine.
Then started crying.
Not because it hurt.
Because trusting again hurt.
I held her.
That was recovery.
Small brave acts nobody photographs.
My guilt changed form constantly.
First:
I married Pamela.
Then:
I traveled too much.
Then:
I should have believed Matilda sooner.
That one wasn’t even true.
She told me once.
I believed her.
So guilt became more creative.
I should have noticed before she had to tell me.
That one stayed.
Dr. Keene challenged it.
“Did Pamela encourage Matilda to hide what was happening?”
“Yes.”
“Did she deliberately explain the symptoms as behavioral problems?”
“Yes.”
“Did she create those symptoms primarily when you traveled?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe you should somehow have observed events designed to happen while you were absent?”
“I’m her father.”
“You’re not a surveillance system.”
I hated therapy.
Henrietta found that hilarious.
Dr. Keene continued:
“Your responsibility isn’t omniscience.”
“What is it?”
“To become safe enough that when your child tells you something impossible, you listen.”
I had.
That didn’t erase my mistakes.
But maybe repair didn’t require me to spend the rest of my life drowning in them.
A year after Pamela’s arrest, Matilda surprised me.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Can we go to Mommy’s beach?”
I froze.
She didn’t call it the La Jolla house.
Never had.
May you like
To Matilda, it was still Mommy’s beach.
And maybe it was time for us to go back.
