“There won’t be any left,” he said.
“Well, then, next time.”
Dennis frowned, angry. She watched his anger carefully.
“You sound like a spoiled child,” she said.
“Spoiled?” He lived in an institution. How spoiled could he be?
“A respectful child doesn’t talk back to their elders.”
“I want bacon and eggs.”
“Well, you won’t have any today.”
Dennis could feel his temper boiling up. But if he had a tantrum, he definitely wouldn’t get breakfast. He quelled himself.
“I want—”
“In this room, you will learn to respect and obey adults.”
“If you hurt me, I’m going to re—”
“This is legitimate therapy, Dennis. There will be no child protective services reports, because I am doing what I was hired to do.”
He looked at her out of the side of his eyes. A new fear began in him. It was the fear of an inmate who has learned he can be legally executed.
“Now let’s get started.”
“With what?” His mouth was dry.
“Holding time,” she said, and smiled.
How do you describe holding time? A woman given the treatment as a child in a center in Evergreen, Colorado, wrote many years after her experience:
For the therapist, the goal is to break down the child. Nowadays we call this coercive restraint therapy, and some would describe it as more akin to torture than anything related to genuine attachment. But since the 1980s, hundreds to thousands of foster children have been given holding time in centers across the United States. The exact number is unknown because no one has bothered to keep track. At the Evergreen Clinic, I was wrapped tightly inside layers of sheets until I begged for release. On some days I was tickled until I wet myself, or had my stomach pressed until I cried. These techniques are supposed to reduce the child to an infantile state. It is only then, holding time therapists believe, that the child can begin again. The goal is to cause complete psychological collapse.
After months of hold time therapy, I was deemed cured. In truth, I had been destroyed. I have not been the same since.
That night, Dennis crawled into bed, feeling hollowed out with pain. He looked out the dark window. Martha King had reached down inside him and plucked out a part of him, from his very soul. He didn’t think he would ever get it back.
He closed his eyes and thought of the rabbit, of her beating heart. He imagined her curling up with her paddle feet up close to her belly to sleep. She protected her soft belly in the way he could not.
“Can I help you?”
Constable Roberts, fresh from his fortieth birthday party, was in his office, hanging a fishing net in the corner. He had been constable for several years but had yet to get around to decorating the place. His wife had suggested the net. Privately he thought it would look stupid, but marital harmony was more important than decor.
Ralph stood in the doorway, uncomfortable.
“Wanted to see if I might speak with you, sir.”
“Why, of course. Have a seat.”
Ralph sat down nervously.
Constable Roberts sat down across from him. He folded his hands in his lap and smiled.
“I’m worried, sir, about the boys.”
