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“Okay. Thank you.”
“What we are going to do is play and maybe talk. But only if you want to.”
Stating, not asking. Careful, as usual, to avoid the “Okay?” adults often tack on when they offer children non-questions and false freedom.
It’s not honest and kids hate it.
Philomena nodded. Small hands grabbed each other and both arms began swinging back and forth.
Toni said, “Sweetie? Did you hear the doctor?”
Philomena looked directly at me and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
Toni said, “The sir part she learned from her grandpa.” To Philomena: “Gramps was once a colonel. Do you remember what that is?”
“In the army.”
“Yes, baby. I guess Gramps can get pretty military, huh?”
Philomena shrugged and continued to look at me. As if searching for a solution to a problem she hadn’t quite identified.
Pretty child with delicate pale skin and a tenuous mouth. Golden hair was gathered in a single plait that reached her waist.
Miniature of her mother.
I stood and pointed toward the office and said, “That way.”
—
As the three of us walked there, I saw that the mother–child resemblance extended to gait. Philomena keeping in perfect step with Toni.
My brain clogged with a storm of strange irrelevancies.
Did Cordi Gannett look like this at three?
Did the resemblance between Con Deeb’s latest wife and his latest victim begin that early?
Do baby photos of Cordi exist? Renata Blanding has amassed albums full of Aaron, I am willing to bet…
Then my mind shifted to the future and it got worse.
The terrible truths this little girl would confront one day.
Perhaps the lack of resemblance to the monster who’d wreaked havoc would turn out to be a smidge of good luck.
Or it would make no difference at all.
As we neared the office doorway, Philomena put a bit of skip into her stride.
Happy child.
How far would resilience take her?
Therapy needs to be honest, but like any relationship, a bit of play-acting can help smooth out the bumps. So I tried to clear my head and put on a smile and by the time we were inside the office, I was pretty sure it looked authentic.
Then again, Robin had read me like a primer so maybe I was slipping.
I said, “Here we are, Philomena. This playhouse is for you.”
