The Drowning Girl. Margaret Leroy
in the unfortunate position of being a single parent?’ he says.
I nod. It’s the part of the consultation I’ve been dreading.
‘So what about her father? Does she see him?’ he says.
‘No,’ I say. Afraid he will think that this is an explanation for everything.
‘When relationships break down, it’s natural to feel a certain amount of anger.’ He has a sibilant, unctuous voice. ‘Absolutely natural. And I’m wondering if you felt that?’
I tell him yes: I’ve planned what I will say.
‘I’d have liked him to be there for her—to be a father to her.’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘That’s absolutely normal. And Sylvie herself, of course, will yearn for a father figure, and for those things you can’t provide, that only a father can give…’
I hate him putting it like that. I don’t say anything.
‘Now, when you look at Sylvie,’ he says, ‘do you perhaps sometimes see her father in her?’
I shake my head.
‘I can see they’re alike, of course, but Sylvie’s very much herself,’ I say.
‘All right. Thank you, Ms Reynolds.’
He moves his notepad between his palms, aligning it precisely with the edge of his desk.
‘Now, I’ll take you through the possible diagnoses,’ he says.
I feel a quick warm surge of hope. I tell myself that he is the expert, this scented, immaculate man, and that now he is going to help us—to diagnose Sylvie and heal her.
‘As you know, I’ve been watching Sylvie play, and it’s really been very instructive. Given the history, one possible diagnosis would be Autistic Spectrum Disorder. And Sylvie does have some rigidity of behaviour and thought. But, against that, she has good eye contact and good communicative intent, which autistic children never have, and her fantasy play is excellent. Autistic children don’t play like Sylvie, they can’t create these rich symbolic worlds. Post-traumatic stress disorder would also be a possibility—but there’s no evidence in what you told me of any traumatic event. Though obviously something may have happened that you’re not aware of. Sometimes we don’t know our children quite as well as we think we do.’
‘I’m sure nothing happened,’ I say.
He ignores this.
‘Now, I’ve also been looking for signs of ADHD—but Sylvie’s attentional skills are really very good. She has absolutely no difficulty concentrating. Rather the reverse, in fact. I’d say her ability to focus is perhaps a little exceptional.’
Perhaps I should be pleased he sees these good qualities in her. But I feel my heart sink. I glance into the playroom, where she’s showing Katy her new pink boots and smiling. She’s being a perfect little girl—in that way she sometimes has, that seems too perfect, as though she’s acting the part. I’m willing her to get upset, so that he will see.
‘So my diagnosis would be a phobic disorder, possibly caused by a constitutional vulnerability in Sylvie, and triggered by some unknown environmental event. And though she quite clearly doesn’t fulfil the diagnostic criteria for Autistic Spectrum Disorder, she does have a mild impairment of social and interpersonal functioning. Perhaps made worse by the fact that there are certain issues around your parenting of her.’
I wonder what he is going to say about me. I feel a dull, heavy ache in my chest.
He leans towards me, his fingertips pressed together in mock prayer.
‘There was something that concerned me, when I saw the two of you play.’ His voice is intimate, confiding. ‘I noticed that she doesn’t call you Mum or Mummy. And I wondered why you’d objected to that?’
‘It was Sylvie’s decision,’ I tell him.
A picture slides into my mind. Sylvie is two, and we’re in the garden by the mulberry tree. I kneel in front of her, cradling her face in my hands. Sweetheart, I want you to call me Mum. That’s what children do, that’s what Lennie calls her mother… She turns away from me, her silk hair shading her face. No, Grace.
‘She’s never called me Mum,’ I say.
Doubt flickers over his face. I know he doesn’t believe this.
‘You see, what concerns me here is your rather weak boundary-setting. That there isn’t a clear enough boundary between yourself and your child. That’s so important for successful parenting. Sylvie needs to know you’re the adult, that you’re the one in charge. It’s not so healthy for children to feel their parent is their best friend.’
‘I don’t think she sees me like that,’ I say.
But I know he isn’t listening: I know he’s sure he has found the key to decoding our relationship.
‘Over-involvement can be a danger for single mothers,’ he says. ‘Perhaps especially with a daughter, and when you have only one child. Sometimes the mother will see the child almost as part of herself, and that’s terribly unhealthy for the child. You need to maintain that boundary. It’s crucial for Sylvie’s mental health. I’d really like to see her calling you Mum.’
I don’t say anything.
His glance flicks down to his wristwatch. I know the consultation is coming to an end. Despair drags at me. If he can’t help me, who will?
‘Now, unless there’s anything else you need to ask…’ he says.
In the playroom, Sylvie is trying on dressing-up hats and laughing. I feel a stupid anger with her, for behaving so perfectly. I’m willing her to scream, to do something unnerving or strange; but she pulls on a hat with a feather and grins at her reflection in the mirror. Two minutes and it’ll be over, and my chance to get help will be gone.
I clear my throat, but I’m not looking at him.
‘I read something in a newspaper—about children with problems like Sylvie’s…’ My mouth feels thick and dry. I hadn’t planned to say this, but I don’t know what else I can do. ‘It said that some psychiatrists will do regression to try and help the child—you know, hypnotise them… Take them back…’ My voice fades.
His face tenses, sharpens a little. I feel it’s the first time I’ve really got his attention. I don’t know if this is a good thing.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he says, ‘but I think you must be referring to the past-life lobby.’
‘Well. Kind of.’
My voice is thin and high.
He screws up his mouth, as though he has a bitter taste.
‘I’m afraid it’s true, there are such people,’ he says. ‘Sadly even the medical profession does have its lunatic fringe.’
‘I thought I’d just mention it…’
I look out into the gardens, at the lawns, at the great swaying cedars. I would like to be out there, to feel the cool air on my skin.
‘Ms Reynolds.’ He picks up his silver pen, leans forward; he’s brisker suddenly, more formal, an edge of concern in his voice. ‘Do you have a particular interest in these kinds of things, would you say?’
‘Not really. It was just that the little boy in the article sounded so like Sylvie…’
He coughs slightly.
‘What I’m trying to get at, Ms Reynolds—could you tell me, have you ever experienced anything that would incline you to believe in the paranormal?’ His words are measured, careful.
I don’t see why he’s asking this.
‘What kind of thing?’