Page 213 of Naughty Nelle

CHAPTER 16

After morning meditation, I’m stress-free and determined. All the better to see Shrink. I’m not going to let her get to me today, I promise myself as I head over to her office with my story in hand. Actually, I bet she’ll treat me with the respect I deserve now that I’m opening up about my past.

Clutching the story to my chest, I lie restlessly on the chaise, waiting for her arrival. Things are back to normal. She’s late.

Finally, she flies in like a storm, showering me in fairy dust. Without a word, she wrenches what I’ve written away from me. My eyes stay glued on her as she shoves her glasses onto her head and immerses herself in my words. She’s actually quite pretty without those ridiculous bug-eyed spectacles. Maybe, if she’s nice to me today, I’ll do her a favor and tell her to stop wearing them.

She rolls up the parchment and flips her glasses back over her face. “Jane, you’re quite a wordsmith. You should consider a career as a writer.”

Is that all she can say after I’ve spent hours pouring my heart out? I honestly thought she’d do a somersault and, at least, schedule my release.

“What’s interesting about your story is that it’s written in third person and is completely devoid of emotion.”

“It just came out that way,” I say defensively. “Every time I started with the word ‘I,’ I got writer’s block.”

“That tells me you don’t like being the little girl in the story. You want to be detached from her.”

I tremble. It’s true. “I hated my childhood!” I blurt out.

“Good, Jane. You’re showing some emotion. Now, tell me why you hated it.”

The tears that have been welling up in my eyes roll down my face. “My mother.”

“Why your mother?”

Memories flee my head like prisoners that have been holed up for life. Tears of grief mingle with tears of relief as I start spewing the horrific things she did to me. The beatings…the burns… the dunkings…the lies…the nights alone…

“She abused you, didn’t she?”

I wipe my tears and nod.

Shrink looks at me kindly. “Jane, it’s understandable why you’re crying. You are in pain. You’re revisiting painful memories that you’ve suppressed for many years.”

She lets me weep for a few minutes before continuing.

“Jane, let’s dig deeper. Can you remember the meanest thing your mother ever did?”

How can I ever forget? “I found a little puppy. She killed it!”

I sob as I relive the memory. I’m doing the chore I dread the most—washing a load of my mother’s soiled clothes—in the river near our flat. Oh, how I hate the rancid odor left behind by her conquests; it nauseates me. Scrubbing the last of her many gowns, I glimpse a furry little body drifting by. Bambi! The river’s strong current is pulling him down stream. I have to save him! I jump into the river, and though I’ve never swum before, swimming comes naturally to me. All my mother’s dunkings have taught me how to hold my breath under water, and my arms are strong from years of hard labor. Battling the current, I catch up to my puppy and manage to pull him to shore. He stares at me with those big brown eyes, the same eyes that melted my heart when I first found him. Except now he’s a lifeless, little bundle of wet, matted fur. Tied tightly around his neck is a green scarf. My mother’s! My hands trembling, I unknot it and fling it back into the river as if it were a deadly snake. As it slithers out of sight, I cradle Bambi in my arms and watch my river of tears flow onto his cold, still body. I bury my sweet puppy, and for days, I remove the mud embedded deep beneath my fingernails to forget.

“Are you okay, Jane?”

Shrink’s voice brings me back to the moment. To my horror, I’ve bitten my fingernails down to the quick. They’re red-raw and sting from my tears.

“I don’t know why I’m crying so much,” I splutter. “I had my puppy for less than a day.”

“It’s okay to cry.” Shrink gently flicks away my tears. “People get very attached to their pets no matter how long they’ve had them. You loved Bambi, and he loved you back.”

My tears let up a little. I did love him.

Shrink presses on. “Jane, did you love your mother?”

My blood churns. I hated her for all she did to me. And for what she did to Bambi. “I wanted to love her,” I say at last.

“Did she love you?”

“No!” I bolt upright. “She only loved herself!”

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