Page 42 of Clever Little Thing

“Sometimes children don’t have the language to tell us how they’re feeling, so they use the tools at their disposal, the few things they have power over, such as where and when they eat.”

“Well, I’m hoping you can get her to talk about how she’s feeling.”

“How old is she?” Wesley said, and when I told him, he continued: “Children don’t do well in talk therapy at that age, so I’ll mostly be observing her play.”

“Stella’s a very unusual child. She’s hyperverbal.” Then I corrected myself: “She used to be.”

Wesley made sympathetic noises. “Especially for a sensitive kid, the loss of a babysitter to suicide could constitute a crisis.” Wesley told me about a boy he’d treated who’d once been class president, confident, outgoing. But then he was so severely bullied at school that he stayed home and reenacted World War II online all day, obsessed with finding a different outcome. “Trauma can cause a complete personality change,” Wesley said. “It can feel like you don’t even recognize your child.”

Finally, someone who understood.

24.

I was in luck: Wesley had a last-minute cancellation, so I was able to take Stella to see him the following day, after I collected her from school. In the car on the way there, she asked, “When is Irina coming back?”

“She’s gone on holiday,” I improvised. I’d tell Stella the truth when she was herself again. By then, she would have adjusted to not seeing Irina.

“For how long?”

I shrugged, and Stella slumped into her seat. My heart ached, but I had to do what was best for her.

We’d barely arrived in the waiting room when Wesley Bachman opened his office door, bang on time. He was clean-shaven and shiny-faced, dressed in jacket, shirt, and pressed khakis. He projected competence. I felt underdressed in my old grey jumper and maternity jeans. “Sorry about the drama outside,” he said. “They’re tree-trimming so the branches don’t interfere with a power line.Necessary work, but I do wish they weren’t doing it during office hours.”

I said it was fine. It was a pretty office, the walls painted blue with white clouds. There was a wooden dollhouse and a dress-up chest with costumes spilling out of it. There was a craft table, a colorful tent with a flag on top. In a corner of the room, there was a small sofa with two chairs opposite, where adults could talk.

Wesley gestured for me to sit on the sofa. “Stella, you can do whatever you prefer. You can sit with us or play.”

Stella knelt down before the wooden play kitchen. I was surprised. I’d never had to encourage gender-neutral play because Stella wasn’t interested in the pretend cooking and serving of meals, let alone cleaning or taking care of babies. It had always struck me as a little absurd, the way girls like Lulu and her friends feverishly cooked and served food, playing at the very activities that their moms complained about to each other. Now Stella pulled the sleeve of her cardigan over her hand and rubbed it over the stovetop. “What are you doing, sweetie?” I asked.

“Cleaning,” Stella muttered.

“Don’t use your sleeve, baby,” I said.

Wesley asked me questions about Stella and wrote notes on a clipboard. It wasn’t easy to hear everything he said, because the saw revved outside. I kept expecting Stella to put her hands over her ears. Instead, she was intent on removing every plastic saucepan and teacup from a shelf so she could wipe the shelf. She was now using her skirt. The shelf was probably dusty and sticky, but I decided to let it go. Wesley asked some basic questions, and then he said, “How was the birth?”

“It wasn’t great, but what birth is? Not that you would know.” I left him to interpret the tone of that one. I wasn’t about to give this stranger a blow-by-blow account of my episiotomy.

“It’s one of the questions I have to ask,” said Wesley. “What about friends? Does Stella play with other kids?”

“Not until recently.”

“Lulu invites me to her house,” Stella contributed.

Wesley smiled. “Great! Playdates are great. Now, tell me. Does Stella have sensitivity to noises, chafing clothes, anything like that?”

I explained that these things used to be challenging but now were not.

“Excellent. Now, eating, sleeping—normal, would you say, or—?”

I admitted that she ate a wider variety of foods now. “And she used to have a lot of trouble falling asleep. Now she sleeps well.”

Wesley nodded. “She looks very healthy.”

“Hm,” I said. Was “very healthy” code for “chunky”?

Wesley clicked his pen. “You don’t agree?”

“It’s unexpected, the change. We’re a skinny family.” I saw the look on Wesley’s face and explained I didn’t care if Stella was on the heavier side, as long as that’s how she was naturally. Pete was lean, I was on the slender side, so if Stella was becoming chunky, it likely wasn’t natural.

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