Page 44 of Clever Little Thing

“I like gomgush,” Stella contributed, “but I’m not allowed to have it anymore.”

“We’re vegetarian, remember? ‘Not allowed,’ ” I repeated playfully, and rolled my eyes.

Wesley didn’t smile back. “What’s gomgush—is that how you say it?”

“It’s a lamb stew,” I said. “Traditionally for banquets.”

“Sounds interesting,” Wesley said. “How—”

“We’re here to talk about Stella,” I said. “Not cooking.”

“I’d like to hear what Stella thinks. Can you come and sit with us, Stella?” She heaved herself up, shuffled over, and then lowered herself onto the sofa. I wanted to point this out to Wesley: She didn’t even move like an eight-year-old. She moved like an overweight adult.

“Your mom says you’re interested in birds,” Wesley said. “The sky police?”

“The police?” Stella looked alarmed.

“SkyPo,” I clarified. “Remember? The baddies in the sky who are out to get us?”

A muscle twitched in Wesley’s face. Stella shook her head, apparently nonplussed. “I know you remember,” I said. “You have to remember. Do you really not remember? SkyPo?”

She looked blank. The chainsaw revved as it tore through the branch. That poor tree, having one of its limbs torn off.

“So, I hear you lost your babysitter recently,” Wesley said. “How are you feeling about that?”

“I’m not lost,” Stella said, shrugging. “I’m not dead.” She said these phrases in a slightly contentious manner, emphasis onnot.

I’mnotlost. I’mnotdead.

Like we’d been telling her that she herself was dead, and she was contesting this lie:Here I am.

I squeezed her hand. Her skin felt cold to the touch, as if she’d climbed out of an icy river. I turned to Wesley. “Please. You have to help us.”

“It’s very difficult to come to terms with change and death. It’s one of the most difficult things, in fact. It’s something we work on our whole life long.”

What was I supposed to do with that? The revving chainsaw really was unbearable. I leaned towards Wesley and whispered, “You have to help us. I’m desperate. I’d do anything for her. I’d throw myself under a train if I thought it would do any good.”

Wesley took a breath. “Stella, can you go and look at the books in the waiting room while I wrap things up with your mom?”

When she’d left the room, he said, “I have to ask you some questions, Charlotte. Do you feel that you may harm yourself or anyone else? Are you having suicidal thoughts?”

I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Sometimes the best way to help your child is to help yourself. I think perhaps you could benefit from therapy.”

I got up. “I’ve heard enough.”

Wesley stood between me and the door. “Do you not like me?”

“That’s not a fair question,” I said. Obviously, I didn’t like him.

Wesley studied me. “Maybe thisishelping Stella.”

“Telling you that I don’t like you?”

“Bingo. Explain.”

I didn’t have time for this. It was like a one-night stand asking you to have an in-depth breakup conversation. But I also felt that if I didn’t explain why I didn’t like him, it would look like I was an unhinged woman who hated any therapist who suggested that she, not her daughter, was the problem.

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