The blond sat at her desk, leaning back in her office chair. Her one o'clock had just left. She sighed. What a session that had been; it seemed that that teenager would never open up. When it came right down to it, though, they always did. As a psychologist you had to draw people out----and Helga, good to her masters in Psychology, always got them to.
Strumming her fingers absently on the arm of her chair, she allowed her mind to drift. Twenty-three years ago she was the patient not the doctor. Little did I know how much my sessions with Dr. Bliss would change my life, Helga thought. And they had. If not for her therapy Helga was sure she wouldn't be where, or who, she was now.
She stood from her seat, and began walking the length of her office. It was a pretty spacious room. Cozy. Almost felt like someone's home more than a workspace, but that was the point. It was an area created to make any visitor feel rested, relaxed, and perhaps somewhat restored.
The walls of the room were painted a soft rose color. The floors were wood (the same color has her desk). In the center of the room stood a plush sofa which, faced an equally plush settee; a floral print ran across each piece of furniture. In between these two items stood a dark table. Book shelves lined two walls; each shelf a bearer of different texts revolving around Helga's trade.
A few of these books were different, more literary, such as: To Kill a Mockingbird, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, The Great Gatsby, The House on Mango Street, The Catcher in the Rye, and even the Harry Potter series. Look even closer and you might see the occasional collection of poetry. Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, for instance, sits crammed next to The Human Mind: A Text-book of Psychology. Dorothy Parker's Sunset Gun stands toe to toe with some bio about Sigmund Freud. Look even closer still, and you may be able to spot another piece of fiction. . . .Hers. A collection of short stories and poems entitled, Pink Ribbons Lost. An anagram of Helga's name runs along the spine.
To the back of the space, a print of Starry Night hangs above that cherry wood desk of Helga's. It was her favorite painting. It was almost as if the stars, or orbs of light, were God's angels sent down to protect the villagers below. She figured if it helped calm her in times of stress it would calm others as well. What also clung onto her walls were photographs of friends and family. A picture of she and Phoebe as girls. Another of Olga at her wedding day. To the left of Olga's photo was a candid picture of Big Bob and Miriam when they were youths, smiling enthusiastically into the camera. It was a stark contrast to the parents she had known most of her life----More like the parents she knew now. Again, thanks to good old therapy, the Patakis had learned to heal; they had learned to move forward with their lives, yet that had taken time. Plenty of time.
Frowning, Helga could almost hear her father's first initial reaction to her therapy sessions. Instantly she was transported back to her childhood home and to the kitchen she and her parents rarely used. Big Bob was yelling.
"My daughter," He said. "Mine! One of those freaks that talks to themselves in public, collects human hair, and bounces of the walls, huh? Jesus Christ Olga!" Her small fists clenched at hearing herself referred to by her sister's name.
"It's Helga Dad! Helga. H-E-L-G-A. HELGA!" He didn't hear her. Bob's rage got the better of him, so he just kept on ranting. "I don't know why I thought that that quack wouldn't single you out. I mean, look at her Miriam! She's got not a thing going for her. Not a thing!" Her mother sat unfazed at the kitchen counter----Too buzzed to care. "Dammit! Why didn't you do what we had talked about nine years ago? But, nope. Had to have her. Had to." It was here he grabbed Miriam's arm, roughly turning her towards him.
"Had to give life to this mistake! This punishment for birthing a child prodigy. . . .Stupid cow." He let go of Miriam then, tossing her across the kitchen, and before Helga's mother could sputter his name was out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He didn't turn up until two days later, frowned Helga.
Sighing, she closed her eyes, recalling her reaction to good ol' dad's outburst. She recalled how her nine year old self had stoically trudged up the stairs to her room, locked the door behind her, rushed to the sanctuary of her closet, and lamented her sufferings to the shrine of the boy she loved. The one person in the world she felt could understand, but she could never actually confide in.
All through that night Helga cried. Even though a child, she understood; Helga G. Pataki was no fool. An aborted baby. They almost terminated me. . . .And He wished they had. The tears she had shed had been endless. At the time of her spastic sobbing, she had almost believed she was going to drown in a sea of her own tear drops. Blinking out of her revelry, Helga whispered to her parent's photograph, "I was disappointed when I hadn't drowned ."
She walked on, admiring more of her snapshots. More of she and Phoebe growing up together. A hand full of Helga and Ms. Bliss (now Mrs. Smith) smiling side by side. More of her family. Helga and Olga standing in front of the Statue of Liberty, waving. Helga and her mother, Miriam, holding Helga's newborn daughter, now four. Helga and her husband. (Many pictures of the two were displayed, including more of their children). Pictures of his grandparents. The boarding house where they first lived. Pheebs' family. Here best friend's wedding to Tall-Hair Boy and their children. Helga smiled. She thought, It would seem the good memories have outshined the bad, thanks to their brilliancy.
It was now two thirty-five. The clouds were few and far between. Bright golden rays cast a halo around the doctor's head. She reveled in the warmth from the sun. Looking out of her window, she reflected about her past. A sardonic smile past her lips. Funny how my new patient reminds me of another nine year old I used to know. Sophie was the "patient's" name. She would be Helga's three o'clock from now on. Today was her first day of treatment. It was like looking into a mirror, but Helga had treated others much like Sophie-----Others that had reminded her of herself. Yet, there was something about this kid; something about her that rung a deep cord inside of Helga. "Yeah, this case should prove interesting," remarked the shrink. Brows crinkled, Helga retrieved Sophie's file, and began reviewing her case.
After observing Sophie in class, Helga had left with a general understanding of the girl's mind. First, the kid was definitely defensive. Whenever addressed by another individual, she would use sarcasm as a method from distancing herself from others. "And she's wicked smart," Helga mumbled. "But doesn't feel as if she can show it. Sophie is, for some reason, shy of her precociousness." All day in class when her teacher would ask a question Sophie never once raised her hand. The odd thing was, the kid knew most (if not all) the answers to the questions being asked. Helga had noticed this while peering over Sophie's shoulder. Instead of actively participating with the rest of the class, Sophie had been silently writing her answers down on notebook paper.
Furthermore, Dr. Helga noticed something else too: Her charge was a bully.
There was one student in particular Sophie Anderson enjoyed tormenting the most and this child's name was Chris Harrison. Sophie would constantly rag on this classmate; in addition, the teasing intensified if her victim responded to her behavior passively. "I think you harbor more than just annoyance for this classmate of yours little miss," Helga said. "In fact, I bet it's safe to say you like him like him." Her blue eyes softened. "And nobody knows that better than me. . ."
Ten to three. In a few short minutes Helga would come face to face with Sophie. I only hope I can throw her a lifeline, like the one Ms. Bliss threw for me. Five to three. Helga got up from her desk and took a place on the settee. A tape recorder lay on the coffee table to the settee's right. In her lap was a notepad; Sophie's file was concealed in Helga's briefcase on the floor. Three o'clock. The door opened. Time to get to work.
Helga knew she would get this girl to open up. She had to. It was her job as well as her duty to help others. Sophie was no different. And who knew? Maybe another twenty-three years from now Sophie might be the one helping people. Someone much like herself, perhaps, in the distant future? Who can know? Life is unpredictable (no scratch that) wonderful that way. Criminy! If that wasn't the truth. And with that last thought, Helga began Sophie's treatment.