Shrink Wrapped
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Chapter Four - The Story
Dr. Marilyn Sanders POV
We made the appointment for Julie and now she had arrived, appearing calm, cool, and collected. She was escorted by an armed bodyguard, a scary-looking young Hispanic man, muscular and handsome, early twenties maybe. He followed her into my office and stood arms folded, back against the wall by the door.
I introduced myself to Julie Martine, and refrained from asking where her mother was. Who sends a child to a therapist with only an armed bodyguard? Yeesh...
I told the little girl to call me Marilyn and said, "Julie, what we talk about is private, there is no need for your friend (what do you call a twenty-something gangbanger with two teardrops on his face, anyway?) to remain in the room.''
Julie shook my hand and said, ''Georgy (I realized later the guy's name must be Jorge, but she gave it the American pronunciation…) does not speak English. But even if he did he would never repeat what he hears in this room. Unless he felt he needed to do so for my protection.''
This person is ten years old?
She fixed her big brown eyes on me and said, "He stays."
She seated herself gracefully and tipped her head questioningly.
I nodded, leaned back in my desk chair, examined the girl, momentarily short-circuited by the child's looks. Ten year old Julie Martine was petite with dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, obviously Latina. She resembled her mother not at all. She was exquisite, like a china doll. Destined to grace the cover of Vogue or Bazaar in a couple of years, no doubt in my mind at all. Her perfection was saved from being intimidating only by her wide brilliant smile and curious, intelligent brown eyes.
She smiled at me and said, ''I look like my biological father.''
I just nodded, catching a brief smile on the face of the bodyguard. I wondered if he understood more than she admitted to me. He obviously knew the father, I thought. I tried to refocus, made a nonsense note on my yellow legal pad.
The session went slowly. As her mother had said, the child was blocking or avoiding. She answered calmly but briefly, showing some but not much emotion. And what emotion she did show seemed to be faintly amused tolerance, with a dash of skepticism. If she had not been kidnapped and forced to kill a man, I'd be impressed by her quick wit and her charm.
I thought quickly:…too old for play therapy or art therapy.
I decided to ask her to write about her experiences in a journal instead. I pulled a black and white composition book out of my desk and offered it to her, explaining what I wanted her to do.
Julie politely took the notebook, but then she said, "Would it be okay if I typed it on my laptop instead? I can make a zip drive copy for you to read, you know how to do that? I can show you if you need me to….."
Hmmm. Technology in action, but well okay, why quibble? I told her that would be fine.
And so our time together began.
…
Julie's Journal
My name is Julie Martine and this is my journal. The shrink says I have to write in it, my thoughts about being kidnapped and being adopted and whatever worries me. As if! But I guess I can delete the parts I don't want the shrink or my mom to read.
I'm not supposed to call the woman a shrink, she is a counselor. I'm supposed to call her by her first name: Marilyn! And I'm supposed to have PTSD, which means Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, cos, hey some crazy guy kidnapped me!
So, OK, let's see—I was walking home from school, from the school bus stop on the corner, with Carrie and Maria, it was almost the end of the school year. Next year I'll be in Middle School, hope it's not so boring. Anyways this man came up behind us and he pulled me by my arm away from my friends and then something happened because the next thing I recall I was in a trailer, a camper I mean. The guy told me we were in NJ and that he is my real dad, Ranger.
Yeah right, buddy. ROTFLMAO?
My real dad, my daddy I mean, is tall and strong and young and scary. And he is so hot that people stop and stare at him. My real daddy is freaking gorgeous. And like I said, scary. Armed and dangerous. (My mom won't like it if she reads that!).
This loser—Chuck—crazy eyes, bald spot, weird high voice. Bad, bad clothes. Yeah, OK his hair is cut like Ranger's and he has Latino skin and eyes and I guess he is not a bad looking guy. But he is no Ranger. When I was little I thought my daddy looked just like an action figure, like a GI Joe doll. He wore army clothes when he came to visit us. But anyways he is as pretty as a doll—he is perfect. He doesn't have a beer belly. Or bad breath.
People don't think I remember him, when he was my daddy. But I do. I call him Ranger now, like my mom told me to and I know Ron is, like, my Real Dad—he goes to my soccer games and my swim meets and stuff.
But when I was little I had a different daddy and that was Ranger. I remember him, I do. He was so big and warm and cozy and he smelled nice, he used to hold me and hug me and he talked to me in Spanish sometimes. Then mom married Ron who they told me was my dad now and my other original daddy, Ranger I mean, only came to see me on Christmas Day and he never hugged me anymore. It made me sad.
Sometimes now when I see him, he seems sad too, I can tell. I look into his eyes and he tells me in my head, no words, that he loves me. So why would I ever think this a-hole Chuck is my dad? Yeah, Ron, OK I get it but Chuck? No way.
tbc
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