A Change Of Pace Page 5

  "Look—" Freddy leans forward, dropping her pad and pen on the table. "—I'm guessing this is not easy for you, so why don't I tell you what I have learned from talking to your daughter, and we can go from there."

  I send her a grateful smile and nod in response.

  "Millie is fourteen years old and lost her mother when she was just ten. From what she tells me, I gather she lived with her mom before she passed away, and has lived with you since. She is quiet, sad, a little testy, a lot defiant, plenty smart, and she doesn't make a lot of new friends. I'm guessing she was not always like this." I shake my head; glad I don't have to speak. "Fourteen is not easy. Especially not for girls who don't have a mom to help them navigate the psychological, physical, and hormonal changes that come with adolescence. She probably feels that loss even stronger now."

  "I'm worried..." I manage to voice, before clearing my throat and trying again. "I'm not sure how to help her. Almost four months ago, I found out she was hurting herself. Cutting. No idea how long that had been going on. I'm a cop, for fuck's sake, you'd think I would've noticed something. Pardon my French," I add quickly, but she doesn't seem fazed by my profanity. Good. I have a feeling there will be much more of that before this is over.

  "No worries, I can swear like a trucker myself. And for the record, you could've been a child psychologist and not picked up on signals when it comes to your own kid. That's the truth." She smiles reassuringly before continuing, "Help me gain some context. Millie is an only child? I gather you and her mother divorced at some point?"

  "We never married," I explain. "Never lived together, and our brief relationship turned into a friendship we built around Millie. Given my sometimes erratic hours with the OPS—the Ottawa Police Service—we felt it was in Millie's best interest to live with Esther, who was able to work from home."

  "So after her mom died, she moved in with you?"

  "Actually, before that. Esther was diagnosed with liver cancer, already far advanced. I moved both her and Millie into my house, where she died just two months later."

  It's still hard to talk about. Those months were among the best, and the worst, of my life. It enforced for me how cruel and unfair death can be—something I'd only occasionally seen in my line of work—but it also gave me a glimpse of what family life can be, of what I had been missing. After Esther died, I was sad, but what tore me up was Millie's grief. She'd clung to me those first few weeks after the funeral, but once she got back in the routine of a new school year, she seemed to adapt quickly.

  "I imagine that must've been hard on both of you." Freddy's gentle voice reels in my wandering mind. "Not just her death, but the adjustments you had to make to every change. All in short succession too. Difficult to process when you go from one new reality to the next. I would think that's true both for Millie, and for you."

  It's a little unsettling how her sharp observations fall in line with my thoughts. She looks deceivingly relaxed, both legs now curled up under her on the couch, but her brown eyes are alert and observant. Quite a difference from what I'd seen of her before, and I'd looked. I'm still looking; taking in her oval face, high cheekbones, and full lips, all framed by the grey strands in that thick chestnut brown hair. From the fine lines around her eyes, I'm guessing probably late thirties to mid-forties?

  "So was it?" she prompts, as she shifts in her seat a little restlessly under my scrutiny. "Difficult to come to terms with all the changes?"

  It takes me a minute to backtrack to what she said before. "For me? An adjustment for sure, but I loved having Millie around all the time. The impact was much greater for her though. I thought we were doing okay—that she was doing okay—until I noticed her getting moodier, dropping from friends, and withdrawing from me about a year ago. It worried me, but walking in on her slicing the inside of her thighs with a razor blade absolutely terrified me."

  "I'm sure. It's perhaps helpful to know that cutting or self-harm is rarely motivated by the need to do oneself injury, but has everything to do with controlling emotions. Pain being the most obvious one, but sometimes it relieves stress as well. Unfortunately, cutting can become a cycle; the immediate relief felt is only temporary, and quickly replaced with strong feelings of guilt and self-disgust. That then leads to more cutting and the circle is round."

  I nod at her. Of course this is not news to me, but hearing it in her words helps settle the sense of panic I've felt since yesterday and puts things in perspective.

  "She saw a therapist a few times, back in Kanata. Not sure how much that did. I thought maybe starting somewhere new, fresh, without all the memories that clung to our house, would help her. I took early retirement and moved us here." I run a hand through my hair and give my head a shake. "I really thought it would do her good."

  "And you figure it isn't?"

  "Given that she's taken up cutting again, I would say no."

  I know my tone is sharp, but her question annoys me. She doesn't seem too affected by it though, and leans forward with a small smile on her lips.

  "That is if you assume she ever stopped cutting."

  I open my mouth to protest, but just as quickly shut it again. Pretty dumb for a police officer. Just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it's not there. "I'm an idiot."

  "Not at all. You're a parent; you want to see the positive. Look, moving here, taking her away from the constant onslaught of memories, and changing the pace of your life, probably will do you both good. Problem is, you bring yourselves along." I look at her confused, and she reacts by chuckling. "You don't fix emotional issues with practical solutions. I suggest the move here was an attempt at controlling a situation that made you feel helpless."

  "Jesus," I groan, feeling like I've been stripped to the bone. The woman doesn't hold punches. "I thought I was here for Millie."

  She responds with that soft chuckle again. "I know, and she'll need a lot of help. But for you to be instrumental in this, you have to know exactly where you stand, what you own, and most importantly—what you can control."

  "Are you suggesting I need therapy?" That earns me an actual laugh. A warm, melodic sound that quickly settles my slightly ruffled feathers, and one I could easily get used to.

  "Perish the thought," she jokes, smiling. "Although, I believe a little therapy never hurt anyone. No, I'm merely pointing out it may be difficult at times to disentangle what you believe to be your daughter's best interests, from what she actually needs."

  "Right," I grunt, not entirely sold. For the past four years, I've been Millie's sole parent by the seat of my pants. Still, I thought I was doing a decent job. To be told what she needs may not be what I think is best for her, is hard to process. I never considered those two things might not be synonymous. I love my daughter to distraction, and having someone else suddenly advocate for her feels almost like an insult. I guess that's exactly what she meant when she said I have to know exactly what I own.

  "Give it some thought," Freddy suggests, getting up and walking to her desk, where she picks up a tablet, sliding her finger over the screen. "In the meantime, I'm scheduled to be at Millie's school this coming Thursday. I can schedule her at the end of classes, three thirty? She'd miss the bus home, though."

  "I actually drive her to school, she won't be on the bus until the next school year, so that won't be a problem. I'll pick her up a little later."

  Her handshake has the same effect on me this time, and I resist the urge to hold on longer than appropriate. As I walk out of her office, I no longer have any illusions about keeping the upper hand; it's clear Freddy Marchand is firmly in control here. I may have been sitting in her chair, but that didn't stop her from getting me to open up more than I intended, or am comfortable with.

  The few rules I've managed to maintain my entire adult life have been eradicated by this woman: never give up control, never put all your cards on the table, and never show your soft spot. Worse yet, she managed to do all that in half an hour with her calm intelligence, direct manner, and those
liquid brown eyes I could drown in.

  I shake my head to clear the image of her pretty smile and climb behind the wheel.

  SIX

  Newt

  "How was school?"

  I have to reach over and pull the earbuds out of Millie's ears when she gets into the car and repeat my question.

  "Same as yesterday—fine," is the grumpy response, before she moves to put the earbuds back in place.

  "Keep those off for a minute, please? We need to talk."

  I gather from the dramatic roll of her eyes, my daughter is less than enthused about that prospect, but she still drops the headphones in her lap.

  "I picked up some pastries from the Wildflower Bakery, and a chocolate smoothie from Timmies." I indicate the paper bag and cup in the console. "Thought we'd drive down to Nobel Beach and have a snack."

  After I left the clinic, I sat in my car for a good half hour, thinking about Freddy's words. It didn't take me long to come to the conclusion that some, if not all, of what she said had merit. For instance, I had not addressed with Millie what I'd found in her room yesterday. In part because it made me uncomfortable, but also because I didn't want to upset her. I realized that was exactly the kind of thing Freddy was referring to. Avoiding talking to my daughter about something so important had little to do with her, and mostly to do with me.

  That's when I started the car and drove to the bakery to grab us a snack, and picked up her favourite drink at the Tim Hortons drive-thru.

  "Fine. Now can I listen to my music?" Her tone is not encouraging, but I bite off a smile when I see her look longingly at the bakery bag.

  "Leave those in the car," I tell her, when I park the car in the shade of the trees, and she gets out with her phone and earbuds in hand. "You won't need them. Grab your drink."

  I lead the way to a picnic table at the edge of the sand, Millie's feet audibly dragging behind me. I'm sure she'd rather be anywhere else right now, but that's why I picked this spot to talk: nowhere for her to escape to.

  "I saw evidence in your room yesterday morning that you're cutting again," I calmly state, after taking a sip of the coffee I got myself. Nothing like diving in head first, but I didn't want her to throw up her defenses if she saw it coming. As it is, her face shows a mix of emotions, from shock to sadness, but ends on anger.

  "I can't believe you're snooping on me!"

  I don't let her raised voice rattle me and calmly go on to explain. "You left your door open and a bloody tissue in plain view. I walked in and found the box-cutter you've been using."

  "I cut myself by accident," she jumps in to explain.

  "Millie, I was called in to school yesterday because you were in an altercation—"

  "I didn't do anything wrong!"

  "No one is saying you did anything wrong, but some flags went up when you wouldn't let the school nurse examine you properly."

  "So?" she hisses out defiantly, but I can see the tears pooling in her eyes. It fucking breaks my heart that I have to strip away all her defenses, but it's the only way to get her some help.

  "The nurse talked to the school counsellor, who called me out of concern and referred me to a therapist. I think we need help, Sweet Pea."

  At hearing my nickname for her, she bursts into tears, but won't let me touch her.

  "I hated Dr. Litgow," she sobs; referring to the psychologist she'd seen a few times in Kanata. "He was older than dirt and had bad breath."

  I stifle a grin at her description. She's not wrong, the man must've been nearing his eighties—at least he looked it—and he smelled musty, but he came highly recommended.

  "Baby," I coo, wrapping her in my arms, despite her stiff resistance. "I'm sad because you’re hurting, and I'm worried because I don't know how to help you. I'd like to think I can solve all your problems—slay all your dragons—but the simple truth is I can't. I need help too. I'm just as scared as you are."

  Her much smaller body against mine shakes from crying, as she finally wraps her arms around my midsection. I squeeze my eyes closed and press a kiss into her hair. We stand like that for a while, until her crying slows to sniffles.

  "I promise, this therapist isn't as old as dirt, and she smelled just fine to me," I assure her. "I went to meet with her today, and I think you may like this one."

  Millie lifts her head from my chest and tilts her tear-stained face up. "She's nice?" she asks in a small voice.

  "She is, but I'm pretty sure you'll like her assistant even better."

  Freddy

  "Hey, Sis, you're a hard one to get hold of."

  -

  I just put some ground beef in the frying pan for a quick nacho salad.

  It's been busy and I didn't feel like spending much time in the kitchen. Non-stop appointments from nine this morning until the last patient left at just before six. I'm drained. Normally prefer to break up my days with a half-day in the clinic, and the rest doing visits either at schools, nursing homes, or the hospital. During busy times, when I end up with appointments in the office, I make sure I get a decent break, taking Boulder out for some fresh air, and clearing my head. If I don't, I carry the weight of my patients' struggles home with me. The curse of an empath.

  Of course, today I didn't get a break. Instead, I had an appointment with Newt Tobias.

  You could've knocked me down with a feather when he walked into my office, and he seemed equally shocked. We had a bit of a rocky start but managed to have an informative exchange after Boulder broke the ice. I wasn't shocked to find Millie is struggling, but her father surprised me. Both in the depth of his concern and the way he was able to express this. The two-dimensional mental picture I'd formed of him, suddenly became a full 3D image, with more measure than I'd expected. The session left me intrigued and preoccupied for the rest of the day.

  So when the phone rang and I saw the name on the call display, I was glad for the best kind of distraction.

  -

  I smile when I hear my brother's voice and turn off the stove. My brother's calls are never short, so dinner will have to wait.

  Life dictates we don't talk every day, or even every week, but we're close. Alex is two years my junior, and although we mostly got along growing up, we've grown tight since Mom passed away suddenly, thirteen years ago. She'd basically raised us on her own. Our father was young when he ran off the road and hit a tree in the middle of a snowstorm. I think we were two and four at the time, I can barely remember him in our lives. Mom's heart attack came at a very dark time in my life, and if not for my brother holding me up, I would not have made it through.

  "Some of us have to work," I fire off a retort, the back and forth banter comfortably familiar.

  "Hey, I take offense to that. I work."

  "Getting the boys off to school, typing a few words in between daytime soaps, and heating up frozen meals isn't work."

  Alex is a freelance copywriter. He's chosen to work from home since the twins were born. His wife, Jane, an engineer, works at a large nickel mine just north of Sudbury and loves her job.

  "Bullshit. I'm pretty sure I broke a sweat the other day trying to open those boxes. Besides, have you met my sons? Getting them cognitive in the morning requires brute force and mad skills. By the way, did you know ten-year-old boys stink? My God, I could grow bacterial cultures in their laundry basket. Maybe I could sell their stinky socks as bug repellent, I can't imagine even mosquitos surviving that smell."

  "Oh, I remember the stench well, thank you very much. You used to think it was funny to tuck your dirty socks in my pillowcase. Gross."

  "I can't remember any of that," Alex denies, but I can hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway, I didn't call to talk about my smelly sons, I called to find out how my favourite sister is."

  "Your only sister," I clarify.

  "Semantics, my dear. So how are you? How's the brood? How's the love life, any nibbles?"

  I snort at his last question. He knows damn well I don't have one, and I swiftly dismiss the ha
ndsome face with penetrating blue eyes that comes to mind.

  We spend the next half hour catching up. He tells me about the boys' antics and a science project he seems to have spent most of the time making himself, and I update him on my life, which seems much less exciting.

  "You're kidding. You're thinking of taking another dog?" he exclaims when I tell him about the puppies.

  "Maybe. Unless I can find good homes for both of them. You know, it would be really good for the boys to have a puppy to look after."

  "Nice try, Sis," Alex fires back. "First of all, I'd be doing all the looking after. And secondly, you know Jane is allergic to pet dander. So—no."

  "I can't imagine living in a house without animals."

  "Trust me, the boys more than make up for it," he chuckles, before continuing in a more serious tone. "Which brings me to the next reason for my call."

  "What's that?"

  "Jane is off to some conference in Alberta in a couple of weeks, and since summer break is coming up, I thought the boys and I could come down for a visit."

  "Yes. Absolutely." I'm smiling wide, last time I saw them was Christmas, which already is far too long to go without my nephews' hugs.

  "Awesome. Jane heads to Edmonton on July second, which is a Sunday, and I'm thinking we'll drop her off at the airport and drive straight down, if that's okay."

  "That's perfect. How long will you stay?"

  "Oh, I don't know. A week? No longer than that, because the boys are off to summer camp the last two weeks of July, and I'll need some time to get them ready."

  "I can't wait. Shoot me a message before you leave so I can make sure I'm home."

  "Will do. It'll be good to see you. I miss you."

  That's my brother; always teasing and joking, but every now and then his soft side comes out.

  "Me too," I whisper, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "See you soon."

  "Wait—" I hear him call out, as I'm about to hang up. "I almost forgot to ask, how was your check up?"