The Counselor and the Child

Lisa’s fingers lightly traced the indentation in the cold, yellow concrete wall as she walked two steps behind the lady wearing a dull green dress. She watched as the dress, covered in faded white and yellow daisies, was pulled tight at the waist and puckered out where a wide, black belt attempted to cinch in the pudginess of her mid-section.  Lisa’s own black and red herringbone jumper dress was slightly wet at the back, as were her underpants. Her bladder had betrayed her once again, and she assumed this strange lady walking her down the hall was taking her to the nurse’s office to get some new undergarments. 

She kept swallowing to wash the bitter taste of shame and confusion from her mouth. For the third time this month she had to whisper her secret humiliation to her teacher, Miss Larson, whose  forced smile and cheery tone did little to hide her disapproval. Lisa hated to upset her teacher. She admired everything about her, especially her fresh and exciting clothes with all their bold, bright colors. If she wore those clothes, she wouldn’t dare have accidents. None of the other women she knew wore such patterns, fabrics, and styles. Each day, she couldn’t wait until her teacher walked through the door so she could admire her latest outfit. 

The lady who had come to escort her to the office seemed displeased with Miss Larson’s outfit, though. When she entered the classroom, her face was already firmly set in a scowl, but she managed to look even more bothered when Miss Larson stood up from behind the desk. She hardly looked at Lisa at all, let alone examine her for a small, barely visible wet spot at the back of her dress. Then again, maybe it wasn’t noticeable. Her jumper was thick, so it might not have soaked through. She also walked strategically through the room to hide any possible sign of her accident, terrified of what might happen if someone actually spotted her indiscretion. Her classmates gave no indication that anything was wrong, so she was pretty sure she’d hid it well this time. No matter. She was mortified enough when she had to tell Miss Larson. Nothing could be worse than that indignity.

Now, as she walked down the hall behind that unknown lady in the drab, faded dress, she thought how sad it was that the daisies were no longer white. She was offended, though, at the lady’s ugly, black, rubber-soled shoes. How disrespectful of her to go out in public, to a job, and not at least try to look her best. Her only consolation was that the shoes made almost no sound. At least the clack-clack-clack of heels or boots on the polished linoleum floor wouldn’t draw attention to Lisa’s walk of shame. 

She was eager to change her clothes, shed her embarrassment, and get on with her day, but then she remembered that she would return to class in a different outfit. No bother. No one really noticed her much anyway. Hopefully today would be no different. Once in the nurse’s office, she quickly changed  into the clothes her mother had (finally) decided to leave in the office for just in case occasions. Luckily, it was just another herringbone jumper dress, and even though it was slightly too short, being from last year, she hadn’t gotten much taller. It was also just one color off-white and black rather than red and black-so she didn’t need to change her white shirt or her socks. Her outfit matched. She was okay. She could breathe. She could return to class. Her absence would be barely, if at all, noticed. 

With a bit more bounce in her step, she practically skipped out of the nurse’s office, only to be led, instead, by that lady into a small, spare room. The room was tiny, barely enough space for a gray metal desk, two orange, molded plastic chairs, and a poster populated with multiple yellow happy faces and a wavy font that said “Make Today Happy” in the middle. She wondered if the people who had hung the poster were trying to add some cheerfulness to the cold, depressing room, and she wanted to tell them that the bright faces did little to welcome her to what was becoming more suffocating every minute. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, she reluctantly sat down as instructed on the chair and swung her legs back and forth.

Her eyes migrated back to the poster, and she began to count. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. Ten happy faces. What was taking so long? The lady seemed to be opening drawers, looking for something that she wasn’t able to find. Lisa took a deep breath and sighed heavily. How long? She wondered. When could she get back? With legs still swinging, she tipped her head down, placed her small hands under her thighs, and stared at the blue and black speckles on the linoleum floor. What kind of a pattern was that? Was there a pattern? In the interim silence, she began to count again, faster this time: 1234567… 12345678…. It was no use. The speckles were too numerous and random for her to count. Her eyes couldn’t keep the specks straight-there was no patter.

Ordinarily, counting helped to calm her thoughts, to settle her mind in the midst of unsettling environments, but not this time. A cold tingle rose in her stomach. She knew it well, yet it still frightened her because she knew she couldn’t stop it from creeping up her neck, crawling into her face, prickling her hair and ears, and souring her mouth. For a moment, she felt weak and was afraid she was going to faint. Why didn’t this lady speak? Was she in big trouble? Was her Mom or Dad being called to come and get her? She had no idea where she was or what was happening, and she only had the familiar sense of doom, and her counting, to comfort her.

Finally, the lady whose name she still did not know, must have found what she was looking for. With a loud scraping sound, she pulled the second orange chair behind the desk and sat down. The sound jolted Lisa out of her thoughts. Okay, she has my attention. Lisa jerked her head up and saw the same scornful look the lady had given Miss Larson. Shame washed over her. Then, just as quickly, the lady’s eyes softened, and a faint smile grew ever so slightly on her plain face. Lisa began to breathe a little easier, and the tingly feeling retreated. This isn’t so bad, she told herself, I can do this. I can talk to this lady, and then she’ll bring me back to class, and then I will go home, and then it will be okay. I will be okay.

It was a familiar situation for children, she thought; whatever was happening was not in her control. She didn’t even know the lady’s name or who she was. Was she supposed to trust her? Inside the school walls, all adults were trustworthy, right? Now she was in this sparse room, waiting for instructions from a stranger whom she was supposed to trust because she was at school, and school was supposed to be safe. Finally, the lady clasped her hands together, stretched her arms out on the gray desk, and spoke slowly, deliberately.

“I’m Mrs. Holden, your counselor,” the lady finally shared. 

Okay. A counselor. Her counselor?

“What’s a counselor?” Lisa asked. 

In her two years at Harry S. Truman Elementary school, she had only visited the nurses office, which was separate from the main office. She hadn’t even been to the main office. To her, it was a mythical place where naughty children were sent to talk to a person called a principal. In fact, she only knew of three kinds of jobs in the school: nurse, teacher, principal, and principal was just a concept to her. She had never seen nor heard from this so-called principal, whose authority was abstract, like the president’s-distant and unapproachable. Wasn’t a school mainly populated with teachers and students? What else did there need to be?

Seeing Lisa’s confusion, Mrs. Holden said, “Lisa, I understand you’ve been having problems getting to the bathroom?” What was that tone? Sympathy? Frustration? Both?

Was she asking her a question or making a statement? How was she supposed to respond? Her shame began to change into a kind of defiant courage, at least in her mind. She wasn’t quite ready to challenge this lady, this counselor, Mrs. Holden quite yet. 

In a barely audible, yet discernably annoyed voice, Lisa answered, “Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Now aware that this interaction might take a little longer than she had expected, she colored with both embarrassment and anger. Mrs. Holden continued talking, however, barely noting Lisa’s response. 

“Well, I’m here to help, young lady. I’d like to talk to you for a minute today, if that’s okay?” It’s been more than a minute already! Did she detect a bit of concern in her voice? Maybe she did want to help, but what did that mean? Did she need or even want help-and help for what, exactly?

“Okay,” Lisa’s voice was a little louder now, and her reply sounded more like a question. 

If anything, she was skeptical and gearing up for a lecture. She already knew that second graders weren’t supposed to have accidents. She didn’t need a stranger to tell her that. She knew what she needed now, and she was pretty sure no counselor would be able to help because what she needed was for her body to stop betraying her. 

“We’ve been worried about you, your teacher and I, and even your parents. So, I’m here to talk to you. To listen to you. About anything. Troubles you may be having; feelings you’d like to share. You know, just to help you feel better.”

“Feel better about what?” She was only able to  thinly mask the betrayal she felt from her teacher and parents.

How could they go behind her back and tell this unknown person that she had some kind of  problem? What made this counselor person think Lisa would talk to a total stranger about anything? Also, what was there to feel, exactly? She came to school, did her job, which was to learn (according to her father), and went home. There was no good or bad feeling, just an obligation to perform appropriately. Despite Lisa’s barely controlled rudeness, Mrs. Holden maintained her professional demeanor. She was not going to let this small child run the session. Her disapproving frown, however, didn’t encourage Lisa to respond - she simply waited for further explanation. 

The counselor raised an eyebrow at Lisa’s genuinely puzzled and offended tone. “Lisa, your teacher, and your parents, think you might like to have someone to talk to, you know, at school. They think you may be a bit lonely and that you could also use some help making friends with the other students. Talking to me might also help you to stop having, um…you know...accidents?”

Okay. Now this whole conversation made sense. She had been labeled a problem-she needed to be solved, and more pointedly, she was a misfit. Truthfully, she did often feel a little removed from the cheery, carefree nature of her classmates. She was quieter, more serious, and thought a little too hard about everything. She didn’t usually play on the equipment at recess, but rather sat by the door and read her latest Ramona book or observed the other students at play. Ramona was more interesting and funny than any of the kids in her class, and she enjoyed reading about her escapades, adventures, and mishaps. 

Sometimes, though, she would put down her book to talk to the occasional child who came to lean near the door to catch their breath. They’d only stay a minute or so  before running back into the mob of children on the playground. One afternoon, she took an opportunity to become more involved with their games. Some unruly boys were making sport on several ant hills near the door, stepping on them, making them scatter. She felt obligated to protect the little creatures, even fancied herself their caretaker somehow, the ant savior. Assuming an authoritarian benevolence on behalf of the insects gave her attention and identity and made her feel as though she were important, needed in some way. Only a momentary distraction, though, her temporary identity quickly faded into schoolyard curiosity, and was all but forgotten by the next day. 

If the counselor or even her teacher had been paying closer attention to her daily interactions, they would have perhaps seen something more in her watchful concern. She was a natural protector with an eye out for where she could be useful. Her mother certainly saw her potential and even capitalized on it when she needed a hand managing her two younger children, aged three and four Lisa’s younger siblings, in fact, seemed to require constant attention and care and Lisa was a natural. Her mother was still a bit overwhelmed with her sister and brother who were only fifteen months apart and who acted more like overly rambunctious twins. At home, Lisa was a caregiver who provided needed support for her over-strapped mother. 

In school, she had no such role. She never got into trouble for speaking to other students because she didn’t know any of them well enough to engage in conversation. She didn’t have a meaningful purpose or reason to interact. She didn’t even really know many of their names, except for Leroy Brown’s. She once had to hold his sweaty hands during square dancing in gym class, and his name matched the name of one of the songs her dad listened to on his record player - “Bad, bad, Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town…” Wettest hands were more like it - wet hands and thick glasses. That was the Leroy Brown she knew, and she remembered his name, at least. Overall, engagement at school was best confined to academics. She saw no real reason for anything more. 

So, she was alone most of the time at school, and that was fine. What did the grownups have to do with how the students played with each other? Why did they care? She genuinely didn’t understand. She was a good kid. She read books. She tried her best, she helped out at home, and besides the pesky accidents, what else could they want from her? 

“Why do you care? I mean, why do I have to talk to kids in my class?” Lisa made the statement with such innocent sincerity, that the counselor chose not to scold her impertinence. 

Mrs. Holden, however, was somewhat surprised. This was supposed to be an easy talk -- a chat with a seven and a half year old about how much she would enjoy meeting other children and playing with them on the playground or even in an after school environment. She was in danger of losing control of a seemingly innocuous conversation with a child. 

“We all care, dear, that you enjoy your time here and that you learn and grow in the best ways possible,” she said, maintaining her composure, “Don’t you want to have friends?” 

Mrs. Holden was looking expectantly at her now, this little girl with hazel eyes, bangs, and long, blonde hair who concentrated a little too hard on the floor in front of her. 

“Lisa?” She said after the girl didn’t answer.

“I’m fine,” Lisa finally answered. “I think I want to go back to class. Can I go back to class now?”

“Of course,” she said, resignedly, “Next week, I’ll come and get you again, and I hope you are able to remain, um,  dry, so we don’t have to change your clothes again before we meet. Let’s work on that together, okay?” she said as though she had any control over Lisa’s bodily functions.

“Yes,” Lisa said abruptly with an air of finality as they headed back to class.

*****

At home that afternoon, Lisa marched into the house and straight up to her mother. Here, she had more courage, more confidence, more agency, even. She demanded answers. Before she was able to fully gain her mother’s attention, however, her mother noticed the bag she was carrying.

“Lisa. Did you have an accident again?” her mother asked.

Her initial bravado deflated. She sighed and sat down on the couch as she lifted the bag up for her mother to take. She tipped her head downward and mumbled an embarrassed apology. Then, she remembered her meeting with the…who was she? Counselor? Yes. 

“Mom!” she finally puffed defiantly, punctuating the word with an air of authority.

“What is it?” her mother responded as she stood there holding Lisa’s three year old brother on her hip and the bag of wet underpants with her other hand. Her four year old sister was sitting on the floor in front of the television watching “The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.”

“Why do I have to talk to a lady at my school? What did I do wrong?” she demanded.

Her mother was befuddled. She put down her brother, set the bag down on the kitchen table, then asked Lisa to follow her into her bedroom, where they could talk privately. 

Mom and Dad’s bedroom was where all serious after school conversations took place. 

Last year, when her 1st grade teacher told the class that Santa Claus wasn’t real, she stormed into the house, shouted “We need to talk!” to her mother, and headed straight to the master bedroom. There, in the darkened room, with the door closed to protect the innocence of her siblings, she recalled the day’s revelation to her mother and experienced her first moment of childhood disillusionment. She also experienced her mother’s outrage, not against her, but against that ridiculous school, and irresponsible teacher. She sat on the bed as her mother called the principal. That was also the first time she was aware that there was another type of person in her school besides teachers. She listened, her mother’s stern, slightly shaking voice as she asked for an explanation from this person who was not her teacher. After she hung up, she told Lisa two important facts, one that she tucked away for future reference, and one that awarded her a sense of importance. 

“Lisa, you need to know that sometimes grownups don’t always do the right thing, and you need to tell someone you trust when that happens. Also, and this is very important, you must never tell your brother and sister what you learned from your teacher. You must keep that information a secret, and you must continue to pretend that there is a Santa Clause. Do you understand me?” 

Lisa felt an elevated level of status in her house that day, a sense of responsibility. The shock and betrayal she experienced along with her classmates earlier that day seemed unimportant, trivial. Of course their parents wanted them to believe in a fairy tale. That’s what parents did. What’s more important now was that she was in on the story. She now possessed a small element of meaning and purpose in her home. She was the keeper of a grownup secret, and anything else that happened that day became unimportant.

The afternoon of the counselor, however, Lisa was not going to back down so easily. She was clearly a target here. The focus was on her and was an intrusion, a violation of her privacy, and an indictment of her very person.

Once the door was closed and she was fixed seriously on her parent’s bed, her mother addressed her question for the first time.

“Lisa, we just noticed that you weren’t really talking about any friends at school, and then you started having accidents. You are in second grade now; you’ve been at the school for almost three years, and you should at least have some little friends.” Her mother seemed sadly confused, exasperated, and not a little frustrated. How was she supposed to respond to all of those emotions at once? She tried the pragmatic approach at first, but the injustice of the moment soon got the better of her. 

“Mom!” she blurted out, “I don’t understand! I have accidents because I don’t get to the bathroom enough. My teacher only lets us go when she gives us time. I need to go more! I don’t know why. What does getting to the bathroom in time have to do with friends!?” Hot tears streamed down her face as she attempted to regain control. 

At that moment, her brother and sister were squealing and banging on the closed bedroom door. When her mother opened it, she saw her brother tightly gripping a chunk of thick, black hair, and her sister plopped on the floor, crying and holding her head. The conversation was over for now. 

Lisa picked up her sister, who was already close to her size, and soothed her with a song as she walked her to the rocking chair in her bedroom. Time to take care of the children. They needed her. 

As she quietly settled in the darkened room and gently began to rock back and forth, the chair's motion along with the soothing words and melody of the lullaby magically calmed them both. The counselor and the child were at peace.