“I’d like to tell you a bit about myself so you know who you’re dealing with.”
About half of what Lourdes told Madison, Little Shit was pretty sketched about because she’d never heard it before. Looking in her head to see what was true would pull her out of character, and it didn’t matter anyway.
When Lourdes asked if she had any questions, she didn’t. “Are you a checkers player, Madison?”
This must be in the Play Therapy class she hadn’t taken yet. She had Madison say, “Am I a what player?”
Lourdes showed her the checkerboard set up on a table, neat red and black squares, red and black discs like Pogs from when she was a kid. “Have you ever played?”
“Games are retarded.” Now that she got how insulting that was to the people you used as an insult, like “gyp” and “You run like a girl,” she didn’t like saying it, but Madison did.
“Sometimes it’s easier to talk when you’re doing something else besides just sitting and talking. I could teach you the basic rules.” This wasn’t working. Lourdes ought to give it up.
“I didn’t come here to play stupid games.”
Lourdes took the gift. “Why did you come here, Madison?”
“Because the judge said I had to or go to juvie,” she sneered.
“Why did the judge say that?”
“Because I’m a bad kid?” Hopefully that wasn’t overplaying it. Madison lifted her feet up on the chair and hugged her knees and buried her face, with the doll squished in the V between her thighs and stomach. This was pretty uncomfortable but it hid a lot of her and showed a lot else of her.
“You’re not a bad kid, Madison.” That was definitely in the therapist rule book. Little Shit wanted to roll her eyes and groan at how predictable it was, and Madison wanted to go sit in the nice lady’s lap.
“I do bad things.”
Lourdes didn’t say anything. That was use of silence to get the client uncomfortable enough to fill it. Little-Shit-as-Madison didn’t say anything, either.
Madison’s thoughts were babyish, full of holes and sharp broken pieces and mushy spots, mostly about fighting things off—fighting something off right now, something circling and poking and trying to get in—and about wanting somebody to love her and fighting off anything that looked like love and letting in stuff that wasn’t even close, not knowing the difference between love and danger. If there even was a difference. Little Shit knew this space.
Eventually Lourdes was the one who broke the silence and said a few more gentle, encouraging things. Little-Shit-as-Madison just sat there all curled up until her back started to hurt and she couldn’t stand the boobie girdle cutting into her anymore, and then she threw the doll on the floor and got up and left. The Mardi Gras beads in her pocket didn’t rattle or bulge.
Raul-as-caseworker was texting and she walked right past him and out the door of the office and she found the stairway and ran down three flights and was in the street before he caught up with her. “You got a problem with elevators? Jesus.”
When she got home she stripped, soaked in a bubble bath, listened to a Grizzly Bears CD really loud, put on clean pajamas. To sop up some of the longing to go out dancing with Lourdes, she read as many pages as she could stand in the social-work policy book.
The next day she went by herself. Whether Lourdes thought that made Madison more alone and vulnerable or not, Little Shit did. This time she sat on the couch so there’d be a space beside her. Pretty much the same thing went down. After a few minutes and a few words, Lourdes stopped talking.
Madison was antsy and went ahead and filled the silence but not too much, too soon. “I’m gonna be a social worker,” she said in the squeaky voice that would have been fake even if Madison had been real. “I’m gonna help kids.”
“Do you know a lot of kids who need help?”
“Well, yeah-uh.”
“Why do they need help?”
Don’t make this too easy, Little Shit warned Madison Smith. Let her think she’s God’s gift to screwed-up kids. “All kinds of stuff.”
“Like what?”
“My friend Kelsey? Her mom’s a crack ho.” Madison watched Lourdes to see if she was shocked. Little Shit knew she wouldn’t be.
“That’s hard.”
“And there’s this dude at the center? Doesn’t know if he’s gay or straight or bi or whatever. He says he’s queer.” She giggled. She had a whole list of sex-related issues to warm Lourdes up with.
“What do you need help with, Madison?”
Too fast, you idiot. I don’t trust you yet.
Madison cradled the baby doll against her almost-boobless chest and cooed to it, “It’s okay, little girl, I won’t hurt you, you’re safe with me.”
Lourdes took the hint. “It’s hard to find a safe place, isn’t it?”
Madison nodded. Little Shit let Madison nod.
Now Lourdes came to sit beside her on the couch. Madison wanted to run out of there and to snuggle. Little Shit wanted Lourdes to make a move. Make a move, come on, let’s get this over with.
Lourdes tucked one leg up under her, wedged herself against the pillows, leaned her elbow on the back of the couch, and propped her head on her fist. There was one of those silences. Madison got weirded out and threw the doll down and knocked the checkerboard off the table and left.
On her way out, Little Shit thought she’d just jump in and jump out of Lourdes’s head, not to change anything, not to give her the idea of assaulting young kids if it wasn’t already in there and not to take it away if it was, just to see what the hell was going on. She couldn’t get in at all. That had never happened before. Madison Smith might not be real, but she was really in the way.
This went on for over a week. The online classes started and she already had two papers. She had to keep shaving, and her crotch prickled and itched. Her boobs, shoulders, neck, back hurt all the time even when she unwrapped herself at home—she was going to need a serious massage when this was over, which would go right on her expense report. She wasn’t sleeping very much.
It turned out that the Madison Smith story had to spin out past where they’d planned it, and now she was making it up as she went, getting the poor kid more and more messed up, hoping she could keep it straight or if she got caught in a lie it would look like Madison’s pathology. Like a bug under a magnifying glass, she was about to burn to a crisp any second under Lourdes’s attention. And there was not a single sexual vibe.
“I think she’s innocent.”
“Nah.”
“What if she’s innocent?”
Raul was thinking. She was too tired and stressed out to see about what. She almost fell asleep. Finally he swiveled, tapped on his keyboard, sat back in his chair, leaned forward again to turn up the volume.
Voices of prepubescent girls and boys came up, seven or eight different ones, some of them hard to understand, some clear and close. Soft-spoken male and female interviewers asked carefully nonleading questions, just like in the role-play in Forensic Interviewing. At least one of the kids was crying. Another one kept making a barking sound like a goofy cartoon seal that was probably laughter. One of the interviewers had a cough.
Raul closed the audio file, peered into the coffee mug on his desk that had DADDY on it in puffy blue letters, sighed and got to his feet. “Coffee?”
She’d told him a million times that she took her caffeine cold. She said, “Uh. No.”
He missed the sarcasm or ignored it, which pissed her off more. She thought she might just get outta here while he was refilling his stupid mug, but she couldn’t quite.
When he came back she said, “Nothing was really disclosed on there.”
“Makes you wonder, though, all that disgusting stuff.”