There are three rules at the Children’s Sharing Place. The first is that a child may leave at any time, provided they attest that they are ready to leave on two separate occasions.
The boy with the long hair that hangs over his eyes does not speak for his first two sessions in group. On the third session the first thing he says is that he is ready to leave.
He shouldn’t even be here, he explains. His father isn’t dead, he insists.
“Augie,” you say, “your father has died.”
Augie does not speak again for the remainder of the session.
The next day, he repeats that he is ready to leave.
You say nothing, because that is the therapeutic protocol. This protocol demands impartiality and discipline: A child who has self-selected to leave will not progress further if forced to stay in the Sharing Place. Worse yet, a non-progressing child could derail the others’ progress.
You remain silent, but the other children attempt to talk sense into him. They Bargain. This is appropriate.
They tell Augie he can’t go, because he just got there, because he hasn’t resolved any of his issues, because he hasn’t Said It yet, hasn’t even started to Say It. They say that if he goes into the Waiting Room now, he’s definitely going to get Rejected. They say that he can go but doesn’t have to: he can still just go back to the dorms and then have dinner and then go to bed and then get up and then go to class and then return to their next session. He doesn’t have to leave, even if he said he wants to leave. Fifty-seven minutes pass this way.
“Our time is almost up for today,” you say.
Augie stands without a word and opens the Waiting Room Door. Beyond the Waiting Room Door is a small waiting room—just a pair of upholstered yellow chairs and a side table with a fan of three magazines. The top magazine is Ranger Rick. You have never been in the waiting room, and so do not know what the other two magazines may be. There is also a potted plant. There must be a draft, because the potted plant nods rhythmically, like the quiet old lady knitting in the rocking chair in Goodnight Moon.
And, of course, there is the other door, the EXIT. The word “EXIT” glows above it in red. It probably isn’t even three long strides from the Waiting Room Door to the EXIT.
Augie steps through the Waiting Room Door and gingerly shuts it behind him. The door latch clicks, then there is the faint sigh of the EXIT door, followed by a big and sudden sound, like an alligator roaring and rolling in a swamp. And then silence.
“Our time is up for today,” you begin to say, but just after you say “time,” Augie’s scream interrupts you. It is a truly agonized scream, loud and long and ragged. It doesn’t end, so much as fade. There is whimpering and crying for a long time after. But this whimpering is quiet, and the other children in the Sharing Place understand your words this time. They file out the main door, back to the dorms and mess hall and everything else down here in their sheltered world.
The second rule is that a child must eventually, in their own words, explain how their loved one(s) died. They must Say It. There are many levels to Saying It. It may start with:
“My father has died.” And from there progress:
“My father is dead because of a gun.”
“My father fired the bullet that killed him.”
“My father committed suicide.”
“My father committed suicide, because something went wrong in his brain.”
“My father committed suicide, because something went wrong in his brain after the Event.”
“My father heard the Bad Song.”
“My father committed suicide after the Event, because he heard the Bad Song and listened.”
And so on.
It is not abnormal for children to become extremely emotional as they attempt to Say It in various ways. Do not let this alarm you. It is a natural stage of grief, and it will pass. Children have a natural tendency toward Resilience. If a child is consistently extremely emotional during their own or another’s act of grief, they may need to book Open Time in the Laughing Place or the Volcano Room. Open Time can be recommended (note the passive voice) in the “OTHER COMMENTS” section of the Incident Report.
Three days after Augie has gone through the EXIT, Tilly stands and Says It, succinctly and dispassionately. You tell her that she’s done a good job, and that you are proud of her. Other children do likewise. The shy boy next to her flashes her a quick smile, then looks away. He holds up his fist, and she bumps it. She smiles, relieved.
The boy begins to speak—perhaps to Say It himself, perhaps to say something else—and Tilly interrupts him without apology.
“I’m ready to leave,” she says.
This is her second time attesting. Her first was fourteen weeks earlier. It was the first thing she said, two minutes into her first session. Almost none of the children present today were at that session. Almost all of those children have Said It and gone, or just gone (as was the case with Augie). To these children, Tilly is as much a staple of their sessions as the chairs and canned fruit and well-worn fidget toys.
You say nothing.
Tilly stands.
The shy boy next to Tilly is clearly distressed, but he does not speak.
Do not attempt to dissuade Tilly. Do not Bargain with her. The children can—and should—Bargain with Tilly. It is part of their grief, and it is appropriate.
“You don’t have to go just ’cause you said it,” a tall girl, Marianna, says. “You can still stay. At least another day.”
“Marianna’s right,” another girl, Vanessa L., adds. “The Waiting Room will be there tomorrow, and next week, and forever.” Barring natural disaster, this is correct: The Waiting Room will likely be there forever. But that doesn’t mean one can wait forever: Food stores aren’t dire yet, but they are dwindling. There is plenty of water, though. Our well is deep. It would not be inappropriate for you to correct Vanessa L., but you let her statement stand unchallenged.
Vanessa Z., who sits next to Vanessa L., is nodding. “Announcing it is just saying that you’re gonna go. Like with Shane. He said it and Said It, but didn’t go for another six weeks.”
“It’s all bullshit anyway,” Bennie adds. He is small and young, but angry as an old cop. “Don’t do their crap their way. Keep coming to sessions with us.”
“You should at least stay until we’ve finished Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” Jay Chen yips. He’s an excitable boy. “There’s only, like, one-third of the last season left. It won’t even be a week.”
Tilly shrugs. From prior sessions you know that she is a huge Buffy fan. But for many children their demeanor changes once they’ve Said It, and Tilly is one of those: Relieved of the weight of the things they haven’t been saying, they expand back to their normal size—like a sponge that’s had a cinderblock lifted off it—and in doing so draw into themselves. It’s natural. It is part of their process.
“Augie went.” This is Albert, with his chipmunk cheeks and glum Eeyore voice. “That didn’t go great.”
“Augie wasn’t ready,” Tilly says. “I’m ready.”
“Belinda said she was ready.” Belinda had been in the group for a month. She had Said It—and wept while doing so—and then over the next few sessions brightened, gaining strength and equilibrium, helping the other children talk their way forward in their grief. She’d announced her intention to leave, reaffirmed it the next week, and left that same day. Her nail polish had been a perfect robin’s egg blue that day, glossy and flawless. The door had snicked shut behind her, and the scream that had followed had been long and high and ended with a string of babbled begging that had finally devolved into two words repeated so quickly that they’d sounded like the chugging of a ragged, dying lawnmower: