Page 8 of Ravage

“Should’ve made a hundred, but I forgot to carry on one of the problems.” She made a face. “It was a little mistake, but she counted the whole thing wrong.”

“I’m sorry. That stinks, but I bet you’ll get it next time.”

Reagan’s father brought her in a few months after her mother died. She’d all but stopped talking after the loss, and I couldn’t blame her. The poor kid had watched cancer steal the life from her mother. She’d witnessed the pain and suffering firsthand. All the hospital visits, the nausea and vomiting, the weakness and hair loss.

She watched her mother give it her all, and when she took her last breath, Reagan was sitting right there next to her, holding her hand.

That was the day she stopped talking.

She’d communicate with a nod when she had to, but the little girl who once filled their home with laughter and heartwarming stories had disappeared. It was almost like she’d died right along with her mother.

Paul, her father, did everything he could think of to help her cope with her feelings, but he wasn’t making much progress, probably because he was suffering, too. When days turned into months, he turned to their family physician for help, and he referred him to me.

Our first few visits were tough. She wouldn’t talk. She wouldn’t draw. She wouldn’t paint. She would just sit there with a blank expression, doing her best to avoid any kind of interaction with me, and then I put a lump of clay in front of her.

I didn’t tell her what to make. I didn’t ask her to talk. I started working with my own, and it wasn’t long before she was reaching for hers. After some trial and error, she managed to make a small bowl. It wasn’t pretty, but she’d made it all by herself. And she was proud of it.

That was all that mattered.

Reagan improved with every visit. She started reaching for the clay without waiting for me to offer it, and some days, she’d even managed to talk to me a bit, telling me about school or something that had happened with one of her friends.

But as much progress as Reagan had made, I’d yet to get her to open up about her mother.

I hoped today would be the day she would finally break that silence. She continued to knead the clay, and after a while, her creation started to come together. I didn’t miss the apprehension in her voice when she asked, “What do you think it is?”

“A house?”

“Um-hmm.” She nodded. “It’s my house.”

Something about the way she said it gave me pause. Not because she’d answered. Because she’d spoken voluntarily. I did my best not to react. I didn’t want her to pick up on the fact that I’d noticed she’d opened the door. I had to play it carefully. If I pushed, she might shut down. If I gave her too much space, she might close up on me.

So, I let the clay do what words couldn’t.

“Mom’s not there anymore.” She ran her fingers over the roof, smoothing the rough edge, and her voice trembled as she added, “She used to be… but she isn’t anymore.”

“No,” I whispered softly. “She isn’t.”

Reagan’s eyes filled with tears. I didn’t rush to fill the silence. That was the hardest thing to learn in this job, and there were times when I struggled with it. But not today. I could see she needed some time, so I gave it to her.

After a few seconds, Reagan glanced up at me and said, “She used to sing in the kitchen.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Um-hmm.” She let out a small breath and winced. “She sounded terrible… like really terrible, but I miss hearing it so much.”

She looked back down at her little house and silence fell over us again.

I didn’t speak.

I just sat still as I waited for her to continue. It wasn’t long before she added, “I miss her voice. I miss her laugh… I miss the way she used to hug me even when I didn’t want her to. I miss it all.”

“I know you do.”

She pressed her thumb into the roof, collapsing it as she admitted, “I’m mad at her.”

“That’s okay. You can be mad at her.”

“She left me.”