“She may have nightmares. Separation anxiety. Anger. Regression. She may talk about the accident constantly or refuse to talk about it at all.”
Daniel looked at Lily.
“What do I do?”
“Be predictable.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
“But it’s important.”
The specialist lowered her voice.
“After trauma, predictability can feel like safety.”
Four days later, Lily stopped speaking.
Not gradually.
There was no slow decrease.
She had cried after the funeral.
She had asked where her mother’s blue scarf was.
She had asked whether the flowers people sent would die.
She had asked Daniel if Claire knew she was dead.
Then one morning Daniel placed a bowl of oatmeal in front of her and asked whether she wanted honey.
Lily looked at him.
No answer.
“Banana?”
Nothing.
“Lily?”
She picked up the spoon.
Daniel assumed she was tired.
The next day she remained silent.
On the third, her teacher called.
On the fourth morning Daniel knelt beside her chair.
“Sweetheart, can you tell me what you want for breakfast?”
Lily met his eyes.
Not angry.
Not blank.
Present.
But somewhere behind an invisible door.
Daniel called the pediatrician.
Three specialists followed over the next six months.
Eventually they found Dr. Paula Reeves.
Her office did not look clinical.
There were books.
Plants.
A sand tray.
Two worn couches.
Bins of art supplies.
A lamp shaped like a moon.
Dr. Reeves never asked Lily to talk during the first session.
Daniel noticed immediately.
Most adults did.
They meant well.
“Can you say hello?”
“What grade are you in?”
“Do you remember me?”
Every question became another demand.
Paula did something different.
She sat on the floor several feet away and arranged miniature animals in the sand.