Doctor Whitmore picked up one of the small figures, a simple wooden shape, nothing elaborate, and said, "What do you think this person is thinking right now?" Ava looked at it for a moment. She's thinking about something she left somewhere, but she's not sure if she should go back and get it. Dr. Whitmore looked at the figure.
Why isn't she sure? Because going back feels scary, but leaving it feels worse. Nobody spoke for a moment. Then Dr. Whitmore set the figure down carefully and said, "That's a very honest answer.
It's what the figure told me. I believe you." Caleb looked at his hands. He believed her, too. 40 minutes into the session, Ava had shown Dr.
Whitmore her drawing she'd brought in her backpack, a habit she'd developed of carrying paper and markers everywhere. Another trait Caleb had never discouraged. The drawing was of three people standing in a line. The first two were clearly Caleb and Ava. He could tell by the truck.
Ava had drawn next to them, a detail she always included. The third figure was newer, added recently, a woman in what appeared to be a long coat standing slightly to the side of them, but still inside the frame. Dr. Whitmore looked at the drawing for a long time, and she looked at Caleb. He looked back.
I didn't put her up to this, his expression said. I have no idea what is happening. Dr. Whitmore looked back at the drawing. Who's this?
She asked Ava. I don't know yet, Ava said, but she belongs there. After the session, doctor Whitmore stepped out briefly and Ava went to use the restroom. Caleb stood in the office, not sitting, too unsettled to sit, looking at a framed print on the wall that he wasn't actually seeing. When the door opened, he turned.
She stood in the doorway. Professional distance, appropriate distance. She's perceptive beyond her age. What she's carrying emotionally is real, but she's not in crisis. She's grieving still, and she's doing it in a very structured inward way.
Like her father, he didn't plan to say it. It came out before he could decide. Something happened at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, something more careful. I'd like to see her twice a month if you're open to it.
I think she needs a space where she's allowed to put things down. She works very hard to hold things up. She's seven. Yes. He rubbed the back of his neck, looked at the floor, then back at her.
Dr. Whitmore. Natalie. A pause. Caleb.