time, I was eleven and had fallen into an inexplicable depression. This happened in the spring of 1967, seemingly overnight, and for no reason. Any happiness in me just flew away, like birds up and out of a tree.
Until then I had been a normal, healthy child. My parents had never damaged me in any way. They had given me a dusty, simple childhood on the flatlands of Saskatchewan. I had two best friends—large, unselfish girls who were already gearing up for adolescence, sometimes laughing until they collapsed. I had a dog named Chest, who late at night brought me half-alive things in his teeth—bats with human faces, fluttering birds, speckled, choking mice.
My parents couldn’t help noticing my sadness. They looked at me as if they were afraid of me. Sometimes at the dinner table the silence would be so deep that I felt compelled to reassure them. But when I tried to say that I was all right, my voice would crack and I would feel my face distorting, caving in. I would close my eyes then, and cry.
One night my parents came into my bedroom and sat down on my bed. “Honey,” my father said, “your mother and I have been thinking about you a lot lately. We were thinking that maybe you would consider talking to somebody—you know, a therapist—about what is the matter.” My father was an earnest, cheerful man, a geologist with a brush cut and a big heart. I couldn’t imagine that a therapist would solve my problems, but my father looked hopeful, his large hand tracing a ruffle around my bedspread.
Three days later we were standing outside an office on the fourth floor of the Humanities Building. My appointment was not with a true therapist but rather with a professor of child psychology at the university where my father taught.
We knocked, and a voice called from behind the door in a bit of a singsong, “Come in you, come in you.” Of course he was expecting us, but this still seemed odd, as if he knew us very well or as if my father and I were both little children—or elves. The man sitting behind the desk when we entered was wearing a denim shirt, his blond hair slicked back like a rodent’s. He looked surprised—a look that turned out to be permanent. He didn’t stand up, just waved at us. From a cage in the corner three birds squawked. My father approached the desk and stuck out his hand. “Peter Bergen,” my father said.
“Professor Roland Boland Pine,” the man said, and then looked at me. “Hello, girlie.”
Despite this, my father left me alone with him. Perhaps he just thought, as I did, that Professor Pine talked like this, in occasional baby words, because he wanted children to respond as if to other children. I sat in a black leather chair. The professor and I just stared at each other for a while. I didn’t know what to say, and he wasn’t speaking either. It was easy to stare at him. As if I were staring at an animal, I felt no embarrassment.
“Well,” he said at last, “your name is Margit?”
I nodded.
“How are you today, Margit?”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you feel okay?”
“Yes. I feel okay.”
“Do you go to school, Margit?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like your teacher?”
“Not really.”
“Do you hate him?”
“It’s a her.”
“Do you hate her?”
“No.”
“Why are you here, Margit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is everything okay at home?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love your father?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love your mother?” A long tic broke on his face, from the outer corner of his left eye all the way down to his neck.
“Yes.”
“Is she a lumpy mother?”
“Pardon me?”
“Pardon me, Margit. I meant does your mother love you?”
“Yes.”
“Does she love your father?”
I paused. “Yes.”
“And does he love her?”
“I guess so.”
“Margit, what is the matter?”
“Nothing. I just don’t see why we’re talking about my parents so much.”
“Why don’t they love each other?”
“They do—I said they do.”
“Why
Until then I had been a normal, healthy child. My parents had never damaged me in any way. They had given me a dusty, simple childhood on the flatlands of Saskatchewan. I had two best friends—large, unselfish girls who were already gearing up for adolescence, sometimes laughing until they collapsed. I had a dog named Chest, who late at night brought me half-alive things in his teeth—bats with human faces, fluttering birds, speckled, choking mice.
My parents couldn’t help noticing my sadness. They looked at me as if they were afraid of me. Sometimes at the dinner table the silence would be so deep that I felt compelled to reassure them. But when I tried to say that I was all right, my voice would crack and I would feel my face distorting, caving in. I would close my eyes then, and cry.
One night my parents came into my bedroom and sat down on my bed. “Honey,” my father said, “your mother and I have been thinking about you a lot lately. We were thinking that maybe you would consider talking to somebody—you know, a therapist—about what is the matter.” My father was an earnest, cheerful man, a geologist with a brush cut and a big heart. I couldn’t imagine that a therapist would solve my problems, but my father looked hopeful, his large hand tracing a ruffle around my bedspread.
Three days later we were standing outside an office on the fourth floor of the Humanities Building. My appointment was not with a true therapist but rather with a professor of child psychology at the university where my father taught.
We knocked, and a voice called from behind the door in a bit of a singsong, “Come in you, come in you.” Of course he was expecting us, but this still seemed odd, as if he knew us very well or as if my father and I were both little children—or elves. The man sitting behind the desk when we entered was wearing a denim shirt, his blond hair slicked back like a rodent’s. He looked surprised—a look that turned out to be permanent. He didn’t stand up, just waved at us. From a cage in the corner three birds squawked. My father approached the desk and stuck out his hand. “Peter Bergen,” my father said.
“Professor Roland Boland Pine,” the man said, and then looked at me. “Hello, girlie.”
Despite this, my father left me alone with him. Perhaps he just thought, as I did, that Professor Pine talked like this, in occasional baby words, because he wanted children to respond as if to other children. I sat in a black leather chair. The professor and I just stared at each other for a while. I didn’t know what to say, and he wasn’t speaking either. It was easy to stare at him. As if I were staring at an animal, I felt no embarrassment.
“Well,” he said at last, “your name is Margit?”
I nodded.
“How are you today, Margit?”
“I’m okay.”
“Do you feel okay?”
“Yes. I feel okay.”
“Do you go to school, Margit?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like your teacher?”
“Not really.”
“Do you hate him?”
“It’s a her.”
“Do you hate her?”
“No.”
“Why are you here, Margit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is everything okay at home?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love your father?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love your mother?” A long tic broke on his face, from the outer corner of his left eye all the way down to his neck.
“Yes.”
“Is she a lumpy mother?”
“Pardon me?”
“Pardon me, Margit. I meant does your mother love you?”
“Yes.”
“Does she love your father?”
I paused. “Yes.”
“And does he love her?”
“I guess so.”
“Margit, what is the matter?”
“Nothing. I just don’t see why we’re talking about my parents so much.”
“Why don’t they love each other?”
“They do—I said they do.”
“Why
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