Where is the Baby? by Charlotte Vale Allen Page B

all the injuries healed, teach her how to laugh, help her get past her fear. He longed to rescue her.
    â€˜Okay,’ Stefan Lazarus said, startling Brian out of his imaginings. ‘Time for me to get in there.’
    He made it sound as if getting in there was a chore, and Brian wanted to beg the guy to go easy. But he was a doctor, a headshrinker who specialized in kids; he had to know his stuff. He didn’t throw off a smartass vibe, he just seemed like a decent, kind of overly uptight academic type. Brian watched him leave the room, then he turned again to the mirror, anxiety bringing back the knots in his stomach.
    Instead of his usual gray flannels and navy blazer, shirt and tie, Stefan had intentionally dressed down for the occasion in jeans, an open-necked button-down long-sleeved shirt, and loafers. He wanted to appear as non-threatening as possible. As his hand reached toward the doorknob, he was excited by the challenge and suddenly deeply apprehensive. The apprehension was unexpected. The calm demeanor he’d perfected in the course of his schooling tended to ease the often anxious children with whom he’d worked during his training; he was confident of that. But this child was presenting with problems and behaviors far beyond his experience. He doubted, in fact, if more than a handful of people anywhere had ever worked with a child whose circumstances were even remotely like this one’s. He wanted to believe that he could help her; he also couldn’t stop thinking about the paper he might be able to present on her case and the acclaim it would bring him.
    He’d met Margery Briggs during his Child and Adolescent Psychiatry Residency Training Program. It had been an incredible stroke of luck that he’d run into her on an errand at City Hall and she’d at once asked him to consult on this case. Flattered and intrigued, he’d accepted immediately without thinking it through. He didn’t want to screw it up.
    Wiping his hands dry on his jeans, he again reached for the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and walked in with a smile, saying, ‘Hi. I’m Stefan.’ Reaching for one of the small chairs, he sat down, saying, ‘These are little chairs for little people. You can sit down, too, if you like.’
    Her curled hands held tight at her sides, she watched him without the amusement the majority of children displayed when he folded his long, lanky frame into one of these chairs. She was, he could see, very suspicious. Ironically, she probably trusted her captors more than she trusted strangers; at least she had a frame of reference for how those two might behave. Strangers represented completely unknown, potentially dangerous, territory.
    â€˜If you don’t care to sit down, that’s fine,’ he said, smiling again.
    Nothing. She just kept on staring at him.
    â€˜Well, okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’
    â€˜â€™Kay.’ As if he’d given a key signal, she yanked off the underpants, lay down on her back, flipped the dress up over her face and spread her legs.
    â€˜Oh, no!’ he said, dismayed. ‘That’s not what I meant at all.’
    â€˜â€™Kay.’ She turned and positioned herself on her hands and knees, reaching back to raise the dress over her exposed bottom.
    â€˜No! Please,’ he said. Something inside his chest tore away, like tape ripped off a raw wound. ‘Don’t do that.’
This was terrible!!!
Why had he imagined this would be simple or that he was sufficiently schooled for the job?
    â€˜No?’ She sat up on her knees, looking at him over her shoulder, then turned and knee-walked toward him.
    He thought she’d stop but she kept on coming until she was at his knees, trying to push them apart and reaching for his zipper. That raw place inside his chest was exposed and stinging as he took hold of her hand – so soft and scarcely formed; the dimpled