Read Online The Girl Behind the Door by John Brooks - Free Book Online
Authors: John Brooks
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socks, and blue Converse sneakers with multicolored laces, just another kid trying to carve out an identity without alienating the pack.
She lugged around a purple JanSport backpack jangling with colorful adornments like a Christmas tree. There was a pink pig, a soccer ball, a tiny blue-on-white New York license plate inscribed CASEY, and a whistle that Erika had insisted on, just in case of emergency. Most important were her Pokémon cardsâCharmander, Squirtle, Jigglypuff, and everyoneâs favoriteâthe cute, yellow, mousy Pikachu. She traded them with her friend Rebecca during lunch.
Still, Casey had her unsettling moments. In one of her first letters to me from Poland, after Iâd returned to the States ahead of her, Erika reported that Casey had recoiled at the feel of grass. During their stay in WrocÅaw waiting for Caseyâs visa, they relaxed in Uncle Marianâs small but beautifully manicured backyard, soft and lush like a pint-size golf course with a flower and vegetable garden. But when Erika set Casey down on the grass sheâd cried hysterically to be picked up. Iâd read that preemies like Casey had very sensitive skin. Some could only tolerate ultrasoft fabrics because wools and polyesters were too scratchy. Perhaps that was it.
There were more episodes of tantrums and meltdowns like the one weâd seen during our first night together in the Hotel Forum in Warsaw. Something trivial, like waiting an extra minute for ice cream or leaving Toys âRâ Us just a moment too soon, could send Casey into a fit of screaming, thrashing, and flailing about. Just getting her to calm down for bedtime often left us feeling as we did that first night in Warsawâlike bomb disposal experts.
She refused to yield to authority at home without a fight, and had to be in control. Simple requests to clean up her room, put her dishes in the dishwasher, turn off the TV, or do her homework often triggered howls of protest. We had flare-ups at the mall, flares-ups in restaurants, flare-ups in front of the grandparents. Sometimes I couldnât stop myself from spanking her, feeling horribly ashamed of myself later.
It wasnât so much the frequency of these flare-upsâa week could pass with Casey on her best behaviorâit was their intensity. Her rages seemed to stem from an almost bottomless well of anguish for which there seemed no comfort other than to cry it out.
We felt powerless to soothe her or protect her from herself. It was as if she deliberately pushed us away. And when we complied, she panicked at the prospect of being left behind. Still, sheâd shove everything and everyone aside so that she could deal with her emotions and process her setbacks on her own. That was her coping system.
Iâd never seen such a toxic mixture of anger and despair in a three-year-old girl and I felt helpless to repair it.
Years later, around Christmastime, when Casey was eight, she begged us to take her ice-skating with her friend Tessa at the Yerba Buena skating rink in San Francisco. She was in a festive mood, sporting a red stocking cap with a fuzzy pom-pom that made her look like a merry elf.
After Erika and I got the girls into their skates, they stepped gingerly onto the ice, holding hands. Casey had been on skates only once before.
Unsteady on her feet, she clung to Tessa for support like Bambi trying to stand on all four legs on the icy pond. Erika and I cringed as we watched her.
Within minutes, Caseyâs skates flew out from under her. She fell backward and hit her head on the iceânot hard, but she yanked off her stocking cap and grabbed her head, crying inconsolably while she lay in the middle of the rink, skaters twirling around her. Tessa extended her hand but Casey swatted it away and curled into a ball, shielding herself so the crowd wouldnât see that her face was beet red. Erika rushed to her side and tried to pick her up.
âGet away from
She lugged around a purple JanSport backpack jangling with colorful adornments like a Christmas tree. There was a pink pig, a soccer ball, a tiny blue-on-white New York license plate inscribed CASEY, and a whistle that Erika had insisted on, just in case of emergency. Most important were her Pokémon cardsâCharmander, Squirtle, Jigglypuff, and everyoneâs favoriteâthe cute, yellow, mousy Pikachu. She traded them with her friend Rebecca during lunch.
Still, Casey had her unsettling moments. In one of her first letters to me from Poland, after Iâd returned to the States ahead of her, Erika reported that Casey had recoiled at the feel of grass. During their stay in WrocÅaw waiting for Caseyâs visa, they relaxed in Uncle Marianâs small but beautifully manicured backyard, soft and lush like a pint-size golf course with a flower and vegetable garden. But when Erika set Casey down on the grass sheâd cried hysterically to be picked up. Iâd read that preemies like Casey had very sensitive skin. Some could only tolerate ultrasoft fabrics because wools and polyesters were too scratchy. Perhaps that was it.
There were more episodes of tantrums and meltdowns like the one weâd seen during our first night together in the Hotel Forum in Warsaw. Something trivial, like waiting an extra minute for ice cream or leaving Toys âRâ Us just a moment too soon, could send Casey into a fit of screaming, thrashing, and flailing about. Just getting her to calm down for bedtime often left us feeling as we did that first night in Warsawâlike bomb disposal experts.
She refused to yield to authority at home without a fight, and had to be in control. Simple requests to clean up her room, put her dishes in the dishwasher, turn off the TV, or do her homework often triggered howls of protest. We had flare-ups at the mall, flares-ups in restaurants, flare-ups in front of the grandparents. Sometimes I couldnât stop myself from spanking her, feeling horribly ashamed of myself later.
It wasnât so much the frequency of these flare-upsâa week could pass with Casey on her best behaviorâit was their intensity. Her rages seemed to stem from an almost bottomless well of anguish for which there seemed no comfort other than to cry it out.
We felt powerless to soothe her or protect her from herself. It was as if she deliberately pushed us away. And when we complied, she panicked at the prospect of being left behind. Still, sheâd shove everything and everyone aside so that she could deal with her emotions and process her setbacks on her own. That was her coping system.
Iâd never seen such a toxic mixture of anger and despair in a three-year-old girl and I felt helpless to repair it.
Years later, around Christmastime, when Casey was eight, she begged us to take her ice-skating with her friend Tessa at the Yerba Buena skating rink in San Francisco. She was in a festive mood, sporting a red stocking cap with a fuzzy pom-pom that made her look like a merry elf.
After Erika and I got the girls into their skates, they stepped gingerly onto the ice, holding hands. Casey had been on skates only once before.
Unsteady on her feet, she clung to Tessa for support like Bambi trying to stand on all four legs on the icy pond. Erika and I cringed as we watched her.
Within minutes, Caseyâs skates flew out from under her. She fell backward and hit her head on the iceânot hard, but she yanked off her stocking cap and grabbed her head, crying inconsolably while she lay in the middle of the rink, skaters twirling around her. Tessa extended her hand but Casey swatted it away and curled into a ball, shielding herself so the crowd wouldnât see that her face was beet red. Erika rushed to her side and tried to pick her up.
âGet away from
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