The Girl Behind the Door Read online

  I wish I’d had a gift for understanding my own daughter. As infuriating as her behavior was, we had no reference point to determine if this was normal, because we had no other children. Instead we’d allowed our child to manipulate us into giving her whatever she wanted in order to avert her tears. It had to be us. We were incompetent parents.

  We searched for answers or, in their absence, reassurance. Casey’s first pediatrician in Simsbury, Dr. Johnston, took a special interest in her, amazed at how she’d developed so rapidly into a lively, energetic toddler. We discussed Casey’s eating and sleeping habits, how she played with other kids, how she handled transitions, and whether she followed directions. In each case, she was right in the normal range for her age.

  We described the tantrums. Dr. Johnston empathized with us but couldn’t see any signs of trouble. Casey would grow out of it. “Three-year-olds are still trying to get a handle on their emotions and are easily frustrated,” she said, “and Casey was a preemie. They tend to be hypersensitive.” I embraced Dr. Johnston’s prognosis—of course Casey was fine; she’d grow out of this. She was just a strong-willed child. The subject of her abandonment and adoption was never discussed.

  After our move to California, we talked to our neighborhood friend Sharon, a psychologist with a Ph.D. from Berkeley. Casey had been friends with her two kids, Ian and Caroline, since kindergarten. Ian had been adopted at birth before Sharon became pregnant with Caroline.

  When I asked Sharon for her secret to good parenting, she burst out laughing. “You don’t see my kids when they’re at home. That’s when they’re at their worst. Ian can be a nightmare. He has these howling fits when he doesn’t get his way.” But for all the parents who assured us that their little angels were just monsters in disguise, others took a hard line.

  “You shouldn’t spoil her.”

  “Be tougher with her. You have to set boundaries and stick to them.”

  “You’ll only encourage her tantrums if you come to her rescue.”

  Of course we’d tried time-outs and had withheld privileges such as playdates, video games, and TV. Simple chores, like making her bed and setting the table, were rewarded with gold stars on the refrigerator and treats, but this was equally unsuccessful. Disciplinary measures that worked so well with most children often pitched Casey into a fit that we feared the whole neighborhood could hear. To keep the ear-piercing decibels down, we’d cave in under the guise of “We’ll give you another chance.” The last thing we needed was a neighbor hearing the commotion from our house and calling Child Protective Services.

  Erika and I tried to talk to her when she was calm, asking her why she got so angry and upset over things, what made her cry, how she felt about herself. But she’d have none of it. She felt like she was under attack, ordering us out of her room so she could be alone.

  Feeling like miserable failures, Erika and I turned on each other. We came from very different parenting models. Erika’s immigrant parents had always been strict and controlling, like their parents, whereas mine were fairly laid-back, like Ward and June Cleaver. Erika accused me of being too easy on Casey while I felt that Erika needed to give her a longer leash. She believed firmly—and rightly so—that we needed a united front in complete alignment against such a willful child, and she was ever watchful for any threat to the alliance.

  While Casey was still in grade school, we talked to more parents, read more parenting books, taped and dissected words of wisdom from Dr. Phil. The consensus was that Casey was just a bit higher strung than the average kid, not that unusual for a girl. If we found her behavior unacceptable we just had to lay down the law with her. Eventually she’d come around.

  The staff psychologist at Casey’s school, Dr. Klein, repeated what we’d already heard from her teachers—good student, well-behaved, played nicely with other kids, thoughtful but sometimes a bit pushy. That was a good thing. It meant she stood up for herself. She’d never had even the mildest disciplinary citation.

  We talked about Casey’s early years in the orphanage, but had so little data to go on that there was no way to know what, if anything, harmful she could’ve inherited from her birth parents. As with our meeting years earlier with Dr. Johnston, our conference with Dr. Klein yielded little more than reassurances that lots of kids that age had coping problems; she’d grow out of it. But she didn’t.

  We tried therapy. In most families, it would have been ridiculous to take an eight-year-old to a shrink, but not in Marin County, where lots of kids had therapists. We thought that therapy would be a safe place where Casey might open up. Perhaps a professional would have some success drawing her out where we’d failed so miserably.

  We met with a child psychologist, Dr. Darnell. She was a pleasant, soft-spoken woman in her thirties—so quiet, in fact, that she seemed almost timid. Casey could be rough around the edges when she felt threatened, so we hoped that she wouldn’t make mincemeat out of Dr. Darnell.

  We set up a schedule for them to meet once a week after school. But after every therapy session, Casey would come home in a churlish mood, tramp off to her room, slam the door, and dissolve into screaming fits. Dr. Darnell was “lame” and a waste of her time. They played Monopoly rather than talked and had failed to make any meaningful connection. It was difficult for us to deal with the ugly aftermath of each session. Erika and I met with Dr. Darnell for some insight over Casey’s sessions, but they yielded nothing of value. Monopoly was probably not the best tool to understand our child. Between Casey’s tearful pleas and belligerent protests, she ground us down, so we discontinued the sessions with Dr. Darnell.

  Our break from therapy lasted less than a year. During that time much had changed in our lives. I had another new job. We’d moved from a rental to a dilapidated house the size of a shoe box we bought in the town of Tiburon, a financial stretch but an easy commute for me just over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. And after years of stalling for time, we caved in to Casey’s incessant begging for a companion, adding a new member to our family. His name was Igor, a handsome, skinny, brindled English racing hound known as a whippet. They are famously gentle, sensitive, and quiet; the perfect therapy dog. Casey was in love. A family, a new job, a home, and a skinny little dog.

  Things seemed to fall into place, but not quite.

  NINE

  Casey had discovered a talent for writing in middle school, and I encouraged and praised her work at every opportunity. Writing was her true calling and our way to connect, just the two of us. She had a gift for vivid imagery and depth of thought well beyond her years. As she got older, her self-image became more fragile. Writing would help boost her self-confidence. One poem she’d written in eighth grade she titled “Ode to the Orange”:

  Tangy, succulent juices

  drip

  off my lips

  as I plunge into the first bite.

  It has a party

  in my mouth.

  But for all of her talent, Casey was a hypersensitive perfectionist. When she tried something that didn’t go just right, she’d react as if her world had come to an end. She became more introverted and could no longer be coaxed onto the stage as she could in musical theater when she was younger. Shyness and self-doubt weren’t unusual among preteen girls, but it complicated our attempts to introduce her to new things that could have interested her—musical instruments, chess, modern dance.

  As protective as she was about her writing, she trusted me to read and edit. It was a delicate balance to be her mentor without offending her and risk turning her away from her gift or from me. I didn’t want her to give up on things so easily.

  Late one evening when Casey was thirteen, she was struggling with an English assignment. As I lay in bed drifting off to a Frontline story on PBS about Saddam Hussein and WMDs, she shuffled into our bedroom in her UGG boots, Igor trotting behind. She inched up to the bed and shoved a wrinkled mass of paper at me as though it were toxic waste. “Can you read this? I know it totally sucks.”
r />   I hated to see her beat herself up like that. “Honey, what’s it about?”

  “It’s an essay for English on the Eiffel Tower,” which came out in a rapid-fire staccato: ItsanessayforEnglishontheEiffelTower.

  I corrected a few minor typos and punctuation errors before affixing my smiley face at the end with my verdict—Wow!—returning the finished piece to her as she sat at her desk. She grabbed the paper, crinkling it in her fist. I winced as I kissed the top of her head, wet from her evening shower, and left her alone to process my remarks.

  Near midnight, shrieks echoed from the other side of the house—Erika and Casey at war. I had to investigate. Stepping into her room, I saw Casey at her desk, her shoulders heaving from choking sobs, while Erika stood over her with hands on hips, a disgusted look on her face. Igor lay on Casey’s bed, shivering.

  Erika quivered with outrage. “Why do you do this to yourself, Casey! Why!” It looked like she was on the verge of tears herself. “You’re going back to therapy, young lady! I’ve had it!”

  Casey picked her head up, tears streaming down her face. “Stop it, Mom! Therapy is stupid and useless! If you try to take me again I’ll kill myself!”

  Oh brother. Teen girl dramatics.

  Erika turned to me, her nose inches from my face. “Your daughter just ripped up her English homework that she spent all evening on!” Had she saved the paper on her computer? No.

  “What? Casey!” I was exasperated. Did she have some kind of self-destructive impulse? Despite all of her bluster and pride, the slightest disapproving tone from me hit her like a sledgehammer.

  “Dad, don’t you know how much I hate myself? You just make me feel worse!” Her words were a cold slap in the face. Her reaction to stress and adversity was always out of proportion to the circumstances. What had we done to induce this kind of self-loathing, or was this just part of growing up?

  The self-loathing became more evident as she made her way through middle school and increasingly turned her rage inward, the hyperbole becoming ever more strident.

  “You make me feel like I’m subhuman!”

  I couldn’t tell what was normal anymore or what should have sounded the alarm bells. We just wanted Casey to be like the other kids, so we looked for signs of “normalness” and they were there in abundance.

  The vast majority of the time, she was still delightful, happy, and charming, a good student who would have made any parent proud. The professionals had to be right. She was just a bit of a drama queen like a lot of teenage girls. So it was easy for me to overlook her more troublesome behavior.

  Since taking her out of therapy with Dr. Darnell, we had turned back to our friends, and once again they reassured us that there was no reason to panic. We were good parents and Casey was a good girl. This was fairly normal—though irritating—behavior for a middle schooler. That’s what I wanted to hear, and I found that people were eager to tell us what we wanted to hear.

  Still, we’d laid down the marker of consequences for bad behavior and had to make good on our threats. Erika was adamant that Casey go back to therapy, and I wasn’t about to fracture the parental alliance.

  We found Casey’s next therapist, Tori, at Apple FamilyWorks, a community-based mental health center in San Rafael. She reacted to the prospect of more therapy as if Mom and Dad were about to send her off to a Soviet gulag.

  “I HATE YOU!” she spat as she yanked her bedroom door closed. I was furious at her—a thirteen-year-old acting like a spoiled, bratty two-year-old totally devoid of coping skills. Why couldn’t she grow up and accept that things couldn’t always go her way?

  When tears wouldn’t work, she resorted to relentless negotiation to wear us down. Erika and I were convinced that if Casey didn’t become a writer, she’d have a promising career negotiating arms control treaties.

  “If I go to therapy and I don’t like it, I get to drop out!”

  “If I go to therapy, then I don’t have to do any chores!”

  “If I go to therapy, then I demand an increase in my allowance!”

  Perhaps she was angry and humiliated because her parents forced her to see a therapist in a low-rent district of San Rafael rather than the chichi therapists in Larkspur that her friends went to.

  After several months, we met privately with Tori to discuss their progress together. Sitting in her office, I spoke frankly. “Casey won’t stop complaining about therapy. She refuses to get in the car no matter what we say or do.” We were spent.

  Tori responded, apologetic. “I understand. At first she started to open up and talk, but then after a while she refused to cooperate.”

  “Do you run into this problem often, with teenagers who simply refuse to work with you?” I asked.

  “Honestly? Very rarely.”

  Erika spoke up. “Why do you think she’s so resistant, Tori, when other kids aren’t?”

  “Well, she is very strong willed.” Tori paused to think. “She’s just an extremely private person.” Once again, we had no discussion of her early abandonment, the orphanage, or her adoption.

  We agreed that it was counterproductive to force Casey into therapy as long as she resisted. So, with great reluctance, we stopped the sessions with Tori. Casey would have to understand that this concession was with conditions. She needed to maintain her grades and keep her behavior under control or she’d be back in therapy. But next time—if there was a next time—we’d let her choose the therapist if it would motivate her to go.

  TEN

  Casey entered Redwood High School in Larkspur as a fourteen-year-old freshman in the fall of 2004. With about fifteen hundred students, it was four times the size of her middle school, Del Mar, and drew kids from the surrounding towns of Corte Madera, Kentfield, and Greenbrae. The student body was more socioeconomically diverse than at the Tiburon schools, where the kids lived in a bubble of relative privilege.

  In a way, Redwood’s size afforded the opportunity for a middle schooler to reinvent him- or herself, shake off an unwanted nickname or reputation, and cast a wider net for new friends. It was a fresh start. But it also meant change, and I knew how hard it was for Casey to adjust to the unexpected. She’d had many of the same friends since kindergarten, and while some of her friendships had been strained over the years by breakup, betrayal, or rejection, there was still a measure of comfort in those familiar faces.

  Several of her best friends—Roxanne, Maryse, Max—had gone away to private schools. Others—such as Joel, Julian, Ben, and Emily—enrolled at Tamiscal, a small, alternative independent-study school. I hoped Casey wouldn’t be intimidated by Redwood’s size. She would need to keep up with a heavier workload and start thinking about college. Maybe she’d put her writing gift to good use by contributing to the student newspaper. She might even find a boyfriend.

  She’d never had a love interest that I knew of, but then, many of her girlfriends hadn’t either. It wasn’t that they were antisocial—far from it. They were in constant contact with one another, but it was often through online chats or texts from the privacy of their bedrooms.

  Since she’d wormed her way out of therapy with Tori, Casey had been in good spirits. Erika and I were worn down, often disregarding our parenting instincts and house rules by ignoring a rude remark, backing away from a defiant challenge, or capitulating to a demand just for the sake of peace. It was humiliating to feel our authority regularly undermined by a teenager, but we’d do almost anything to ward off a meltdown. Perhaps, we told ourselves, by showing kindness and forbearance, we could coax, rather than force, good behavior from her.

  In one such instance, I walked through the front door at the end of the day from work. Casey was sprawled on the sofa, her dirty, sneaker-clad feet propped on our new coffee table next to a can of Diet Dr Pepper missing its coaster. She was engrossed in a video game, The Legend of Zelda.

  My instinct was to snarl at her lack of respect; she’d broken two house rules—no shoes on the coffee table and use a coaster. But when she saw
me walk in, she extended an arm for a hug and a kiss on the cheek, her face glued to the screen. I melted. All was forgotten.

  “Honey, could you please take your shoes off the coffee table?” I asked.

  “Oh. Sorry, Dad.” She kicked off her dirty shoes and planted her bare feet back on the coffee table.

  “Thank you.”

  Of course, our families and friends saw this as a sign of parental weakness, but then, they didn’t live in our house. The reward for temperance was well worth the sacrifice of authority Erika and I had over our daughter.

  Casey seemed to make the transition through freshman year smoothly, but by her sophomore year, the A’s and B’s that she’d proudly produced since grade school had slipped to C’s and D’s. Even English—her strong suit—had suffered. She could have counted on an easy A but was down to a D-plus. There was no question that she understood the material; it was about her inability to complete assignments on time.

  Letters from Redwood addressed to Parents or Guardians of Casey J. Brooks arrived in the mail with increasing regularity, reporting a growing list of tardies, unexcused absences, and missed assignments. This violated the spirit of our cease-fire over therapy, but we were conflicted over how to handle the situation.

  Erika felt we should have stuck to our agreement. There should be harsh consequences for this academic slide. She was probably right but I was, again, loath to confront Casey and upset the peace in the house. After all, these were just warnings. It wasn’t like Casey had gotten busted for drinking or drugs.

  In truth, I was just plain tired of parenting my daughter. She was a constant chess match, a constant challenge. I was worn out from trying to hold a job, keep a roof over our heads, and protect our family from imploding. Confrontation was a last resort.