The Girl Behind the Door (13 page)

It looked like Hurricane Katrina had swept through—clothes, books, shoes, pillows, CDs, empty cans of Red Bull and Diet Dr Pepper were strewn everywhere. Her papasan chair in the corner was barely visible under a pile of dirty laundry. Her new IKEA platform bed was fairly neat, the white comforter tucked in, stuffed animals arranged around the edges. The pink squeaky doll that we'd given her in Poland poked its head out from a pile of pillows. And of course there was her ever-present comfort pillow, now threadbare from years of wear and restuffings.

Casey and I had painted her room a dark royal blue. The darkness was both mysterious and calming, complementing the carpeting in the room, a powder blue except for the big yellow stain in the center, compliments of Igor. For all the chaos on the floor, Casey didn't like clutter on her walls. There was a large, black-framed poster with the words from
Romeo & Juliet
in the corner; a white-and-orange poster over her bed from the movie
Trainspotting
, about junkies in Scotland; and a small white metal road sign from a pedestrian underpass in Paris. It read:
Entrée Interdite aux Vélos et Motos.

She was in her usual spot, hunched over her computer, sitting on her ratty secretarial chair.

She'd given herself a makeover by changing her hair color from dirty blond to a medium soft brown. Instead of parting her hair and clipping it to the side, she let it fall to her shoulders and cut her bangs into a shag like Cleopatra—she looked stunning. Her ripped jeans had given way to skinny straight jeans, but she still had on her white hoodie—she was always cold.

I took a breath, realizing in the moment how nervous I was. She was the one who should've been nervous. “Hey there,” I called out tentatively. “What're you doing?”

She took a swig of Red Bull. “Talking to Julian. We're gonna hang out later.”

We were about to spoil her evening plans. She wasn't going anywhere. I felt a pinch in my stomach as we stepped into her room; Erika pulled out the empty blue bottle of Skyy vodka. “Casey, I found this in the back of your drawer the other day. How did it get there?”

Casey glanced at the bottle, nonchalant. “I don't know.” She shrugged. “Somebody must've left it there.” She had no fear. I, on the other hand, imagined myself in a panic confronted like that by my parents.

Erika stood firm. “I find that hard to believe, Casey. I think you put it there.”

“Well, it's
true
 . . .
MOTHER
!” she spat. “And I don't appreciate you questioning my
integrity
!”

I stepped in between them. “Casey, calm down.”

She shot me a look of contempt. “No,
you
calm down!”

Her eyes teared up and her shoulders quaked from a stifled whimper. Crocodile tears. I was losing patience and spoke firmly. “Casey, you need to stop crying and acting like a two-year-old every time we have a serious conversation.”

Her whimpering turned into bitter sobs.

Erika picked up the exchange. “There's something else, Casey. I found a pack of cigarettes and a pipe in your pocketbook.” She pulled out the evidence and showed it to Casey, who looked at it wide-eyed, not with fear but with rage.

“WHAT? YOU WENT THROUGH MY POCKETBOOK? HOW
DARE
YOU!”

I was weak-kneed but Erika didn't flinch from a fight. “You can forget about going anywhere tonight, young lady. You're grounded and you're going back to therapy!”

“WHAT!” We backed out of the room. Casey kicked the door shut, locked it, and hammered at it with her fists and feet.

“You're ruining my
LIFE
!”

We left food out for her but she stayed in her room for the rest of the night.

Our offer to let Casey pick her next therapist softened the blow somewhat. Not surprisingly, she chose a Larkspur therapist after a rave review from one of her girlfriends who was a patient. There were as many shrinks crammed in between the Lark Theater, the Left Bank Brasserie, and the Silver Peso Bar in this charming little ritzy town as there were on an Upper East Side block of Manhattan.

For the right price, you could see a Reiki practitioner, an acupuncturist, an astrologer, a hypnotherapist, a psychic, a marriage and family counselor, a life coach, and, of course, a resplendent buffet of psychiatrists. No problem was too bizarre in Marin County. You could just as easily find someone to potty-train your puppy as to break your fifteen-year-old of his or her addiction to Oxycontin.

The new therapist's name was Dianne. Casey's first appointment was Columbus Day, 2006. I had the day off and drove her. We were quiet in the car, as usual, as we pulled into the parking lot behind Dianne's office. I offered her a sympathetic smile, but she ignored me, grabbed her pocketbook, and left the car, marching up the stairs to Dianne's office.

Erika and I had already met with Dianne. Her specialty was teenagers. She reminded us of Mama Cass—full-figured, long blond hair parted in the middle, gold satin kimono and lots of jewelry. She was an earth mother type who insisted on enveloping us in bear hugs. Her office was cozy and comfortable, with three oversize black leather chairs perfect for napping. Erika and I had a good feeling about her after an hour together. I prayed that this time we'd found a confidante for Casey. Maybe Dianne could connect with her where others had not.

An hour after dropping her off, I was back in the parking lot waiting for her. Within minutes, Casey bounded down the stairs and hopped into the car. Much like the aftermath of her first meeting with Tori, she seemed calm and genial.

I tried to catch her eye. “Well, dare I ask how it went?”

“Fine.” She dug through her pocketbook for something. “Hey, Dad. I can't find my Starbucks gift card,
a-and
I want to get a Café Americano?”

“So you want me to take you there?” I loved the lilt in her voice when she was in a good mood.

“Uh, yeah? And, can I borrow some money?”

“Don't worry. I'd be delighted to buy you one.” We drove to Starbucks like two people comfortable in each other's company.

Over the next few months, Casey continued weekly therapy sessions with Dianne and didn't resist the reminders when Erika or I had to take her there. It was hard to know how the process was going. Sometimes when we picked her up, she was chatty and relaxed, other times sullen and uncommunicative. When asked about Dianne we'd usually get a grunt, a shrug, or a one-word answer, like “Fine.” And because of doctor-patient confidentiality, Dianne was limited in what she could disclose about their sessions.

We were reluctant to press Casey for more information. We couldn't afford for her to walk away from a third therapist. As long as she continued to go without a fuss, we were happy.

The dreaded letters from Redwood stopped showing up. Either Casey's work habits had improved or she'd become more adept at intercepting the letters at the mailbox. She agreed to a tutor for her precalculus and he seemed to help. She was able to raise her grade from an F to a D, hopefully on the way to a C, at least.

She seemed to have realized that she was running out of time to polish herself for college applications if she didn't want to end up at community college.

Casey's eating habits continued to be problematic. Most of the time she ate separately from Erika and me, claiming that schoolwork beckoned. We could see how hard she worked and didn't want to discourage her newfound discipline, so we reluctantly excused her from the table.

Her unorthodox diet consisted mostly of starches and Diet Dr Pepper, but she never lost an opportunity to show us when she was eating salads or fruit.

We suspected that she was probably sneaking the occasional drink or joint, but had no proof. When Erika rifled through her pocketbook—much to my discomfort—the only contraband she could find was the stray empty pack of Camel Lights.

As much as we hated her smoking cigarettes—and, probably, pot—we decided not to confront her. Let it go. She had a nice group of friends—artists and musicians. I just prayed it was nothing more exotic than pot. Considering all the weed my friends and I smoked when we were their age, and I still did, I couldn't hold that against her without seeming hypocritical.

We enjoyed some stretches of calm again in the house. I no longer felt a pit in my stomach when I walked through the door from work for fear of stepping onto a land mine. Perhaps this meant the sessions with Dianne were working.

So far, all signs were relatively good and we lavished Casey with praise. Perhaps feeling a boost in self-confidence, she pushed me for an increase in her twenty-five-dollar weekly allowance, deploying her powers of persuasion and negotiation for maximum effect.

“I really should be getting more money for going to therapy and getting my grades up.”

“I get the stingiest allowance of anyone I know. Everyone else gets at least fifty dollars a week.”

“If you raise my allowance, I promise to do chores around the house.”

Unfortunately, her rationale for a raise rested largely on the notion that she should have been rewarded for doing things she was expected to do anyway. We were pretty generous in doling out other money, but she had to come to us to ask for something specific on which we could render an opinion.

I was unmoved and reluctant to give in because I suspected that any financial gain would go toward cigarettes, alcohol, or weed. If I couldn't stop her from using those substances, at least I could delay the inevitable. This was one debate I actually won, because I had control over the money.

D
uring her junior-year Christmas break, Casey got a job as a seasonal helper at the Williams-Sonoma store in her favorite mall, the upscale Village at Corte Madera. She did everything from greeting customers to working the cash register and wrapping gifts in the stockroom. Dressed in a forest-green Williams-Sonoma apron, with a white name tag that said
CASEY
, she was a big hit with the staff and clientele. She put her beautiful smile, charm, and cute dimples to good use, earning eleven dollars an hour, which quickly swelled her wallet.

Even though she'd turned sixteen in May, we still had to shuttle her back and forth to work because she hadn't bothered to get her driver's license, something we were in no hurry to enable. The short drive gave us a chance to hear her stories about boring staff meetings, bitchy bosses, and a sales contest where the prize was a two-hundred-dollar stainless-steel saucepan.

She befriended a boy named Clive from Tamalpais High, and told us how he made her crack up when they worked together in the stockroom. One afternoon at the end of her shift, she practically skipped toward me as I waited in the car, a huge smile on her face. As she hopped in, out of breath, she spoke excitedly.

“Ohmygod, Dad! Guess what? You'll never believe what just happened!” Her words tumbled out of her mouth. “I just waited on
Phil Lesh
at the store!” Phil Lesh is a legendary rock star, the bassist for the Grateful Dead, one of her favorite bands. She looked like she was about to faint from her close encounter with stardom. “He was so cool! I mean, he was
so . . .
normal
! He bought a blender!”