PROLOGUE

Jean stands at the open door to her office and invites the young woman in the trim skirt and tailored jacket to come in. She asks her to sit down, indicating any of the chairs in the comfortable room. Jean sits down herself and adjusts the spiral-bound notebook on the table beside her. When she looks up, she sees that her guest is still standing near the door.

Jean watches, surprised as the young woman begins to move along the office wall raising the index finger of an elegant hand to glide across the spines of a row of books and settle for an instant on a soapstone carving of an Inuit mother and child. Strong dark eyes inspect the collection of photographs of Jean’s family: the cottage, the kids, the dogs. The young woman with clear skin and sculptured features slowly makes her way around the perimeter of the office: touching, absorbing, moving from one grouping of Jean’s treasures and collected memories to another. Fingertips brush the brocade on the back of a comfortable chair that belonged to Jean’s grandmother. The young woman lowers her head and considers the chair for a moment. She nervously tucks a strand of her long dark hair behind her ear. She slowly moves across the room, pausing for a moment to read a framed poem mounted next to the diplomas.

Jean watches with mild amusement as her representational décor is scrutinized with such precision. The young woman turns her attention to the plants on the broad windowsill: first the ivy, then the azalea blossoms. She raises the tip of one of the flowers and instinctively lowers her face to absorb any perfume. Finding none, she gazes into it for a few seconds then straightens herself to look out the window at the parking lot and the street beyond.

This is Starla. Seeing her pause at the window, Jean senses that the tour is over and that she may now ask a question. Jean comments on Starla’s beautiful if unusual name. Starla turns from the window and looks at the therapist, as if startled to hear another voice. She gives a small shrug and explains: “Starla Way Jamieson – yes, I once asked my father where my name came from; I was about six years old. He said that the night that I was conceived, they made love outside. He remembered that there were so many stars in the sky, he didn’t even need the moonlight to see my mother’s beauty.” Starla sits down in the wing back chair opposite Jean, settling her hands in her lap. Her movements have a fluid quality about them.

Starla is quiet for a moment and then looks directly at Jean and asks: “Don’t you think that this is a bit too much information for a six year old?” Jean offers a smile, but Starla’s sad eyes don’t return it. An odd stillness surrounds them as the question goes unanswered.
“Starla, what can I do for you?”

Starla lifts her eyes and her thoughts from where they’ve settled inside her. “My thesis advisor felt that I should speak to someone; I’m having difficulty pulling my research together.” She pauses. “ Actually, I’m having trouble getting through the days lately.”

Each time Starla speaks it seems to involve the movement of some internal force: a rising and falling of energy like a wave gaining momentum that sustains her only while she speaks, then it breaks, leaving her empty.

“I’m a Special Education teacher,” she begins again after a few moments. “I work mainly with children who have learning disabilities. My research is in connecting specific learning difficulties with different forms of abuse or trauma, and the age of the child when the episodes occurred. I’m looking at why certain children’s cognitive abilities are more affected by trauma than others.”

The wave breaks on the shore. Starla pauses for a long moment to look around the room, refocusing on some of the objects she had taken in earlier. She collects her words and delivers them precisely; she recognizes a self-consciousness that her profession and her fears have imposed upon her.

“Although I love my teaching, I’ve always known that I was not cut out to be in a large classroom — dealing with many children at once, collecting hot dog money, keeping the lid on things. Yet I’ve also known that I wanted to work with children, the ones who see the world differently.” She reaches in her small bag for a tissue, but does not use it. It becomes a prop, a source of comfort.

“…So after Teacher’s College, I went on directly to get my Special Ed. qualifications. I was lucky enough to get a job as a resource-librarian where I was able to work with small groups of children most of the time; lots of individual interaction, real teaching and learning. It was the perfect job for me. I decided that I wanted to learn more, so I began working on my Master’s degree and here I am.”

“What do you mean?” Jean asks.

“Well, it went fine last year. But now in this new school year, as the research interviews and case files are piling up, I’m having more and more difficulty distancing myself from the pain that I hear about from the kids. I’m feeling too connected with their hurt and their fears; I’m having trouble processing what they are able to tell me that might help with their learning.”

She pauses and takes a deep breath to compose her next thought. “I don’t understand it. I wasn’t abused, and I never had any real trouble in school, but lately it’s as if I’m feeling as vulnerable as those children are. I’m seeing some parallels between my own life and their experiences, and it makes no sense to me.” Again the wave subsides and she sits very still. Jean waits for her to go on, but Starla stays focused on the tissue and the fingertips of her upturned hands. She watches Starla’s body, to see if it will reveal what she needs. After a few minutes with no clues, Jean asks: “Do you have any family, Starla – a partner, parents, siblings?”

“There’s my sister, Claire,” she says, stretching first one arm out in front of her, then the other, like someone just waking from a nap. She was born when I was eight and we were living in Vancouver. Bill, my father, still lives there. He’s a lawyer working with environmental groups. My mother is on Saltspring Island most of the time.”

“Do you get to see them much?”

“Not really. Bill’s very busy, but we get together sometimes when he comes east on business. I don’t hear much from my mother. She has her own life now. I don’t feel very comfortable with her friends.”

“Would you tell me about yourself, Starla, your childhood? I find that it often helps me know people a bit better when I hear where they’ve been.”

“Well, I did get around.” Starla says after some thought, with a stiffness that leads Jean to imagine that this is not a comfortable topic. “I spent most of my early childhood in a van, or a tent, or a different apartment each season. I had to learn to rely on myself for most things.” She pauses then gives an ironic little laugh. “I think that’s why I like it here in the east. All the houses here are solid and have foundations; they’re made of brick and stone and you can depend on them.” For the first time Jean sees the tentative sense of humour and the beautiful smile that are also part of Starla.

“Actually, I don’t like to talk much about those days. I guess I have some good memories but they don’t mean too much to me. I remember that I was always afraid of being lost when I was a child, and it makes me uncomfortable to think of those times.”

Starla pauses so long that it might have been her last word. Then she looks up at Jean and says with a sense of discovery: “I just realized that that’s how I’ve been feeling lately – lost. It’s like when I was a kid at a gathering with my parents and their friends. There were too many people – all wanting to hug me, and hold me, and dance with me. Sometimes I’d lose track of my mom and Bill and I’d get very frightened.” She crosses her arms over her finely tailored jacket and turns away, focusing on the raindrops striking the window.


“That’s how I feel now, only I don’t know who it is that I’ve lost track of. I don’t know who’s supposed to be looking after me.” After a few moments, without looking back she asks: “Does that sound weird?”

Then without waiting for an answer, Starla shakes herself and sits up straighter in the chair. “Well, it feels weird,” she goes on. “I’m a grown woman who’s lived on her own for the past ten years and was taking care of herself for a long time before that. Now suddenly I’m looking for my keeper?”

“No, Starla,” Jean says, “It doesn’t sound weird at all.”
Copyright 2003