Nicole
The psychiatrist’s office was a dim room with one of those glowing salt lamps in the corner. Probably to avoid overstimulating patients. The scent of lavender drifted from a nearby diffuser. Outside the door, a white-noise machine played a loop of ocean waves. Gentle and steady.
Dr. Sanchez was young for a psychiatrist but came highly recommended. And the way he spoke to us left no doubt that he cared. He sat behind his desk in black pants and a crisp white shirt. Lacey and I sat across from him on a small couch. Brian was watching the kids but, of course, avoided dealing with a therapy session, as he thought mental health professionals were a waste of time and money.
“Lacey,” he said in a soft voice and leaned forward. “I know things have been so hard for you. And I know you went through something very, very terrible. But you’re safe here. Can you try to look at me?”
She lifted her head slightly, but her gaze stayed fixed on the floor.
“Pumpkin, please try.” I put my hand on top of hers. Her skin was warm, reminding me that she was still alive. “Try to look at Dr. Sanchez. He’s trying to help us.”
Lacey didn’t move.
“It’s okay,” Dr. Sanchez finally said. I had no doubt he could sense my anxiety. “She’s not doing this to upset anyone. This isn’t stubbornness. What she’s experiencing is called Functional Neurological Symptom Disorder. The body shows real, physical symptoms. In Lacey’s case, her main symptom is loss of speech, but there’s no damage to her brain or nerves. Andthe symptom appears as a response to overwhelming trauma. It’s her answer to the terrible things that happened to her that night.”
He let that sink in before continuing. “The brain essentially shuts off a function, like speaking, to protect itself. It’s similar to when a circuit breaker trips to stop an overload. The system goes dark on purpose. With time, therapy, and a sense of safety, that function usually returns.”
“And you’re sure it’s not permanent?” I asked. I tried to sound strong, but my voice trembled. It’d been a week since the incident. And that week had been brutal. The kids cried every day, wanting their mom instead of the silent body that stared out at nowhere. She was using the bathroom by herself—in silence like a robot. Other than that, I had to dress and feed her. Brian couldn’t handle any of that emotionally, as if he were the victim.
“How long will it take for her to speak again?” I asked.
“It’s hard to say. Some begin speaking again after a few days, especially if they feel safe. Moderate cases can take several weeks. And in more severe cases, where the trauma hit really hard and there is a case of PTSD, it could take months. Sometimes even a year or more. It really depends on the individual. And, of course, the support system.”
I let that sink in while Dr. Sanchez pulled a set of headphones from his desk drawer.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward Lacey.
I nodded.
He rose slowly and approached her. “This won’t hurt, Lacey. It’s just calming music.” She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Not even when he placed the headset on her ears and stepped back to his chair.
“Did the police tell you any more details about what happened?” he asked. “It’s important for therapy.”
I tried to remember. My mind went foggy again, like it always did when I tried to put this horror show all together. “Not really. They said she was found unconscious, in a pool of blood. Not far from the car where Zach was murdered. He was stabbed. But we don’t know if she saw it all. Or if she ran. Maybe she tripped. Hit her head on a rock.”
“Did her injury match that explanation? A rock to the head?”
“Yes. But they haven’t found the rock yet. So it’s also possible the attacker hit her. And while he focused on Zach, she ran and—” My voice cut off mid-sentence.
Dr. Sanchez pushed his chair closer. Raised his hand halfway toward my arm. “May I?”
I gave a small nod.
His hand settled gently on my forearm. Something about this grounding gesture gave me just enough strength to continue.
“She was able to save herself. Somehow. We don’t know much else.” My eyes blurred. Tears again. I pushed them down. Crying wouldn’t help her. I needed to be strong.
“So we don’t know if she fought back and ran? Or if she watched her friend get murdered?” Dr. Sanchez asked.
I shrugged. “Only God knows.” Or the devil, I thought. The silence that followed felt suffocating.
“How’s the family holding up?” he asked.
“Not good.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
