My time with Kira began when she was seven, mere hours after her mother’s death. With no living relatives or family friends, she was placed into state custody. The only thing the poor girl had was her dolly, Jessica. It was from a once popular anime cartoon. It had blonde hair and large bangs which covered her forehead, round doe eyes, white plastic skin, and was dressed in a cold, dark blue schoolgirl outfit. The two were inseparable. Even when she was bad, and her mother punished her by taking the doll away, Kira and Jessica would find their way back together again.
During our sessions, Kira would sit cross legged on my couch and project her emotions through the doll. I’d ask Kira how she was, and she’d ask Jessica, before placing her ear to the doll’s mouth and repeating what it told her. The doll provided a unique way to connect with Kira that most children I’d worked with never had. I took notes of our sessions in my memo pad, but also used a tape recorder–for liability reasons.
The first few times I asked about her mother, it was unlikely she understood what happened.
Mommy is gone, she’d say, and then play with the doll’s hair while she muttered to herself. It wasn’t unusual. Children often don’t grasp the concept of death right away. Normally, it could take weeks or months, even years for a child to cope with losing a parent. Kira adopted a matter-of-fact mindset regarding her mother’s death, though. After the first handful of sessions, her answer changed to accept an all-important four-letter word.
She is dead, she said one day. To my shame, I had been writing in the margins of my memo pad–a grocery list–when she said it the first time. I looked up briefly and tried to make eye contact before the moment passed. I asked if she knew what dead meant, and went back to the pad. The previous sessions’ notes had filled the page and I scrambled to flip to a fresh sheet. She mumbled something under her breath
I’m sorry, Kira, could you please repeat that, I asked.
She is not coming back, she said, and adjusted her doll’s uniform. It was likely that Kira was still struggling with the concept.
As we progressed through therapy over the next month or so, Kira relied more on her doll in our sessions. She began talking to her doll between questions, leaving soft whispers in tow behind answers. I tried to catch the private conversations, but the words eluded me. When I asked her to repeat herself or speak up, she would, but I had the feeling I was missing an even greater opportunity to help with her healing process.
One night, I decided to listen to the session recordings. I hoped to catch something I could work with in our future meetings, but it wasn’t much help. The recordings were scratchy, and her voice sounded far away. I decided to move the recorder closer to the couch the next morning.
Eventually, I cleared Kira as eligible for adoption. During one of our usual Thursday sessions, I told her of my decision. How in the coming weeks and months, some nice people might come to meet with us. The silence of her response was troubling. I reassured her that it would be casual, that she didn’t need to do anything or go anywhere, if she didn’t want to. She lowered her head toward the doll and mumbled in a raspy, more guttural tone.
Please speak up, dear, I said.
I am not happy about it either, she said in a hushed tone. I knew it was meant for her doll, but it offered room for discussion.
Kira, are you happy living where you are now, I asked. Again, she spoke too quietly for me to hear. Wouldn’t you be happier having your own bedroom? A place just for you, no roommate?
She lifted her head and stared through me with dark, pointed eyes. I do not plan on leaving, she said, tight-mouthed and with finality. Kira lowered her head and continued to mutter. Not wanting to upset her, I steered the rest of our meeting toward lighter topics.
It was troubling to see her take such a closed stance on the matter, but I had already screened some adoption applications. Kira needed a family. An around-the-clock support network to guide her, help her grow. I had found a potential match and made some phone calls the day before; the Nelson family would meet with us in a few weeks, during one of our normal time slots.
On the following Monday morning, I received troubling news. An orderly from Kira’s residence informed me that she had attacked her roommate and left the girl hospitalized. She repeatedly slammed the poor child’s head into a bedside table. I met with Kira to ask about the attack, to learn why she would do such a horrible thing.
She wanted to steal Jessica away from me, she said, gripping her doll with little, white knuckled fists. I heard her whisper to the doll, I will not let anyone take you away from me ever again.
Sweetie, you hurt that little girl really bad, I said.
She looked at me and said through gritted teeth, Nobody takes Jessica away from me.
Kira, do you know that what you did to her was bad?
I did not do that to her, she said. Her face was a placid lake of emotion. She did it to herself, she said.
I see, I said, connecting the dots as best I could. Did Jessica make you do it?
She cocked her head, smiled at me and said, She is just a doll.
Our conversation that day didn’t reveal much insight into why she would attack another child. To be honest, I felt Kira was beyond my help. Never had I so utterly failed a patient. I filed for a transfer the next day.
Decades later, however, I find myself troubled by what happened on that unfortunate Monday morning. I’ve read my notes, even listened to the recordings in an effort to piece it all together. But it got me nowhere–until last week. In playing back our last recorded session, my mind wandered and tried to piece together her sudden brutality. That’s when I heard it. And that’s why I’ve come to you.
Along with Kira and myself on the recording, I heard a third voice. A voice I had only half heard all those years ago. A wicked sounding thing. It held whispered conversation with her, and spoke of abhorrent deeds–specifically a conspiracy of murder.
There are no rational answers, I say to my new doctor. She sits in the chair across from me, jotting notes in a small, yellow memo pad. Her eyes hide behind wide, blonde bangs, and her dark blue blazer and skirt emit a particular coldness.
It’s crazy, I tell her–all the while trying to convince myself I’m not. But it couldn’t have been the doll, right?
Jessica, she asks with a rhetorical clarity. The name hangs in the air for a moment. The hairs on my arms and neck reach for the ceiling and walls; my skin blistering into goosebumps. I listen to the name settle into the rest of her office, and I rub my hands up and down my arms.
The doctor uncrosses her legs, and tucked away behind her I catch a fleeting glimpse of… is that a doll?
My throat is tight and I grip the armrests as my lungs collapse, unable to draw breath.
The doctor crosses her legs again and sinks back into the corner of her chair, concealing the object behind her. Cocking her head, she leans back, smiles, and says, She is just a doll.
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