Day 1 on the Grissom Case

November 14^th, 20xx – Day 1 on the Grissom Case

This report will outline the events experienced on my first day working the Grissom family case. The day will be a standard house visit in opposition to a proper full-time session. The family has agreed to the time change of 12PM to 3PM since Chrystal has been allowed a medical leave of absence from school. Today will only be an hour long.

BCBA Rebeca Montes attended the first day with me to lead me through standard procedure, right up to the front door (as delayed instruction is her penchant). Upon knocking on the front door, a tired, frizzy-haired woman opened the door to greet us. What was once meticulously platinum blonde hair seemed to be growing mousy at the root, along with some modest grays, and her eyes were a hazy light brown. She put on her best smile, but it was clear that the woman hadn’t slept in a spell. “Good morning, Rebeca. I’ve got fresh lemonade, if you guys want something cool to drink?”

I nodded, eager to escape the heat. The woman stepped back, let us step inside, and ushered us like hens into the living room. Walking past several cabinets and cupboards, there’s several items stuffed haphazardly in with little regard for whether or not the cupboards would need to be opened again. The floor is swept, but the piles are discarded beneath tables, rugs, appliances—it was a rushed job, no doubt. I ignored it, as does Montes, in favor of accepting a frosty glass of lemonade.

“So, how’s Chrystal been holding up? Any luck on getting her to drink anything?”

The woman—whom at this point I should just assume is Mrs. Grissom-Scott, the mother—shook her head with an air of despair.

“Not even a little. I know it’s not… the end, but—but… seeing her—when she’s like that…” The woman lost her words, taking a deep breath to compose her trembling voice. “We’ve tried everything you said so far, Rebeca. I don’t know how much more of this we can take.”

“I understand. I’ve been working with Agent Moore on getting her program all figured out—they’ve been amazing cooperative in the whole process. I’m sure we can start getting somewhere with her now I’ve got her BT here.”

Everyone looked down to me. It didn’t help that I was a whole head shorter than Montes, who waspathetically petite when compared to the tall Mrs. Grissom-Scott.

“This,” Montes continued, giving me a pat on the shoulder, “is Wendy. She’ll be working with Chrystal from now. I know she looks young, but believe me when I say that every client she’s worked with in the past has shown tremendous improvement in their programs since working with her.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure she’s amazing at what she does, but…” the woman gave a pensive sort of half-smile to me, “…she’s just another human, isn’t she? Like you and me?”

“Technically, yes, but this wouldn’t be Wendy’s first time dealing with Wonders.”

All eyes fell onto me. Now the ball was in my court. “My dad was Steadfast.”

I remember the way Mrs. Grissom-Scott’s eyes widened in shock. Montes may not always be the best in briefing her employees in the cases they are about to take under their wing, but I learned at a young age—starting from the day she took me in after my father was reclaimed by the Higher Ups for his powers—that she always knew how to find like-minded people who desperately needed something. Support. Services. Closure. That really is the mundane magic that fuels Montes’ business strategy.

“My condolences… Huh, my husband would be estatic to meet you. He’s got a Steadfast merchandise collection around here somewhere. And a model trainset from back when trains would crash all the time, and a Steadfast model to rescue them.” A twinkle of vivacity blinked in her eyes as she reached over to squeeze my hand. “You’ve got heroism in your blood.”

“I’m just a regular person, but we’ll use what we can to try to encourage your daughter to re-engage with society. It’ll be slow progress, and maybe some backsteps, but I’ll do my best.”

With introductions out of the way, Montes recommended that the two of us attempt a brief contact with Clay. Despite a smidge of hesitation, Mrs. Grissom-Scott showed us towards the narrow staircase leading up to Chrystal’s room. I couldn’t ignore the thinness of the air, nor the dankness of its taste wafting up my nose, even from the very base of the steps.  Montes reached into her bag and retrieved a lithe white binder—our typical program book, intended to track Chrystal’s behaviors—and, hopefully, progress.

Once Mrs. Grissom-Scott scurried off to the kitchen to work on lunch, Montes leaned over to me.

“Remember: this is only a brief visit. This won’t be like your other cases—this, I’m afraid, is something only you might be able to make any progress with. Get ready—it’s not a pretty scene. But she needs you, maybe as much as you might need her.”

I didn’t like that hint.

Every step up felt like death. The air tightened. Died my tongue, seared my nostrils, clawed my esophagus. The atmosphere couldn't have been grimmer, accenting the apprehension with every creak and croon of the carpeted floorboards. Montes seemed just as off-put, but managed to hide it better than even I. The stench of decay was daunting. There were sprawling corpses of what must have been beautiful, vined flowers draped like curtains across the railing, over doorways, down the walkways. 

At the top, it was almost impossible to breath. Montes noticed the way I began to sway and steadied my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, tomorrow I'll make sure to get you some stuff to help out with the air quality. Like the mom said, Chrystal's stronger than she looks. This is just an secondary result of her powers starting to, well, rot I guess."

I didn't want to think any more about rotting. I could only imagine the kind of misery she was in, feeling her soul being leeched away by the greater beings that find fancy in human manipulation. I see my father, sleeping -- what I thought was him sleeping. I shuttered to think of that same fate destined for a little 9-year-old girl.

We entered the little girl's room, and sure enough, the stench was damn-near destructive. It took all of my efforts not to double-over, topple-over, in disoriented disgust. A plethora of rotten, dried up, blackened plants laid about in every possible corner, coating the room in their fragrance of death. Several hand-made drawings, framed perhaps by her parents, hung along the faded rose walls. Even their frames are dusted with the most disturbing shades of pollen. And there, in a sea of plush stuffed animals, below mossy fleece, rested the most pitiful little girl there has ever been. All the life looked to be melting out of her in the form of tears and misery, and her eyes refused to meet ours even as we took our seats across from her.

"Good afternoon, Chrystal," Montes began slowly, offering a gentle wave. "I brought that friend today, the girl I was telling you about last time. Would you like to meet her?"

The girl remained silent. For a moment I feared that she was entirely mute from all the decay in her, but a small hum gurgled out of her throat as she passed us a mournful glance. 

"I'm sorry," was all she said.

"Don't worry about that, Chrystal. We're gonna help you get all back into shape -- all we're asking is for you to try your best so we can get there. Does that sound fair?"

She doesn’t reply. Instead, it’s Montes who gives in first, letting out a small sight as she reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle of water, offering it to the girl.

“Hey, I heard you haven’t had any water in a while. It’s really not good for you to not drink water. Let’s start off with this.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, sure it does.”

The little girl frowned as if this were the worst news possible. Which, to be fair, it probably was. Nonetheless, the water goes untouched. Montes set it down on a nearby countertop, deciding to change the topic.

"But enough of that. want to introduce you to my friend, Wendy. I've known her since she tiny. But she's been working with kids for a long time and is really good at helping them develop healthier behaviors. Do you want to try working with her for a few days, just to see how you feel?"

"... I dunno... Scary."

Montes passed me a glance. This was more awkward than even she was prepared for. Something about a kid who is at this strange liminal stage of alive and not, human and not, made childhood ABA therapy rather odd to do. It felt almost trivial to be so concerned with healthy behaviors when this child could, quite easily, kill us without moving a finger.

"Okay, well, all we can ask is for you to try, okay? Nothing more, hun. But I do have to make a super quick call with Agent Moore, so Wendy's gonna stick around and chat with you for a little bit. We won't stay too long, no worries. But I'll be right back, okay?"

Before stepping out of the room, Montes pressed a careful hand on my shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze of encouragement before hunching out of the room. I could ever-so faintly hear her huffing down the stairs, clearly hiding more of her breathing challenges than I previously thought.

"Well, uh..." I tried to come up with something, taking a deep breath to try and stead my own breathing. "... It's, uh.... It's nice to meet you, Chrystal. Are you feeling nervous?"

"Sort of. I dunno." She paused for a moment. "... Are you?"

Not a reassuring question.

"I won't lie, kinda. To be fair, I'm always nervous on the first day of anything. I used to puke on my first day of school all the time."

She glanced up to me. There's something there, a slight twinkle of interest. "All the time?" she asked.

"Yeah. Drove my dad insane. He'd have to sit there outside the bathroom door for almost an hour before I finally was done being sick, then I had to take a picture right after to send to my mom. Geez, I don't know what that was about, but literally every year I had just the grossest first-day photos, I'll bring you a pic next time if you wanna see—they're funny now."

"Yuck. That sucks."

"Yeah, not optimal."

She looked away. There goes the conversation.

A part of me considered opening up the binder I'd set off to the side of my chair to mark data on, well, anything I noticed. But I kept my hands still in my lap, ignoring the sweatiness of my palms, focusing all my energy on taking deep and long breaths to keep from throwing up. The little girl squirmed under my gaze, so I looked away. Let my eyes catch on some of the pictures scattered around. One was off a rabbit hopping on lavender lily-pads. Another was of a charming pink girl with a glowing pink microphone. Another was of a unicorn punching what I could only assume was a WWE wrestler of some sort.

"Do you like drawing? I like all these pictures. Especially the unicorn one."

She jutted her head upward, but it slumped back down immediately after.

"Oh, um, kinda. My dad likes framing all my drawings."

"They're great. That's so nice that he frames them. I wish I still had some of my old childhood drawings."

I don't tell her that we lost things all the time with how often my dad's identity kept forcing us to move—for our safety, he'd tell me and Mom, back then, to make sure that the bad guys he was fighting could never find his secret weakness. Against all odds, it was never the family that was his undoing. I kept all of that to myself.

"Did you like drawing too, Ms. Wendy?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, just as much as any kid does. My dad was always more into what I draw than I was, so sometimes I'd just draw things to see him get all excited."

"Hehe, he was your hype-man."

"Yeah," her words somehow gave me enough air to smile, "he really was."

"Is he dead?"

There goes the air, again.

"... Yeah. For the most part. He... He was like you, but... he tried to retire early before his scheduled time, or whatever, and... and I guess they took him back."

Her eyes suddenly fell onto me. It sucked every last bit of oxygen remaining in my gut to see those haunting auburn eyes staring wide into my soul.

"The Higher Ups took him?"

I nodded. It felt wrong, confessing all of this to a little girl. But she had that faraway look in her eyes, the kind you see in the elderly on their final days. For some reason, I knew I was talking to more than just a 9-year-old child; I was talk to some conglomerate of souls living their millionth life. She had the same look in her eyes as my dad did, in the end.

"... Does that mean they'll take me, too?"

"What? No, no --" I stopped myself. Lying was wrong, no matter the context, but the truth felt like a hot dagger. I let the truth reform in my throat, "they won't if we get you back on your feet, kiddo. You can have another chance."

"Ms. Wendy," she whispered into the air, more breath than voice, "I'm scared."

"I... I know, I'm sorry. But we won't let you die, Chrystal, so--"

"I'm scared of getting a second chance. I've already made too many mistakes." She started to cry and, of course, my throat started to burn. "I should let them take me back."

"No, no, no, no -- Chrystal, you shouldn't talk like that. What about your parents? Don't you have a big sister too? You can't just leave them behind. You've gotta stay -- and, and -- fight."

"Is that what you wanted to tell your dad?"

It's her frankness that becomes the flaming dagger to the chest, delivering its deadly blow to my senses. Montes was right. This girl is deadly. And now all I can see is my father, cold in his sleep.

"My dad..." My lip quivered, but I don't fight it. I've become too tired at this point. "My dad fought for us every single day. But the problem was that no-one ever fought for him. Not my mom, not the city... I didn't, either. So, when he wanted to give up his powers to try and be a normal person again... He realized just how expendable he was, no matter what powers he had. Another cog in the machine. Another piece to the puzzle." I held the little girl's gaze. Her eyes are focused, too much for someone on their death bed. So I kept going. "So... he gave up. He let them come for him. And now I'm here. Your parents love you. They're fighting for you. So is Montes. And now so am I."

"But I'm not like your dad. I'm not a hero..." she looked back up at the ceiling. "... all those people... and so many bad guys with... with -- with guns, a-and... I didn't regenerate in time."

I don't focus on the discovery of a child that can regenerate after death. Instead, I reached forward to take her small little hand between mine. 

"You can't let that destroy you. There's a destiny that's been slapped on you far too early. A little kid shouldn't be responsible for that kind of thing."

“… Did your dad ever fail?”

I couldn’t help but let out a soft, empty chuckle. “Yeah. He was a great hero. Just never home. But his biggest failure was giving up. That hurt us way more than any bad guy ever could.”

Chrystal stared at me for a long time, silent. I let the conversation replay in my mind—God knows how far across the ethical line I’ve trampled over, but the low oxygen has my brain scrambled and my heart aching. I only saw more opportunities to keep her talking. The more she talked, the less she thought of death. The dread of the report I’d no doubt have to write about the day’s blunder began to weigh heavily over my chest.

With the sound of Montes’ footsteps growing closer and closer, the faint sounds of a finishing conversation, Chrystal squeezed my hand.

“Will you stay with me a little longer today?” she asked.

I thought of Montes. I thought of her coming to pick me up when I found my father in is bed that day. I thought of my place in the world. I thought way too much, really.

“Yes, I’ll stay as long as I’m welcome.”

The door creaked behind us. The girl made eye contact with me, unyieldingly so. Her eyes glimmered with something new. Suddenly, like magic, I could breathe again.

“Will drink some water with me, please?”