Playing With Fire (2 page)

Rob helps me wash the cat’s blood from the patio. Poor old Juniper is now wrapped in a black trash bag, awaiting burial. We’ve dug the hole for his grave in the far corner of the yard, behind the lilac bush, so I will not have to look at it whenever I come into the garden. Juniper was eighteen years old and almost blind, a gentle companion who deserves a better eternity than a trash bag, but I was too shaken to come up with any alternative.

“I’m sure it was just an accident,” Rob insists. He tosses the dirty sponge into the bucket and the water magically turns a nauseating shade of pink. “Lily must have tripped and fallen on him. Thank God she didn’t land with the sharp end up, or she could have put out her eye. Or worse.”

“I wrapped him in the trash bag. I saw his body, and it wasn’t just a single stab wound. How do you trip and fall
three times
?”

He ignores my question. Instead, he picks up the murder weapon, a dandelion fork tipped with prongs, and asks, “How did she get her hands on this thing, anyway?”

“I was out here weeding last week. I must have forgotten to put it back in the tool shed.” There’s still blood on the prongs and I turn away. “Rob, doesn’t it bother you how she’s reacting to all this? She stabbed Juniper and a few minutes later, she asked for juice. That’s what freaks me out, how perfectly calm she is about what she did
.
”

“She’s too young to understand. A three-year-old doesn’t know what death means.”

“She must have known she was hurting him. He must have made
some
kind of sound.”

“Didn’t you hear it?”

“I was playing the violin, right here. Lily and Juniper were at that end of the patio. They seemed perfectly fine together. Until…”

“Maybe he scratched her. Maybe he did something to provoke her.”

“Go upstairs and take a look at her arms. She doesn’t have a single mark on her. And you know how sweet that cat was. You could yank on his fur, step on his tail, and he’d never scratch you. I’ve had him since he was just a kitten, and for him to die this way…” My voice cracks and I sink into a patio chair as it all washes over me, a tidal wave of grief and exhaustion. And guilt, because I couldn’t protect my old friend, even as he bled to death only twenty feet away. Rob awkwardly pats my shoulder, not knowing how to comfort me. My logical, mathematical husband is helpless when it comes to dealing with a woman’s tears.

“Hey. Hey, babe,” he murmurs. “What if we got a new kitten?”

“You can’t be serious. After what she did to Juniper?”

“Okay, that was a stupid idea. But please, Julia, don’t blame her. I bet she misses him just as much as we do. She just doesn’t understand what happened.”

“Mommy?” Lily cries out from her bedroom, where I’ve put her down for her nap.
“Mommy!”

Though I’m the one she’s calling for, it’s Rob who lifts her out of her bed, Rob who cradles her in his lap as he sits in the same rocking chair where I once nursed her. As I watch them, I think of the nights when she was still an infant and I rocked her in that chair, hour after hour, her velvety cheek snuggled against my breast. Magical, sleep-deprived nights when it was just Lily and me. I’d stare into her eyes and whisper: “Please remember this. Always remember how much Mommy loves you.”

“Kitty gone away,” Lily sobs into Rob’s shoulder.

“Yes, darling,” Rob murmurs. “Kitty’s gone to heaven.”

“Do you think that’s normal behavior for a three-year-old?” I ask the pediatrician a week later, at Lily’s well-baby visit. Dr. Cherry is examining Lily’s belly, eliciting her giggles as he presses on her abdomen, and he doesn’t immediately answer my question. He seems to genuinely like children and Lily responds by being her charming best. Obediently she turns her head so he can look at her eardrums, opens her mouth wide as he inserts the tongue depressor. My lovely daughter already knows how to enchant every stranger she meets.

He straightens and looks at me. “Aggressive behavior isn’t necessarily something to worry about. At this age, children get easily frustrated because they can’t fully express themselves. And you said she’s still using mostly three- and four-word sentences.”

“Is that something I should worry about? That she’s not talking as much as other kids?”

“No, no. Developmental milestones aren’t set in concrete. There’s a great deal of variability among children, and Lily’s progressing as expected in every other way. Her height and weight, her motor skills, are all perfectly normal.” He sits her up on the side of the exam table and gives her a big smile. “And what a good little girl you are! I wish all my patients were so cooperative. You can see how focused she is. How closely she pays attention.”

“But after what happened to our cat, does that mean she might do something even worse when she’s…” I pause, realizing that Lily is watching me and listening to everything I say.

“Mrs. Ansdell,” he says quietly, “why don’t you take Lily into our playroom? You and I should discuss this alone, in my office.”

Of course, he’s right. My clever, attentive daughter almost certainly understands more than I realize. I take her from the exam room and lead her into the patients’ play area, as he requests. The room has toys scattered everywhere, bright plastic things with no sharp edges, no little parts that can be swallowed by indiscriminating mouths. Kneeling on the floor is a boy about her age, making engine noises as he pushes a red dump truck across the carpet. I set Lily down and she heads straight to a child-size table with plastic teacups and a teapot. She picks up the pot and pours invisible tea. How does she know to do that? I’ve never thrown a tea party, yet here’s my daughter, performing stereotypical girl behavior while the boy
zoom-zooms
with his truck.

Dr. Cherry is sitting behind his desk when I step into his office. Through the viewing window, we can watch the two children in the next room; on their side is a one-way mirror, so they cannot see us. They play in parallel, ignoring each other in their separate boy and girl worlds.

“I think you’re reading too much into this incident,” he says.

“She’s only three and she’s killed our family pet.”

“Was there any warning before this happened? Any sign that she was going to hurt him?”

“None at all. I’ve had Juniper since before I got married, so Lily’s known him all her life. She was always perfectly gentle with him.”

“What might have set off this attack? Was she angry? Was she frustrated by something?”

“No, she looked perfectly content. They were so peaceful together, I let them play while I practiced my violin.”

He considers this last detail. “I assume that takes a lot of concentration, playing the violin.”

“I was trying out a new piece of music. So, yes, I was focused.”

“Maybe that explains it. You were busy doing something else, and she wanted to get your attention.”

“By stabbing our cat?” I give a laugh of disbelief. “That’s a drastic way of going about it.” I look through the viewing window at my golden-haired daughter, seated so prettily at her imaginary tea party. I don’t want to bring up the next possibility, but I have to ask him. “There was an article I read online, about children who hurt animals. It’s supposed to be a very bad sign. It could mean the child has serious emotional issues.”

“Trust me, Mrs. Ansdell,” he says with a benign smile. “Lily is not going to grow up to be a serial killer. Now if she
repeatedly
hurt animals, or if there’s a history of violence in the family, then I might be more concerned.”

I say nothing; my silence makes him frown at me.

“Is there something you wanted to share?” he asks quietly.

I take a deep breath. “There
is
a history in the family. Of mental illness.”

“On your husband’s side or on yours?”

“Mine.”

“I don’t recall seeing anything about that in Lily’s medical records.”

“Because I never mentioned it. I didn’t think something like that could run in families.”

“Something like what?”

I take my time answering, because while I want to be truthful, I don’t want to tell him more than I need to. More than I’m comfortable with. I look through the playroom window at my beautiful daughter. “It happened soon after my brother was born. I was only two years old at the time, so I don’t remember anything about it. I learned the details years later from my aunt. I’m told my mother had some sort of mental breakdown. She had to be sent to an institution because they felt she was a danger to others.”

“The timing of her breakdown makes it sound like a case of postpartum depression or psychosis.”

“Yes, that’s the diagnosis I heard. She was evaluated by several psychiatrists and they concluded she wasn’t mentally competent and couldn’t be held responsible for what happened.”

“What did happen?”

“My brother—my baby brother—” My voice softens to a whisper. “She dropped him and he died. They said she was delusional at the time. Hearing voices.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been a painful time for your family.”

“I can’t imagine how terrible it was for my father, losing a child. Having my mother sent away.”

“You said your mother went to an institution. Did she ever recover?”

“No. She died there two years later, from a ruptured appendix. I never really knew her, but now I can’t stop thinking about her. And I wonder if Lily—if what she did to our cat…”

Now he understands what I’m afraid of. Sighing, he takes off his glasses. “I assure you, there’s no connection. The genetics of violence isn’t as simple as Lily inheriting your blue eyes and blond hair. I know of only a few documented cases where it’s clearly familial. For example, there’s a family in the Netherlands where almost every male relative has been incarcerated. And we know that boys born with extra Y chromosomes are more likely to commit crimes.”

“Is there an equivalent in girls?”

“Girls can be sociopaths, of course. But is that genetic?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think the data supports it.”

The data.
He sounds like Rob, who’s always citing numbers and statistics. These men have such faith in their numbers. They refer to scientific studies and quote the latest research. Why doesn’t that reassure me?

“Relax, Mrs. Ansdell.” Dr. Cherry reaches across the desk and pats my hand. “At three years old, your daughter is perfectly normal. She’s engaging and affectionate and you said she’s never done anything like this before. You have nothing to worry about.”

Lily has fallen asleep in her car seat by the time I pull into my aunt Val’s driveway. It’s her usual naptime and she sleeps so deeply that she doesn’t stir as I lift her out of the seat. Even in her sleep she clutches Donkey, who goes everywhere with her and is looking rather disgusting lately, frayed and drool-stained and probably teeming with bacteria. Poor old Donkey’s been patched and repatched so many times that he’s turned into a Frankenstein animal, zigzagged with my amateurish seams. Already I can see another new rip starting in the fabric, where his stuffing is starting to poke through.

“Oh, look how adorable she is,” coos Val as I carry Lily into her house. “Just like a little angel.”

“Can I put her on your bed?”

“Of course. Just leave the door open so we can hear if she wakes up.”

I carry Lily into Val’s bedroom and gently set her down on the duvet. For a moment I watch her, enchanted as I always am by the sight of my slumbering daughter. Leaning close, I breathe in her scent and feel the heat rising from her pink, flushed cheeks. She sighs and murmurs “Mommy” in her sleep, a word that always makes me smile. A word I’d ached to hear during the heartbreaking years when I repeatedly tried and failed to get pregnant.

“My baby,” I whisper.

When I return to the living room, Val asks: “So what did Dr. Cherry say about her?”

“He says there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Isn’t that what I told you? Kids and pets don’t always mix well. You don’t remember this, but when you were two, you kept pestering my old dog. When he finally gave you a nip, you slapped him right back. I’m thinking that’s what happened between Lily and Juniper. Sometimes children react without thinking. Without understanding the consequences.”

I look out the window at Val’s garden, a little Eden crammed with tomato plants and lush herbs and cucumber vines scrambling up the trellis. My late father liked to garden, too. He liked to cook and recite poetry and sing off-key, just like his sister, Val. They even look alike in their childhood photos, both of them skinny and tanned, with matching boyish haircuts. There are so many photos of my dad displayed in Val’s house that every visit here gives me a sad tug on my heart. On the wall facing me are pictures of my dad at ten years old with his fishing rod. At twelve with his ham radio set. At eighteen, in his high school graduation robe. Always he wears the same earnest, open smile.

And on the bookshelf is the photo of him and my mother, taken on the day they brought me home as a newborn. It’s the sole image of my mother that Val allows in her house. She tolerates it only because I appear in it, too.

I stand to examine the faces in the photo. “I look just like her. I never realized how much.”

“Yes, you do look like her, and what a beauty she was. Whenever Camilla walked into the room, heads would turn. Your dad got one eyeful, and fell head over heels in love. My poor brother never had a chance.”

“Did you hate her all that much?”

“Hate her?” Val thinks about this. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Certainly, not at first. Like everyone else who ever met her, I was completely sucked in by Camilla’s charm. I’ve never met any other woman who had it all, the way she did. Beauty, brains, talent. And oh, what a sense of style.”

I give a regretful laugh. “
That
I certainly didn’t inherit.”

“Oh, honey. You inherited the best of both your parents. You got Camilla’s looks and musical talent and you got your dad’s generous heart. You were the best thing that ever happened to Mike. I’m just sorry he had to fall in love with
her
first, before you could come into the world. But hell, everyone else fell in love with her. She had that way of sucking you right into her force field.”