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“I don’t know.”
“What does she do all day?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Does she ever come out of your bedroom?”
Teddy glances across the table to an empty chair.
“Sometimes.”
I look at the chair.
“Is Anya here now? Sitting with us?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Would she like a cookie?”
“She’s not here, Mallory.”
“What do you and Anya talk about?”
Teddy lowers his nose to his plate until his face is just inches above his cookies. “I know she’s not real,” he whispers. “You don’t have to prove it.”
He sounds sad and disappointed and suddenly I feel guilty—like I’ve just bullied a five-year-old boy into admitting there isn’t any Santa Claus.
“Listen, Teddy, my little sister, Beth, had a friend like Anya. Her friend was Cassiopeia, isn’t that a beautiful name? During the day, Cassiopeia worked for a Disney on Ice show that traveled all over the world. But every night she came back to our rowhouse in South Philly and she slept on the floor in our bedroom. I had to be careful I didn’t step on her, because she was invisible.”
“Did Beth think Cassiopeia was real?”
“We pretended Cassiopeia was real. And it worked out fine, because Beth never used Cassiopeia as an excuse to break rules. Does that make sense?”
“I guess,” Teddy says, and then he shifts in his chair, like he has a sudden pain in his side. “I have to go to the bathroom. I have to make number two.” Then he climbs down from his chair and hurries out of the kitchen.
He hasn’t touched any of his snack. I cover the cookies with Saran Wrap and put his glass of milk in the refrigerator for later. Then I go over to the sink and wash all the dishes. When I’m finally finished, Teddy is still in the bathroom. I sit at the table and realize I’ve yet to admire his latest drawing, so I reach for the sheet of paper and turn it right-side-up.
4
Teddy’s parents have strict rules about screen time, so he has never seen Star Wars or Toy Story or any of the movies that other kids love. He’s not even allowed to watch Sesame Street. But once a week the Maxwells gather in the den for Family Movie Night. Caroline will make popcorn and Ted will stream a film with “genuine artistic merit,” which usually means old or tagged with foreign language subtitles, and I promise the only one you’ve ever heard of is The Wizard of Oz. Teddy loves the story and he claims it is his favorite movie of all time.
So when we’re outside in the swimming pool we’ll often play a make-believe game called Land of Oz. We’ll cling to the inflatable life raft and Teddy will play Dorothy, and I’ll play everyone else in the movie—Toto, the Scarecrow, the Wicked Witch, and all the Munchkins. And not to brag but I pull out all the stops, I sing and dance and flap my Flying Monkey wings and carry on like it’s Opening Night on Broadway. It takes us nearly an hour to reach the end of the story, when the raft turns into a hot-air balloon that carries Teddy-Dorothy back to Kansas. And by the time we finish and take our bows, I’m so cold my teeth are chattering. I have to get out of the water.
“No!” Teddy exclaims.
“Sorry, T-Bear, I’m freezing.”
I spread a towel on the concrete deck at the edge of the pool, then lay out to dry in the sun. Temperatures have soared into the low nineties—the sun is strong and quickly bakes away my chills. Teddy keeps splashing nearby. His new game is filling his mouth with water and then spitting it out, like he’s a winged cherub in a fountain.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I tell him. “There’s chlorine.”
“Will it make me sick?”
“If you swallow enough, yes.”
“And would I die?”
Suddenly he is very concerned. I shake my head.