Or so Teddy likes to say. He spins elaborate stories as we hike along, narrating the adventures of Prince Teddy and Princess Mallory, brave siblings separated from the Royal Family and trying to find their way back home. Sometimes we’ll walk all morning without seeing a single person. Occasionally a dog walker or two. But rarely any kids, and I wonder if this is why Teddy likes it so much.
I don’t mention this theory to Caroline, however.
After two hours of stumbling around the woods, we’ve worked up an appetite for lunch, so we go back to the house and I make some grilled cheeses. Then Teddy goes upstairs for Quiet Time, and I remember that his bedsheets are still in the dryer, so I head upstairs to the laundry room.
On my way past Teddy’s room, I overhear him talking to himself. I stop and press my ear to his door, but I can only make out words and fragments. It’s like listening to one side of a telephone conversation where the other person is doing most of the talking. There are pauses between all his statements—some longer than others.
“Maybe? But I—”
“…… .”
“I don’t know.”
“…… .”
“Clouds? Like big? Puffy?”
“…… .”
“I’m sorry. I don’t under—”
“……”
“Stars? Okay, stars!”
“……”
“Lots of stars, I got it.”
“……”
And I’m so curious, I’m tempted to knock—but then the house phone starts ringing, so I leave his door and hurry downstairs.
Ted and Caroline both have cell phones but they insist on keeping a landline for Teddy so he can dial 911 in case of an emergency. I answer, and the caller identifies herself as the principal of Spring Brook Elementary. “Is this Caroline Maxwell?”
I tell her I’m the babysitter and she stresses that it’s nothing urgent. She says she’s calling to personally welcome the Maxwells to the school system. “I like to talk with all the parents before opening day. They tend to have a lot of concerns.”
I take her name and number and promise to deliver the message to Caroline. A little while later, Teddy wanders into the kitchen with a new drawing. He places it facedown on the table and climbs up into a chair. “Can I have a green pepper?”
“Of course.”
Green bell peppers are Teddy’s favorite snack so Caroline purchases them by the dozen. I grab one from the refrigerator, rinse it under cold water, and carve out the stem. Next I slice off the top, creating a sort of ring, and slice the rest of the bell into bite-size strips.
We’re sitting at the table and he’s happily munching on his pepper when I turn my attention to his latest illustration. It’s a picture of a man walking backward through a dense and tangled forest. He’s dragging a woman by the ankles, pulling her lifeless body across the ground. In the background, between the trees, there’s a crescent moon and many small twinkling stars.
“Teddy? What is this?”
He shrugs. “A game.”
“What kind of game?”
He bites into a strip of pepper and answers while chewing. “Anya acts out a story and I draw it.”
“Like Pictionary?”
Teddy snorts and sprays little flecks of green pepper all over the table. “Pictionary?!?” He flops back in his chair, laughing hysterically, and I grab a paper towel to wipe up the mess. “Anya can’t play Pictionary!”
I gently coax him to calm down and take a sip of water.
“Start over from the beginning,” I tell him, and I try to keep my tone light. I don’t want to sound like I’m freaking out. “Explain to me how the game works.”
“I told you, Mallory. Anya acts out the story and I have to draw it. That’s it. That’s the whole game.”
“So who is the man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the man hurt Anya?”
“How should I know? But it’s not Pictionary! Anya can’t play board games!”
And then he flops back in his chair again, caught up in another giggle fit, the kind of blissfully carefree laughter that only children can produce. It’s so joyous and genuine, I suppose it outweighs any concerns I might have. Clearly there’s nothing bothering Teddy. He seems as happy as any kid I’ve ever met. So he’s created a weird imaginary friend and they play weird imaginary games together—so what?
He’s still flailing around in his chair as I stand and carry the drawing across the kitchen. Caroline keeps a file folder in the bills drawer where she’s asked me to place Teddy’s artwork, so she can scan all the pictures into her computer.