“What are we playing?”
“They’re a family. They live together.”
“Can I be the pig?”
He shrugs. “If you want.”
I push the pig around the other animals and make it beep-beep-beep like a car. Normally Teddy loves this joke. He loves it when I make the animals honk like a truck or choo-choo like a train. But this morning he just turns his back to me. And, of course, I know what’s wrong.
“Teddy, listen. I want to talk about last night. I think your daddy misunderstood me. Because I love all your drawings. Even the ones with Anya. I always look forward to seeing your pictures.”
Teddy pushes a plastic cat up a table leg, like it’s climbing a tree. I try to move in front of him, try to force eye contact, but he swivels away. “I want you to keep sharing your drawings, okay?”
“Mommy says no.”
“But I’m saying you can. It’s fine.”
“She says you’re not well, and scary pictures could make you sick again.”
I sit up so fast I bang my head on the bottom of the table. The pain is white hot and for the next few moments I can’t move. I just squeeze my eyes shut and hold my hand to my scalp.
“Mallory?”
I open my eyes and I realize I finally have his attention. He looks frightened. “I’m fine,” I tell him. “And I need you to listen very carefully. There’s nothing you can do that would make me sick. You don’t have to worry. I am one hundred percent fine.”
Teddy gallops a horse up my leg and parks it on my knee. “Is your head okay?”
“My head is fine,” I tell him, even though it’s throbbing like crazy and I can feel a bump swelling on my scalp. “I just need to put something on it.”
I spend the next few minutes sitting at the kitchen table, pressing a sandwich bag of ice to the top of my skull. Down at my feet, Teddy is pretend-playing with all his different farm animals. Each creature has its own distinct voice and personality. There’s stubborn Mr. Goat and bossy Mama Hen, a brave black stallion and a silly baby duckling, more than a dozen characters in all.
“I don’t want to do my chores,” the horse says.
“But rules are rules,” Mama Hen tells him. “We all have to follow the rules!”
“It’s not fair,” Mr. Goat complains.
On and on it goes—the conversation pivots from chores to lunch to a secret treasure buried in the forest behind the barn. I’m impressed by Teddy’s ability to remember all the different characters and their voices. But, of course, this is what Ted and Caroline have been saying all along: Their son has an extremely active imagination. End of story.
* * *
Later that afternoon, when Teddy goes to his bedroom for Quiet Time, I wait a few minutes then follow him upstairs. By the time I press my ear to the door of his bedroom, he’s already in the middle of a conversation.
“… or we could build a fort.”
“……”
“Or play tag.”
“……”
“No, I can’t. I’m not allowed.”
“……”
“They said I can’t.”
“……”
“I’m sorry but—”
“……”
“I don’t understand.”
“…… .”
Then he laughs, like she’s proposed something ridiculous. “I guess we could try?”
“……”
“How do we—okay. Right.”
“……”
“Oh, it’s cold!”
There’s no more speaking after that—but as I strain to hear what’s happening, I detect a kind of whisper—the sound of a pencil scratching on paper.
Drawing?
Is he drawing again?
I go downstairs, sit at the kitchen table, and wait.
Normally Quiet Time isn’t much more than an hour, but Teddy stays in his room twice as long. And when he finally comes down to the kitchen, he’s empty-handed.
I smile at him. “There he is!”
He climbs up onto a kitchen chair. “Hello.”
“No drawing today?”
“Can I have cheese and crackers?”
“Sure.”
I go over to the refrigerator and fix him a plate. “So what were you doing upstairs?”
“Can I have some milk?”
I pour him a small cup of milk, then carry everything over to the kitchen table. As he reaches for a cracker, I notice his palms and fingers are covered with black smudges. “Maybe you should wash your hands,” I suggest. “It looks like you’ve got pencil on them.”