Playing With Fire, Page 3

  “This morning, I dropped a vase and broke it. I threw the pieces in the trash can. She must have gone into the bag and found them.”

  “And you didn’t see her do it?”

  “Why does it sound like you’re blaming me?”

  “I’m—I’m just trying to understand how this could have happened.”

  “I’m telling you what happened. She did it on purpose. She told me so.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Two words, over and over, like a chant. Hurt Mommy.”

  He looks at me as if I’m a madwoman, as if I might leap up from the bed and attack him, because no sane woman is afraid of her own three-year-old child. He shakes his head, not knowing how to explain the scene I’ve just described. Even Rob cannot solve this particular equation.

  “Why would she do that?” he finally says. “Just now, she was crying out for you, trying to hug you. She loves you.”

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Whenever she’s hurt, whenever she’s sick, who does she call for? It’s always you. You’re the center of her universe.”

  “She heard me screaming. She saw my blood, and she was utterly calm about it. I looked into her eyes, and I didn’t see love there.”

  He can’t hide his disbelief; it’s there on his face, as obvious as neon. I might as well have told him that Lily sprouted fangs. “Why don’t you rest here for a while, sweetheart? I’m going to go talk to your nurse and see when I can take you home.”

  He walks out of the room and I close my eyes, exhausted. The pain pills they gave me have fogged my brain, and all I want to do is drop into a deep sleep, but in this busy ER too many phones are ringing, too many voices chatter. I hear gurney wheels squeak by in the hallway, and in some distant room a baby is screaming. A very young baby, by the sound of it. I remember the night I brought Lily into this same ER, when she was only two months old and she had a fever. I remember her hot, flushed cheeks and how quiet she was, so very quiet, lying on the exam table. That’s what frightened me most, that she didn’t cry. Suddenly I ache for that baby, for the Lily I remember. I close my eyes and can smell her hair, feel my lips against the downy top of her head.

  “Mrs. Ansdell?” a voice calls.

  I open my eyes and see a pale young man standing beside my gurney. He has wire-rim glasses and a white lab coat and his name tag says “Dr. Eisenberg,” but he doesn’t look old enough to be a medical professional. He doesn’t look old enough to be out of high school.

  “I just spoke with your husband. He thought I should have a chat with you, about what happened today.”

  “I’ve already told the other doctor. I’ve forgotten his name.”

  “That was the ER doctor. He was focused on attending to your wound. I want to talk to you about how this injury happened, and why you think your daughter did it.”

  “Are you a pediatrician?”

  “I’m a resident in psychiatry.”

  “Specializing in children?”

  “No, adults. I understand you’re very upset.”

  “I see.” I give a weary laugh. “My daughter stabs me, so of course I’m the one who needs the psychiatrist.”

  “Is that how it happened? She stabbed you?”

  I tug aside the bedsheet to reveal my thigh, where the freshly sutured wound is now dressed with gauze. “I know I didn’t imagine these stitches.”

  “I read the ER doctor’s note, and it sounds like you got a pretty nasty laceration there. What about that bruise I see on your forehead?”

  “I fainted. The sight of blood always makes me dizzy. I think I hit my head on the coffee table.”

  He pulls up a stool and settles onto it. With his long legs and skinny neck he looks like a stork perched beside my gurney. “Tell me about your daughter, Lily. Your husband said she’s three years old.”

  “Yes. Just.”

  “Has she ever done anything like this before?”

  “There was another incident. About two weeks ago.”

  “The cat. Yes, your husband told me.”

  “So you know we have a problem. You know this isn’t the first time.”

  He tilts his head, as though I’m some odd new creature he’s trying to figure out. “Are you the only one who’s witnessed this behavior of hers?”

  His question puts me on guard. Does he think it’s all a matter of interpretation? That someone else would have seen something entirely different? It’s only natural that he assumes a three-year-old is innocent. A few weeks ago, I would never have believed that my own daughter, with whom I have traded so many hugs and kisses, was capable of violence.

  “You haven’t met Lily, have you?” I ask.

  “No, but your husband tells me she’s a very happy, charming little girl.”

  “She is. Everyone who meets her thinks she’s adorable.”

  “And when you look at her, what do you see?”

  “She’s my daughter. Of course I think she’s perfect in every way. But…”

  “But?”

  My throat chokes to a whisper. “She’s different. She’s changed.”

  He says nothing but starts to scribble notes on his clipboard. Pen and paper, how old-fashioned; every other doctor I meet these days types away on a laptop. His handwriting looks like ants marching across the page. “Tell me about the day your daughter was born. Were there any complications? Any difficulties?”

  “It was a long labor. Eighteen hours. But everything went fine.”

  “And how did you feel about giving birth?”

  “You mean, aside from being exhausted?”

  “I mean emotionally. When you first saw her. When you first held her in your arms.”

  “You’re asking whether we bonded, aren’t you? If I wanted her.”

  He watches, waiting for me to answer my own question. Just my interpretation of what he’s asking is a sort of Rorschach test, and I sense minefields everywhere. What if I say the wrong thing? Do I become the Bad Mommy?

  “Mrs. Ansdell,” he says gently, “there is no wrong answer.”

  “Yes, I wanted my daughter!” I blurt out. “Rob and I tried for years to have a baby. When Lily was born, it was the best day of my life.”

  “So you were happy about it.”

  “Of course I was happy! And…” I pause. “A little scared.”

  “Why?”

  “Because suddenly, I was responsible for this little person, someone with her own soul. Someone I didn’t really know yet.”

  “When you looked at her, what did you see?”

  “A beautiful little girl. Ten fingers, ten toes. Hardly any hair,” I add with a wistful laugh, “but perfect in every way.”

  “You said she was someone with her own soul. Someone you didn’t know yet.”

  “Because newborns are so unformed and you have no idea how they’ll turn out. Whether they’ll love you. All you can do is wait and see who they grow up to be.”

  He’s scratching on his clipboard again. Obviously I’ve said something he finds interesting. Was it the bit about babies and souls? I’m not the least bit religious and I have no idea why that spilled out of my mouth. I watch with growing uneasiness, wondering when this ordeal will be over. The local anesthetic has worn off and my wound aches. While this psychiatrist takes his time writing God knows what about me, I’m more and more desperate to escape the glare of these lights.

  “What sort of soul do you think Lily has?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  He looks up, eyebrow raised, and I realize that my answer was not what he expected. A normal, loving mother would insist her daughter is gentle or kind or innocent. My answer leaves open other, darker possibilities.

  “What was she like as a baby?” he asks. “Did she have colic? Any trouble feeding or sleeping?”

  “No, she hardly ever cried. She was always happy, always smiling. Always wanting hugs. I never thought motherhood would be so easy, but it was.”

  “And as she got older?�
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  “She never went through the terrible twos. She was the perfect child until…” I look down at the bedsheet that covers my wounded leg, and my voice fades.

  “Why do you think she attacked you, Mrs. Ansdell?”

  “I don’t know. We were having such a wonderful day. We’d just baked cookies together. She was sitting at the coffee table, drinking her juice.”

  “And you think she got the piece of glass out of the trash can?”

  “That’s where she must have gotten it.”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “I was practicing my violin. My eyes were on the music.”

  “Oh yes. Your husband told me you’re a professional musician. Do you play with an orchestra?”

  “I’m second violin in a quartet. It’s an all-women group.” He merely nods, and I feel compelled to add: “We performed in Rome a few weeks ago.”

  That seems to impress him. An international gig always impresses people, until they find out how little we’re paid to perform.

  “When I practice, I’m very focused,” I explain. “That’s probably why I didn’t notice Lily get up and go into the kitchen.”

  “Do you think she resents the time you spend practicing? Children often hate it when Mom talks on the phone or works on the computer, because they want her full attention.”

  “It never bothered her before.”

  “Maybe something was different this time? Maybe you were more focused than usual.”

  I think about it for a moment. “Well, the music was frustrating me. It’s a new piece and it’s challenging. I’m having trouble with the second half.” I pause, as the memory comes back to me of how I struggled to play the waltz. How my fingers cramped as those malevolent notes spun out of my control. The title Incendio means “fire” in Italian, but my fingers feel like icicles.

  “Mrs. Ansdell, is something wrong?”

  “Two weeks ago—the day Lily killed our cat—I was playing that same piece of music.”

  “What music is this?”

  “It’s a waltz I brought home from Italy. A handwritten composition I found in an antiques store. What if that’s not a coincidence?”

  “I doubt we can blame her behavior on a piece of music.”

  I’m agitated now, obsessed by this new train of thought. “I’ve practiced other violin pieces that were just as demanding, and Lily never misbehaved, never complained when I practiced. But there’s something different about this waltz. I’ve played it only twice, and both times, she did something awful.”

  For a moment he doesn’t speak, doesn’t write on his clipboard. He just looks at me, but I can almost see the gears furiously spinning in his head. “Describe this music. You said it’s a waltz?”

  “It’s quite haunting, in the key of E minor. Do you know anything about music?”

  “I play the piano. Go on.”

  “The tune begins very quietly and simply. I almost wonder if it was originally written as music to be danced to. But then it grows more and more complex. There are strange accidentals and a series of devil’s chords.”

  “What does that mean, devil’s chords?”

  “They’re also called tritones or augmented fourths. In medieval times, these chords were considered evil and banned from church music because they’re so dissonant and disturbing.”

  “This waltz doesn’t sound all that pleasant to listen to.”

  “And it’s challenging to play, especially when it climbs into the stratosphere.”

  “So the notes are high-pitched?”

  “In a range that’s higher than second violinists usually play.”

  Again he pauses. Something I’ve said has clearly intrigued him, and a moment goes by before he says: “When you were playing this piece, at what point did Lily attack you? Was it during those high notes?”

  “I think it was. I know I had already turned to the second page.”

  I watch him tap his pen on the clipboard, a nervous metronomic beat. “Who is Lily’s pediatrician?” he suddenly asks.

  “Dr. Cherry. We saw him just a week ago for her checkup, and he said she’s perfectly healthy.”

  “Nevertheless, I think I’ll give him a call. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to suggest a neurology consultant.”

  “For Lily? Why?”

  “It’s just a hunch, Mrs. Ansdell. But you may have come up with a very important clue. That piece of music could be the key to everything that’s happened.”

  —

  That night Rob is sound asleep when I climb out of bed and make my way downstairs to the living room. He has cleaned up the bloodstains and the only evidence of what happened to me earlier that day is a damp spot on the carpet. The music stand is right where I left it, with its copy of Incendio.

  In the soft lamplight, the notes are difficult to see, so I carry the page to the kitchen table and sit down to examine it more closely. I don’t know what it is I should be looking for. It is just an ordinary piece of manuscript paper covered on both sides with musical notes, written in pencil. On every page I spot clues to the haste with which this piece was composed: slurs represented by mere slashes, notes that are little more than pencil pricks on a stave. I see no black magic here, no hidden runes or watermarks. But something about this music has infected our lives and changed our daughter into someone who attacks me. Someone who’s frightened me.

  Suddenly I want to destroy this page. I want to burn it, reduce it to ashes so it cannot hurt us.

  I carry it to the stove, turn the knob, and watch the burner’s blue flames whoosh to life. But I cannot bring myself to do it. I cannot destroy what might be the only copy in the world of a waltz that enchanted me from the first time I saw it.

  I turn off the stove.

  Standing alone in my kitchen, I stare at the music and I feel its power radiating from the page like heat from a flame.

  And I wonder: Where did you come from?

  4

  Venice, Before the War

  On the day that Professor Alberto Mazza discovered a tiny crack in the face of his beloved violin, a family heirloom made in Cremona two centuries earlier, he knew that only the best luthier in Venice should repair it, and so he headed at once to Bruno Todesco’s shop on Calle della Chiesa. With sculpture knife and woodworker’s plane, Bruno was known to transform spruce and maple into instruments that came alive with the stroke of a bow across strings. From dead wood he conjured voices, and not just ordinary voices; his instruments sang with such beauty that they were played in orchestras from London to Vienna.

  When Alberto stepped into the shop, the violinmaker was so engrossed at his worktable that he did not notice that a new customer had entered. Alberto watched Bruno sand the carved surface of spruce, massaging it as if it were a lover, and noted the fierce focus with which the luthier worked, his whole body craned forward, as if trying to breathe his own soul into the wood so it would come alive and sing for him. An idea suddenly bloomed in Alberto’s head, something that had not even occurred to him until this very moment. Here, he thought, was a true artist, devoted to his craft. By reputation, Bruno was a man of temperate habits, industrious, and never known to be in debt. His attendance at synagogue was irregular, true, but he did make the occasional appearance and he never failed to nod deferentially to his elders.

  As Bruno labored over the delicate shell of spruce, still unaware of his customer, Alberto slowly perused the shop. A row of gleaming violins hung suspended by their scrolls, all of them fitted with bridges and strings and ready to be played. Beneath the spotless glass countertop were neat rows of rosin boxes and spare bridges and string packets. Against the back wall of the workroom were boards of seasoned spruce and maple, waiting to be carved and shaped into instruments. Everywhere he looked, Alberto saw order and discipline. It was the shop of a man who was not prone to sloppiness, who valued his tools, and who could be relied upon to care about the important details in life. Although Bruno was not yet forty, his hair was already thinn
ing at the crown, his height was merely average, and he would never be considered handsome. But he did have one indispensable qualification.

  He was not married.

  Here was where their interests aligned. Alberto’s thirty-five-year-old daughter, Eloisa, was unmarried as well. Neither beautiful nor homely, she had no suitors in sight, and unless something was done about it, she would die a spinster. Industrious Bruno, laboring at his workbench, was oblivious to the marital net about to be tossed over his head. Alberto wanted grandchildren, and for that he needed a son-in-law.

  Bruno would do nicely.

  —

  At the wedding eight months later, Alberto brought out the venerable Cremona violin that Bruno had repaired for him. He played the joyous tunes of celebration that his own grandfather had taught him decades before, the same tunes that he later played for the three children born to Eloisa and Bruno. First born was Marco, who came into the world squalling and kicking and punching, already angry at life. Three years later there was Lorenzo, who almost never cried because he was too busy listening, his head turning to the sound of every voice, every birdcall, every note that Alberto played. Ten years later, when Eloisa was forty-nine and certain there would be no more babies for her, little Pia the miracle daughter slid into their world. Here were the precious grandchildren that Alberto had longed for, two boys and a girl, all of them far more handsome than he’d expected, considering their utterly average-looking parents.

  But of those three children, only Lorenzo showed signs of musical talent.

  At two years old, after hearing a melody only twice, the boy could sing it, so deeply etched was it into his memory, like the grooves on a phonograph record. At five, he could play the same tune on his little quarter-size violin, which was crafted specially for him by his father in the shop on Calle della Chiesa. At eight, whenever Lorenzo practiced in his room, passersby on Calle del Forno would stop to listen to the music drifting out the window. Few could have guessed that such perfect notes were produced by a child’s hands, on a child’s violin. Lorenzo and his grandfather Alberto often played duets, and the melodies pouring from that window drew listeners from as far away as the Ghetto Vecchio. Some people were so moved by those pure, sweet notes that they wept in the street.