Trespassing by Brandi Reeds
He who knows nothing is closer to the truth
than he whose mind is filled with falsehood and errors.
—Thomas Jefferson
Chapter 1
November 10
I know kids have active imaginations—and I have actually heard of invisible playmates—but this goes beyond what I’d consider normal.
“Who’s to say what’s normal?” Dr. Russo chuckles. “Kids do have wild imaginations, and your child is exceptionally creative. Artistic.”
Not once have the educators at the Westlake School referred to her this way.
I glance at the table, where three-year-old Elizabella is engaged in her favorite activity—coloring. I lower my voice. “Doctor, if I fail to set a plate at the table for Nini, Nini gets mad. If Elizabella gets into trouble at preschool, it was Nini who made her do it. Sometimes,” I continue, “in the middle of the night, she laughs loud enough to wake me, and when I check on her, she’s sitting down to a tea party in her room, saying, ‘Nini just said something so funny, Mommy.’”
“Have you considered removing toys from her bedroom?”
My brow wrinkles, intensifying my headache. He doesn’t get it. That’s not the point. “I just thought, you know, considering the family history . . .”
He fills in the blanks. “Schizophrenia is extremely rare. It affects only one percent of the population, and in children, especially children of Elizabella’s age, it’s practically unheard of. And based on what you’ve told me, your mother struggled more with depression than with voices in her head.”
Sure. Based on what I’ve said, it’s a logical conclusion to reach. But I haven’t told him everything yet. I haven’t even told Micah everything, and not because I don’t want him to know. I can’t explain what I don’t understand. I don’t like to think of my mother that way, anyway. It’s better to remember her at her best.
“And even if your mother had been properly diagnosed as a schizophrenic, which I doubt—the due diligence just wasn’t given to the case—the fact that you don’t exhibit signs of the disorder means a less than ten percent chance Elizabella will be affected.”
Would anyone, though, think herself crazy . . . if she’s crazy?
“Creative minds usually run in families,” the shrink continues. “Are you creative?”
“Not exceptionally.” I majored in women’s studies in college—not that I’m using my diploma for a damned thing since my little bundle of restless energy arrived. Ironic, now that I think about it.
“Your husband?”
I hold the doctor’s gaze. He already knows the answer to this one. Micah, who wears only shades of gray because he doesn’t know which colors go with which, is anything but artistic. I know where this line of questioning is headed, and I know he won’t quit until we get there.
“My mother designed jewelry,” I admit.
“I suspect you’re a little artistic, too, but you’re afraid to follow in your mother’s footsteps, no matter the capacity in which you do so.”
It’s a ridiculous thing to say, an overgeneralization. Anyone would be afraid to become what my mother became. She had her way at the end: a short service beneath a lovely pane of stained glass.
“You’re under a lot of pressure, with the fertility treatment, with Micah’s traveling,” Dr. Russo says. “Would this be easier to deal with if I prescribed you an antianxiety?”
I shake my head. I still have the pills he prescribed after the miscarriage in April. I don’t like to take them—it’s hard to be a mother when I’m on them—but it’s out of the question in the midst of in vitro.
“Perfectly normal.” Dr. Russo massages a hand over his beard. “This is the optimum age for the development of a ‘friend’”—he uses air quotes—“like this. Sometimes, the child creates the imaginary friend to deal with some sort of shift in the household. Moving, for example. The onset of preschool.”
I look again to the corner table where Elizabella is coloring. Dr. Russo is our family therapist; we’ve been seeing him together for about six months now, since April—since Nini made her debut . . . which coincided with the miscarriage. Not long after, we moved to the Shadowlands, a full-service, gated golf course community on the outskirts of Chicago. And Bella started preschool last month.
I twist my wedding ring around my finger; it’s tighter than usual.
“You’re trying to have another baby,” he says.
Always. I wish someone had told me in college it would be this difficult to knock me up.
“Have you begun . . .”
His inquiry fades with the images in my mind, always just a trigger away from revisiting me. Sticky sheets. Blood everywhere.
“Veronica?”
“I’m sorry.” I chase away the pain of the loss. “Yes. Yes, we just aspirated for eggs yesterday morning.”
“Elizabella has been part of the process,” he says. “She’s seen you take the shots. You’ve been preparing her for a baby brother or sister most of her life. She doesn’t know life without that preparation.”
“We’re getting her ready, yes. Just like all the books say.” And I’ve read them all. “We’ve even prepared her for the possibility a baby won’t come, you know, just in case . . .” I look away, out the window, at a brilliant display of gold-and-russet foliage.