Hidden Pictures(12)

Ironically, the only person at my new job who gives me any trouble is the one person who doesn’t exist: Anya. Teddy’s imaginary BFF has an annoying habit of undermining my instructions. For example, one day I ask Teddy to pick up his dirty clothes and put them in his laundry hamper. Two hours later, I’m back in his bedroom, and the clothes are still scattered across the floor. “Anya says Mommy should do that,” he tells me. “Anya says that’s her job.”

Another time I’m frying crispy tofu squares for lunch and Teddy asks me for a hamburger. I tell him he can’t have one. I remind him that his family doesn’t eat red meat because it’s bad for the environment, because cattle are one of the largest sources of greenhouse gases. I serve him a plate of tofu and white rice and Teddy just pushes the food around with his fork. “Anya thinks I would really like meat,” he says. “Anya thinks tofu is garbage.”

Now I’m no expert in child psychology but I understand what Teddy is doing: using Anya as an excuse to get his way. I ask Caroline for advice and she says we just need to be patient, that the problem will eventually take care of itself. “He’s already getting better,” she insists. “Whenever I come home from work, it’s always ‘Mallory this’ and ‘Mallory that.’ I haven’t heard Anya’s name in a week.”

But Ted urges me to take a stronger stance. “Anya is a pain in the ass. She doesn’t make the rules around here. We do. Next time she shares her opinions, just remind Teddy that Anya isn’t real.”

I decide on an approach that’s somewhere between these two extremes. One afternoon while Teddy is upstairs in Quiet Time, I bake a tray of his favorite snickerdoodle cookies. And when he comes downstairs with a new drawing, I invite him to sit at the table. I bring over the cookies and two glasses of cold milk, and I casually ask him to tell me more about Anya.

“How do you mean?” He’s instantly suspicious.

“Where did you meet? What’s her favorite color? How old is she?”

Teddy shrugs, like all these questions are impossible to answer. His gaze moves around the kitchen, like he’s suddenly reluctant to make eye contact.

“Does she have a job?”

“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.