Hidden Pictures(4)
2
Outside the car, it’s a hot muggy June afternoon. Russell toots the horn as he drives away and I guess there’s no turning back now. The Maxwell house is a big classic Victorian, three stories high, with yellow wood siding and white gingerbread trim. There’s a big wraparound porch with wicker furniture and planters full of yellow flowers—daisies and begonias. The property backs up to a large forest—or maybe some kind of park?—so the street is full of birdsongs, and I can hear the insects buzzing and chirping and trilling.
I walk up the flagstone path and climb the steps to the front porch. I ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers. He has orange-reddish hair that’s sticking straight up. He reminds me of a Troll doll.
I squat down so we’re seeing eye to eye.
“I bet your name is Teddy.”
The boy gives me a shy smile.
“I’m Mallory Quinn. Is your—”
He turns and sprints up the stairs to the second floor, vanishing from sight.
“Teddy?”
I’m not sure what to do. Ahead of me is a small foyer and a passage leading back to a kitchen. I see a dining room (to the left) and a living room (to the right) and gorgeous hard pine floors (everywhere). I’m struck by the fresh clean scent of central air-conditioning—mixed with a hint of Murphy Oil, as if someone has just given the floors a good scrubbing. All the furniture looks modern and brand-new, like it’s just arrived from the Crate and Barrel showroom.
I press the doorbell but it doesn’t make a sound. I press it three more times—nothing.
“Hello?”
At the far end of the house, in the kitchen, I see the silhouette of a woman turning to notice me.
“Mallory? Is that you?”
“Yes! Hi! I tried your doorbell but—”
“I know, sorry. We’re getting it fixed.”
Before I can even wonder how Teddy knew I’d arrived, she’s stepping forward to welcome me. She has the most graceful walk I’ve ever seen—she moves soundlessly, like her feet are barely touching the floor. She’s tall, thin, and blond, with fair skin and soft features that seem too delicate for this world.
“I’m Caroline.”
I put out my hand but she greets me with a hug. She’s one of those people who radiate warmth and compassion, and she holds me an extra moment longer than necessary.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Russell’s told us so many wonderful things. Are you really eighteen months clean?”
“Eighteen and a half.”
“Incredible. After everything you’ve been through? That is just extraordinary. You should be really proud of yourself.”
And I worry I might start to cry because I wasn’t expecting her to ask about recovery right away, first thing, before I’ve even stepped inside her house. But it’s a relief to get it over with, to just put all my worst cards on the table.
“It wasn’t easy, but it’s easier every day.”
“That’s exactly what I tell my patients.” She steps back, reviews me from head to toe, and smiles. “And look at you now! You’re so healthy, you’re glowing!”
Inside the house, it’s a crisp pleasant sixty-eight degrees—a welcome retreat from the muggy weather. I follow Caroline past the staircase and underneath the second-floor landing. Her kitchen is full of natural light and looks like a cooking show set on the Food Network. There’s a large refrigerator and a small refrigerator and the gas range has eight burners. The sink is a kind of trough, wide enough to require two separate faucets. And there are dozens of drawers and cabinets, all different shapes and sizes.
Caroline opens a tiny door and I realize this is a third refrigerator, a miniature one, stocked with cold drinks. “Let’s see, we’ve got seltzer, coconut water, iced tea…”
“I’d love a seltzer.” I turn to marvel at the wall of windows facing the backyard. “This is a beautiful kitchen.”
“It’s huge, isn’t it? Way too big for three people. But we fell in love with the rest of the house, so we went for it. There’s a park right behind us, did you notice? Teddy loves to go stomping through the woods.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“But we’re constantly checking him for ticks. I’m thinking of buying him a flea collar.”
She holds a glass to the ice dispenser and it makes a gentle tinkling sound—like the wind chimes on her front porch—and out fall dozens of tiny crystalline ice pearls. I feel like I’ve just witnessed a magic trick. She fills the glass with fizzy seltzer water and hands it to me. “How about a sandwich? Can I make you something?”
I shake my head no but Caroline opens the big refrigerator anyway, revealing a smorgasbord of groceries. There are jugs of whole milk and soy milk, cartons of brown eggs from cage-free hens, one-pint tubs of pesto and hummus and pico de gallo. There are wedges of cheese and bottles of kefir and white mesh bags exploding with leafy green vegetables. And the fruit! Giant clamshells of strawberries and blueberries, raspberries and blackberries, cantaloupe and honeydew. Caroline reaches for a bag of baby carrots and a pint of hummus and then uses her elbow to close the fridge. I notice there’s a child’s drawing on the door, a crude and unskilled portrait of a bunny rabbit. I ask if Teddy is responsible, and Caroline nods. “Six weeks in this house and already he’s hinting for pets. I told him we have to finish unpacking.”