Hidden Pictures(55)
“Come on, Teddy. Put the game away.”
“I’m not done.”
“Mommy says it’s for Quiet Time. She doesn’t want you using it all morning.”
He turns away from me, shielding the tablet with his body. “Just one more level.”
“How long is a level?”
It turns out that one more level takes a good half hour. After he’s finished, Teddy pleads with me to charge the iPad, so he’ll have enough batteries for later.
We spend the morning trampling around the Enchanted Forest. I try to make up a new adventure story for Prince Teddy and Princess Mallory, but all Teddy wants to discuss is Angry Birds strategy. Yellow birds are best for attacking wood structures. Black birds can destroy concrete walls. White birds accelerate after dropping their egg bombs. It’s not really a conversation; he’s just reciting a string of facts and data, like he’s trying to organize the rules in his mind.
I spy a glint of silver in a bed of leaves and I kneel down to investigate. It’s the bottom half of an arrow; the top part with the feathers is missing and all that remains is the aluminum shaft and a pyramid-shaped tip.
“This is a magic missile,” I tell Teddy. “It’s used for slaying goblins.”
“That’s cool,” Teddy says. “Also, the green bird is a boomerang bird. He gets double-damage when he attacks. So I like to play him first.”
I suggest that we hike to the Giant Beanstalk and add the arrow to our arsenal of weapons. Teddy agrees, but his participation feels half-hearted. It’s like he’s just biding his time, running down the clock until morning is over and we can go back to the house.
* * *
I offer to make Teddy anything he wants for lunch but he says he doesn’t care so I just make grilled cheese. As he wolfs down the sandwich, I remind him that he doesn’t have to use the iPad during Quiet Time. I suggest it might be fun to play LEGOs or Lincoln Logs or farm animals. And he glances at me like I’m trying to swindle him, like I’m trying to cheat him out of a privilege he has rightfully earned.
“Thanks, but I’ll do my game,” he says.
He carries the tablet up to his bedroom and after a few minutes I climb the stairs to the second floor and press my ear to his bedroom door. There are no whispered words, no half-conversations. Just occasional laughter from Teddy, and the sounds of stretching slingshots, squawking birds, and imploding buildings. He sounds giddy with delight, but something in his happiness makes me sad. Overnight, like flipping a switch, I feel as if something magical has been lost.
I go downstairs, take out my phone, and call the number of the Rest Haven Retirement Community. I tell the receptionist that I’m looking to speak with one of the residents, Dolores Jean Campbell. The phone rings several times before a default voice mail greeting kicks on.
“Um, hi, my name is Mallory Quinn? We don’t know each other, but I think maybe you can help me?”
I realize I have no idea how to explain my question, that I should have practiced what to say before the call, but now it’s too late and I just need to blunder ahead.
“I wondered if your mother was someone named Annie Barrett. From Spring Brook, New Jersey. Because if she is, I would really love to talk with you. Can you please call me back?”
I leave my number and end the call feeling like I’ve already hit a dead end. I’m convinced I’ll never hear from her.
I clean up the lunch dishes and then go around the kitchen with a soapy sponge, cleaning the counters and trying to make myself useful. More than ever, I’m feeling vulnerable in my job. It’s like every day brings some new reason for Caroline to replace me. So I busy myself with tasks outside my job description. I sweep and mop up the floors, and wipe down the inside of the microwave. I open the toaster oven and empty the little tray of crumbs. I reach under the sink and fill the liquid soap dispensers, then stand on a chair and wipe the dust off the ceiling fan.
All these little chores make me feel better, but I’m not sure Caroline will notice. I decide I need a bigger and more ambitious project, something she could never miss. I move into the den and lie down on the sofa and I’m considering all my different options when I’m struck by the perfect idea: I will bring Teddy to the supermarket, we will buy a bunch of food, and we’ll prepare a surprise dinner for his parents. I’ll have the whole meal warming in the oven so it’s ready to eat as soon as they get home. I’ll even set the table so they won’t have to lift a finger. They can just enter the house, sit down with some delicious food, and be grateful that I’m part of their family.
But before I can actually act on this idea, before I can sit up and start a shopping list, I fall asleep.
I’m not sure how it happens. I’m not particularly tired. I only meant to rest my eyes for a minute. But the next thing I know, I’m dreaming about a place from my childhood, a tiny family-owned amusement park called Storybook Land. It was built in the 1950s to celebrate all the classic fairy tales and Mother Goose nursery rhymes. Kids could climb a giant beanstalk or visit the three little pigs or wave through a window to the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, a creaky animatronic puppet with a dead-eyed stare.
In my dream, I’m walking Teddy past the carousel and he’s incredibly excited and he pleads with me to hold all his pencils and crayons so he can start going on rides. He empties an entire box into my hands, more than I can possibly carry, and the pencils fall all around my feet. I try to stuff them into my pockets because there’s no way I can carry all of them. And by the time I’ve collected everything, Teddy is gone. I’ve lost him in the crowd. My dream has turned into a nightmare.