Playing With Fire (12 page)

“Papa, please eat,” Pia begged, and she placed the chunk of bread in Bruno’s hand.

Bruno stared at it, as if he’d never seen bread before and did not know what to do with it. When he did begin to eat, it was without apparent pleasure, as if consuming it was a duty, and he did it only to please his family.

“There, now.” His wife smiled. “Everything will be fine.”

“Yes.” Bruno took a deep breath and sat up straight, the family patriarch back in control. “Everything will be fine.”

At dawn on the third day, the doors burst open.

Lorenzo lurched awake to the sound of boots thudding across the floor. He scrambled to his feet as uniformed men fanned into the room. They wore the insignia of the fascist Guardia Nazionale Republiccana.

Over the screams of terrified children, a voice boomed out: “Attention!
Silence!
” The officer did not step over the threshold but addressed them from the doorway, as if the air in the room was foul and he had no wish to pollute his lungs.

Pia slipped her hand into Lorenzo’s. She was shaking.

“Article Seven of the Carta di Verona has classified you as enemy aliens,” the officer announced. “Under police order number five, issued December first, you will be transported to an internment camp. The ministry has generously exempted those who are gravely ill or elderly, but you have all been deemed able-bodied and eligible for transport.”

“Then Grandpapa is safe?” Pia said. “They won’t take him from the nursing home?”

“Shhh.” Lorenzo gave her hand a warning squeeze.
Don’t draw their attention.

“The train is waiting for you,” said the officer. “After you board, you are each allowed to write one letter. I suggest you tell your friends and neighbors that you are well, and they should not be concerned. I assure you, your letters will be delivered. Now it’s time to gather your belongings. Bring only what you can carry to the station.”

“You see?” Eloisa whispered to Bruno. “They’re even allowing us to send letters. And Papa can stay in his nursing home. I will write to him, so he won’t worry about us. And you must write to Professor Balboni. Tell him that he frightened us for nothing and everything is fine.”

With so many families, so many young children among them, their procession to the train station was a slow one. They moved in a shuffling line past familiar shopwindows and over the same footbridge that Lorenzo had crossed countless times before. Bystanders gathered to watch in eerie silence, as if viewing a parade of ghosts. Among the faces of the spectators, he spotted the neighbor girl Isabella. She raised her arm to wave to him, but her father grabbed her wrist and yanked it down. As Lorenzo passed, the man would not look him in the eye, but stared down at the cobblestones, as if merely meeting his gaze would doom him as well.

The silent parade crossed the piazza, where, on any other day, they would hear laughter and chatter, women calling out to their children. But today there was only the sound of shuffling feet, so many feet, moving in a weary column. Those who witnessed the passing did not dare to speak out in protest.

In that silence, the lone voice that suddenly called out was all the more startling.

“Lorenzo, here! I am here!”

At first all he saw was the glint of sunlight on blond hair, and the parting of the crowd as she pushed forward, pleading: “Let me through! I need to get through!”

Then all at once there she was, her arms flung around him, her lips on his. She tasted of salt and tears.

“I love you,” said Lorenzo. “Wait for me.”

“I promise. And you must promise to come back to me.”

“You, girl!” a guard barked. “Move away!”

Laura was wrenched from Lorenzo’s arms, and he stumbled back into the moving herd, which carried him forward, ever forward.

“Promise me!”
he heard her call out.

He turned, desperate for one last glimpse of her, but her face was already lost in the crowd. All he saw was one pale hand raised in farewell.

“They’re blind, all of them,” said Marco. “They cover their eyes and refuse to see what’s happening.”

As their parents and sister dozed beside them, lulled to sleep by the hypnotic clacks of the train, the brothers spoke softly to each other.

“Those letters home, they mean nothing. They let us write them to keep us calm. To distract us.” He looked at Lorenzo. “You wrote to Laura, didn’t you?”

“Are you saying my letter won’t be delivered?”

“Oh, she’ll probably get it. But why, do you think?”

“I don’t know what you’re really asking.”

Marco snorted. “Because you’re as blind as everyone else, little brother! You float through life on a cloud, dreaming only of your music, believing that oh yes, all will turn out for the best! You’ll marry Laura Balboni and have perfect children and spend your lives happily ever after, playing beautiful music.”

“At least I won’t be bitter and angry, like you.”

“You know why I’m bitter? Because I see the truth. Your letter will be delivered. So will Pia’s and Mama’s.” He glanced at their sleeping parents, who had curled up against each other, arms entwined. “Did you see the nonsense Mama wrote?
Our train has comfortable third-class seats. They promise that our accommodations at the camp will be equally acceptable
. As if we’re headed to some resort on Como! Our friends and neighbors will believe that all’s well, that we’re sitting like tourists on the train, so they won’t worry. Just like Papa refuses to worry. All his life he’s worked with his hands and he won’t believe what he can’t see and touch. He lacks the imagination to consider the worst. And that’s why nobody ever fights back, because we all want to believe the best. Because it’s too frightening to imagine the possibilities.” He looked at Lorenzo. “Have you noticed which direction this train is taking us?”

“How can I tell? They’ve kept all the window shades down.”

“Because they don’t want us to see where we’re going. But even through the shades, you can see on which side the sun is shining.”

“They told us we’re going to the internment camp in Fossoli. That’s where they send everyone.”

“That’s what they say. But look at the light, Lorenzo. See which side of the train it’s shining on? We’re not headed to Fossoli.” Grimly, Marco stared straight ahead and said, softly: “This train is going north.”

Rob is furious with me. I hear it in the slam of the front door and his agitated footsteps as he storms into the kitchen.

“Why did you cancel your appointment with Dr. Rose?” he demands.

I don’t turn to look at him, but continue chopping carrots and potatoes for dinner. Roast chicken is on the menu tonight, rubbed with olive oil and lemon, seasoned with rosemary and sea salt. It will be a meal just for the two of us because Lily is still staying with Val. It is far too quiet with her gone, and the house does not feel right. It feels as if I’ve slipped into some sad parallel universe, and the real house with the real me exists somewhere else. A house where we are all happy again, where my daughter loves me and my husband is not standing in the kitchen, glaring.

“I wasn’t in the mood to see her,” I tell him.

“Not in the
mood
? Do you know how hard it was for her to fit you into her schedule on such short notice?”

“The psychiatrist was your idea, not mine.”

He gives a frustrated laugh. “Yeah, she predicted you’d be resistant. She said denial is part of your problem.”

Calmly I set down the knife and turn to face this parallel-universe version of Rob. Unlike my calm, starched-shirt husband, the man I see now is flushed and agitated and his tie hangs askew. “You’ve been to see her? You two are already discussing me?”

“Of course we are! I’m at wit’s end. I needed to talk to
someone.
”

“And what did you tell her?”

“That you’re so obsessed with that damn piece of music, you won’t address the real problem. That you’ve withdrawn from Lily. And you’ve withdrawn from me.”

“If someone stabbed
you
in the leg, you’d withdraw, too.”

“I know you think Lily’s the problem, but Dr. Rose spent three hours observing her. She saw a perfectly normal and charming three-year-old. There was no violent behavior, no sign of pathology whatsoever.”

I stare at him, stunned by what I’ve just heard. “You brought my daughter to see a psychiatrist, and you didn’t bother to tell me?”

“You think this has been easy for Lily? She spends more time at Val’s than she does here and she’s confused. Meanwhile, you’re calling Rome every day. I saw the phone bills. That poor shopkeeper probably wonders why the crazy lady won’t leave him alone!”

The word
crazy
hits me like a slap. It’s the first time he’s said it to my face, but I know he’s been thinking it all along. I’m his crazy wife, the daughter of another crazy woman.

“Oh God, Julia. I’m sorry.” He sighs and says, quietly: “Please. Go see Dr. Rose.”

“What difference would it make? It sounds like you two have already diagnosed me in absentia.”

“She’s a good psychiatrist. She’s easy to talk to, and I think she really cares about her patients. Lily liked her right away. I think you will, too.”

I turn back to the cutting board and pick up the knife. Begin slicing carrots again, slowly and deliberately. Even as he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, I continue slicing, my blade thudding against wood.

“I’m doing this for us,” he whispers and kisses the back of my neck. The heat of his breath makes me shudder, as if a stranger is groping me. Not the husband I adored, not the man I’ve loved for more than a decade. “It’s because I love you both. You and Lily. My two best girls in the world.”

After Rob falls asleep that night, I climb out of bed and creep downstairs to his computer, where I search online for Dr. Diana Rose. Rob is right; I have been so obsessed with hunting down the origins of
Incendio
that I haven’t paid attention to what is going on in my own home. I need to know more about this woman who has already diagnosed me as
resistant
and
in denial.
She has skillfully worked her way into my family, charming my daughter, impressing my husband, yet I know nothing about her.

Google turns up dozens of hits for “Dr. Diana Rose, Boston.” Her professional website lists her specialty (psychiatry), practice information (downtown Boston address, multiple hospital affiliations), and education (Boston University and Harvard Medical School). But it’s the photo that rivets my attention.

While Rob was singing her praises, he neglected to tell me that Dr. Rose is a stunningly beautiful brunette.

I click on the next Google link. It’s a news item from Worcester, Massachusetts, about a court case where Dr. Rose was the expert witness. She testified that Mrs. Lisa Verdon was a danger to her own children. Because of that testimony, the court awarded custody to their father.

Fear ties a knot in my stomach.

I click on the next link. It’s a different court case, and I see the words
competency hearing.
Dr. Rose, testifying for the state of Massachusetts, recommended involuntary commitment of a Mr. Lester Heist because he was a danger to himself.

In the next dozen Web pages I visit, I spot that word again and again.
Competency
. This is Dr. Rose’s expertise. She determines if patients are a danger to themselves or others. If they should be shut away in institutions the way my mother was.

I exit Google and stare at the computer screen, where I notice a new photo is displayed as wallpaper. When did Rob change it? Only a week ago, there was an image of all three of us, posing in our back garden. Now there is a photo of only Lily, her hair a bright halo in the sunshine. I feel as if I’ve been erased from our family, and if I look down, I’ll find my arms are fading to invisibility. How long before there’s a different woman’s face on this screen? A doe-eyed brunette who thinks my daughter is sweet and charming and perfectly normal?

Dr. Diana Rose is as attractive in person as she is in her Web page photograph. Her fifth-floor office has large windows that overlook the Charles River, but the view is obscured by sheer window shades. Those covered windows make me feel claustrophobic, as if I’m shut away in a white box with white furniture, and if I don’t say the right things, if I can’t prove I’m sane, this woman will have me sealed in here forever.

Her first questions are innocuous enough. Where was I born, where did I grow up, how is my general state of health? She has green eyes and flawless skin and her eggshell silk blouse is just sheer enough to reveal the outline of her bra. I wonder if my husband noticed those same details at his sessions on this same couch where I’m sitting. Her voice is soothing as honey, and she’s good at making it seem that she really cares about my well-being, but I think she’s a thief. She’s stolen my daughter’s affection and my husband’s loyalty. When I tell her I’m a professional musician with a degree from New England Conservatory, I think I see her lip curl up in disdain. Does she think musicians aren’t true professionals? Her diplomas and certificates and awards are framed and displayed all over her wall, documentary proof that she’s superior to any mere musician.

“So you think it all started when you played that piece of music,
Incendio,
” she says. “Tell me more about the music. You said you found it in Rome.”

“In an antiques store,” I say.

“What made you buy it?”

“I collect music. I’m always on the hunt for something I’ve never heard before. Something unique and beautiful.”

“And you knew this piece would sound beautiful, just by looking at it?”

“Yes. When I read music, I can hear the notes in my head. I thought it might work as an arrangement for my quartet. When I got home, I played it on my violin. That’s when Lily…” I stop. “That’s when she changed.”

“And you’re convinced
Incendio
caused this.”

“There’s something very wrong about this piece. Something dark and disturbing. It has a negative energy, and I felt it the first time I played it. I think Lily felt it, too. I think she reacted to it.”

“And that’s why she hurt you.” Dr. Rose’s expression is perfectly neutral, but she can’t disguise the skepticism in her voice. It’s as obvious to me as a single sour note in an otherwise perfect performance. “Because of the music’s negative energy.”

“I don’t know what else to call it. There’s just something
wrong
about it.”

She nods as if she understands, but of course she doesn’t. “Is this why you’ve been making all those phone calls to Rome?”

“I want to know where this music comes from and what its history is. It might explain why it has this effect on Lily. I’ve been trying to reach the man who sold me the music, but he doesn’t answer the phone. His granddaughter wrote me a letter a few weeks ago, saying she’d ask him to find out more information. But I’ve heard nothing since then.”

Dr. Rose takes a breath, rearranges her position. A nonverbal cue that she’s about to shift strategy. “How do you feel about your daughter, Mrs. Ansdell?” she asks quietly.

That makes me pause, because I am not sure of my answer. I remember Lily smiling up at me when she was a newborn, and how I thought at the time:
This will always be the happiest moment of my life.
I remember the night she burned with a fever, how frantic I was that I might lose her. Then I think of the day I looked down to see that shard of glass embedded in my leg, and heard my daughter chanting
hurt Mommy, hurt Mommy.

“Mrs. Ansdell?”

“I love her, of course,” I answer automatically.

“Even though she attacked you?”

“Yes.”

“Even though she doesn’t seem like the same child.”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever feel the urge to hurt her in return?”

I stare at her. “What?”

“Feelings like that aren’t unusual,” she says, sounding quite reasonable. “Even the most patient mother can be pushed to the edge and spank or slap a child.”

“I’ve
never
hurt her. I’ve never wanted to hurt her!”

“Have you ever felt the urge to hurt yourself?” Oh, how easily she slipped that in. I can see in which direction her questions are taking us.

“Why are you asking that?” I say.

“You’ve been injured twice. You were stabbed in the leg. You fell down the stairs.”

“I didn’t stab myself. Or throw myself down the stairs.”

She sighs, as if I’m too dense to understand what’s obvious to everyone else. “Mrs. Ansdell, no one else was there to see those incidents. Is it possible they didn’t occur quite the way you remember?”

“They happened
exactly
the way I described them.”

“I’m only trying to assess the situation. There’s no reason to be hostile.”

Is that what she hears in my voice? I take a deep breath to calm down, even though I have every reason to be hostile. My marriage is collapsing, my daughter wants to hurt me, and there sits Dr. Rose, so serene and in control. I wonder if her life is as perfect as she appears to be. Maybe she’s a secret drunk or a shoplifter or a nymphomaniac.

Maybe she steals other women’s husbands.

“Look, I don’t know why I’m talking to you,” I say. “I think this is a huge waste of your time as well as mine.”

“Your husband’s concerned about you. That’s why you’re here. He said you’ve lost weight and you’re not sleeping well.”

“What else has he told you?”

“That you’ve become alienated from your daughter, and from him as well. That you seem so preoccupied, you don’t seem to hear what he says. Which is why I need to ask you this. Are you hearing other voices?”

“What do you mean?”

“Voices talking in your head? People who aren’t there, telling you to do things? Maybe hurt yourself?”

“You’re asking if I’m psychotic.” I burst out laughing. “The answer, Dr. Rose, isn’t just
no
. It’s
hell no
!”

“I hope you understand that it’s just something I have to ask. Your husband’s worried about your daughter’s welfare, and since he has to work during the day, we need to be sure she’s safe alone with you at home.”

At last we’ve come to the real reason I’m sitting in a psychiatrist’s office. They think I’m a danger to Lily. That I’m a baby-killing monster like my mother was, and Lily must be protected from me.

“I’m told your daughter’s now staying with your aunt. That isn’t a long-term solution,” says Dr. Rose. “Your husband wants his daughter to come home eventually, but he also wants to be sure it’s safe for her to do so.”

“Don’t you think I want her home, too? Since the day she was born, I’ve hardly been apart from her. With her gone, I feel like part of me’s missing.”

“Even if you do want her home, think about what’s happened. You were hours late picking her up from day care and you didn’t even realize it. You believe your daughter is violent and wants to harm you. You are obsessed with a piece of music that you think is evil.” She pauses. “And you have a history in your family of psychosis.”

It all paints an undeniably ugly picture. Anyone who hears the relentless litany of facts could not argue with her conclusions. So what she says next comes as no surprise.

“Before I can feel comfortable about your daughter returning home, I believe you need further evaluation. I recommend a period of observation in an inpatient setting. There’s a very good clinic outside Worcester, which I’m sure you’ll find comfortable. This will be completely voluntary on your part. Think of it as a short vacation. A chance to shed all responsibility for a while and just focus on yourself.”

“How short a vacation are we talking about?”

“I can’t be specific at this point.”

“So it could be weeks. Even months.”

“It depends on how much progress you make.”

“And who’d be the one to determine my progress? You?” My retort makes her lean back in her chair.
Patient extremely hostile
will certainly be in her notes. It’s yet another detail that will reinforce the disturbing picture of Julia Ansdell, crazy mom.

“Let me emphasize, this period of evaluation is completely voluntary,” she says. “You can sign out of the clinic anytime you want to.”

She makes it sound as if I actually have a choice, as if what happens next is entirely my decision, but we both know I’m boxed in. If I say no, I’ll lose my daughter and most likely my husband. In truth, I’ve already lost them both. All I have left now is my freedom, and even that is entirely up to Dr. Rose. She only needs to declare me a danger to myself or others, and the asylum door will slam shut.