Playing With Fire Read Free

requests. The room has toys scattered everywhere, bright plastic things with no sharp edges, no little parts that can be swallowed by indiscriminating mouths. Kneeling on the floor is a boy about her age, making engine noises as he pushes a red dump truck across the carpet. I set Lily down and she heads straight to a child-size table with plastic teacups and a teapot. She picks up the pot and pours invisible tea. How does she know to do that? I’ve never thrown a tea party, yet here’s my daughter, performing stereotypical girl behavior while the boy
zoom-zooms
with his truck.
    Dr. Cherry is sitting behind his desk when I step into his office. Through the viewing window, we can watch the two children in the next room; on their side is a one-way mirror, so they cannot see us. They play in parallel, ignoring each other in their separate boy and girl worlds.
    “I think you’re reading too much into this incident,” he says.
    “She’s only three and she’s killed our family pet.”
    “Was there any warning before this happened? Any sign that she was going to hurt him?”
    “None at all. I’ve had Juniper since before I got married, so Lily’s known him all her life. She was always perfectly gentle with him.”
    “What might have set off this attack? Was she angry? Was she frustrated by something?”
    “No, she looked perfectly content. They were so peaceful together, I let them play while I practiced my violin.”
    He considers this last detail. “I assume that takes a lot of concentration, playing the violin.”
    “I was trying out a new piece of music. So, yes, I was focused.”
    “Maybe that explains it. You were busy doing something else, and she wanted to get your attention.”
    “By stabbing our cat?” I give a laugh of disbelief. “That’s a drastic way of going about it.” I look through the viewing window at my golden-haired daughter, seated so prettily at her imaginary tea party. I don’t want to bring up the next possibility, but I have to ask him. “There was an article I read online, about children who hurt animals. It’s supposed to be a very bad sign. It could mean the child has serious emotional issues.”
    “Trust me, Mrs. Ansdell,” he says with a benign smile. “Lily is not going to grow up to be a serial killer. Now if she
repeatedly
hurt animals, or if there’s a history of violence in the family, then I might be more concerned.”
    I say nothing; my silence makes him frown at me.
    “Is there something you wanted to share?” he asks quietly.
    I take a deep breath. “There
is
a history in the family. Of mental illness.”
    “On your husband’s side or on yours?”
    “Mine.”
    “I don’t recall seeing anything about that in Lily’s medical records.”
    “Because I never mentioned it. I didn’t think something like that could run in families.”
    “Something like what?”
    I take my time answering, because while I want to be truthful, I don’t want to tell him more than I need to. More than I’m comfortable with. I look through the playroom window at my beautiful daughter. “It happened soon after my brother was born. I was only two years old at the time, so I don’t remember anything about it. I learned the details years later from my aunt. I’m told my mother had some sort of mental breakdown. She had to be sent to an institution because they felt she was a danger to others.”
    “The timing of her breakdown makes it sound like a case of postpartum depression or psychosis.”
    “Yes, that’s the diagnosis I heard. She was evaluated by several psychiatrists and they concluded she wasn’t mentally competent and couldn’t be held responsible for what happened.”
    “What did happen?”
    “My brother—my baby brother—” My voice softens to a whisper. “She dropped him and he died. They said she was delusional at the time. Hearing voices.”
    “I’m sorry. That must have been a painful time for your family.”
    “I can’t imagine how terrible it was for