Playing With Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

watches, waiting for me to answer my own question. Just my
interpretation
of what he’s asking is a sort of Rorschach test, and I sense minefields everywhere. What if I say the wrong thing? Do I become the Bad Mommy?
    “Mrs. Ansdell,” he says gently, “there is no wrong answer.”
    “Yes, I wanted my daughter!” I blurt out. “Rob and I tried for years to have a baby. When Lily was born, it was the best day of my life.”
    “So you were happy about it.”
    “Of course I was happy! And…” I pause. “A little scared.”
    “Why?”
    “Because suddenly, I was responsible for this little person, someone with her own soul. Someone I didn’t really know yet.”
    “When you looked at her, what did you see?”
    “A beautiful little girl. Ten fingers, ten toes. Hardly any hair,” I add with a wistful laugh, “but perfect in every way.”
    “You said she was someone with her own soul. Someone you didn’t know yet.”
    “Because newborns are so unformed and you have no idea how they’ll turn out. Whether they’ll love you. All you can do is wait and see who they grow up to be.”
    He’s scratching on his clipboard again. Obviously I’ve said something he finds interesting. Was it the bit about babies and souls? I’m not the least bit religious and I have no idea why that spilled out of my mouth. I watch with growing uneasiness, wondering when this ordeal will be over. The local anesthetic has worn off and my wound aches. While this psychiatrist takes his time writing God knows what about me, I’m more and more desperate to escape the glare of these lights.
    “What sort of soul do you think Lily has?” he asks.
    “I don’t know.”
    He looks up, eyebrow raised, and I realize that my answer was not what he expected. A normal, loving mother would insist her daughter is gentle or kind or innocent. My answer leaves open other, darker possibilities.
    “What was she like as a baby?” he asks. “Did she have colic? Any trouble feeding or sleeping?”
    “No, she hardly ever cried. She was always happy, always smiling. Always wanting hugs. I never thought motherhood would be so easy, but it was.”
    “And as she got older?”
    “She never went through the terrible twos. She was the perfect child until…” I look down at the bedsheet that covers my wounded leg, and my voice fades.
    “Why do you think she attacked you, Mrs. Ansdell?”
    “I don’t know. We were having such a wonderful day. We’d just baked cookies together. She was sitting at the coffee table, drinking her juice.”
    “And you think she got the piece of glass out of the trash can?”
    “That’s where she must have gotten it.”
    “You didn’t see it?”
    “I was practicing my violin. My eyes were on the music.”
    “Oh yes. Your husband told me you’re a professional musician. Do you play with an orchestra?”
    “I’m second violin in a quartet. It’s an all-women group.” He merely nods, and I feel compelled to add: “We performed in Rome a few weeks ago.”
    That seems to impress him. An international gig always impresses people, until they find out how little we’re paid to perform.
    “When I practice, I’m very focused,” I explain. “That’s probably why I didn’t notice Lily get up and go into the kitchen.”
    “Do you think she resents the time you spend practicing? Children often hate it when Mom talks on the phone or works on the computer, because they want her full attention.”
    “It never bothered her before.”
    “Maybe something was different this time? Maybe you were more focused than usual.”
    I think about it for a moment. “Well, the music
was
frustrating me. It’s a new piece and it’s challenging. I’m having trouble with the second half.” I pause, as the memory comes back to me of how I struggled to play the waltz. How my fingers cramped as those malevolent notes spun out of my control. The title
Incendio
means “fire” in Italian, but my fingers feel like icicles.
    “Mrs. Ansdell, is