12:00—After our morning activity, I’ll prepare a simple lunch—mac and cheese or pizza bagels or chicken nuggets. Teddy will go into his bedroom for Quiet Time, and I’ll take an hour for myself. I’ll read a book, or I’ll listen to a podcast on my headphones. Or sometimes I’ll just lie on the couch and catch a twenty-minute catnap. Eventually Teddy will come downstairs and shake me awake and he’ll have one or two new drawings to share. Often he illustrates our favorite activities—he’ll show us walking through the forest or playing in the backyard or hanging around my cottage. I keep these drawings on the door of my refrigerator—a gallery of his artistic progress.
* * *
2:00—This is usually the hottest part of the day, so we’ll stay inside playing Chutes and Ladders or Mouse Trap, and then we’ll slather on sunscreen and go out to the pool. Teddy doesn’t know how to swim (and I’m not very good myself), so I make sure he puts on floaties before we get in the water. Then we’ll play tag or have a swordfight with the pool noodles. Or we’ll climb atop the large inflatable raft and play make-believe games like Castaway or Titanic.
* * *
5:00—Caroline gets home and I’ll recap my day with Teddy while she starts preparing dinner. Then I’ll go out for a run, anywhere from three to eight miles, depending on what Russell recommends. I’ll pass all kinds of people out on their sidewalks or watering their lawns, and everyone assumes I’m a resident of Spring Brook. Some of the neighbors will even wave and call out hello, like I’ve been living here all my life, like I must be someone’s daughter home from college on summer break. And I love the way it makes me feel—the sense of community—like I’ve finally arrived in the place where I belong.
* * *
7:00—After running I’ll take a quick shower in the world’s smallest bathroom, and I’ll fix myself a simple meal in the cottage’s tiny kitchen. Once or twice a week, I’ll walk downtown to browse the local shops and restaurants. Or I’ll attend an open meeting in the church basement of Our Lady the Redeemer. The discussion leaders are very good and the participants are friendly but I’m always the youngest person in the circle by at least ten years, so I’m not expecting to make a ton of new friends. I certainly don’t stick around for “the meeting after the meeting,” when everyone walks down the block to Panera Bread to complain about their kids, their mortgages, their jobs, etc. After just two weeks of living with the Maxwells, safely cocooned from all temptations, I’m not even sure I need meetings anymore. I think I can handle things on my own.
* * *
9:00—By this time I’m usually in bed, reading a library book or watching a movie on my phone. As a gift to myself, I open a subscription to the Hallmark Channel so I can stream unlimited romances for $5.99 a month, and they’re the perfect way to unwind at the end of the night. As I turn out the light and rest my head on my pillow, I revel in the comfort of happily ever after—of families reunited and scoundrels sent packing, of treasures recovered and honor restored.
* * *
Maybe this all sounds boring. I know it’s not rocket science. I realize I’m not changing the world or curing cancer. But after all my troubles, I feel like I’ve taken a huge step forward, and I’m proud of myself. I have my own place to live and a steady paycheck. I’m cooking nutritious meals and setting aside two hundred a week for savings. I feel like my work with Teddy is important. And I feel validated by Ted and Caroline’s absolute faith in me.
Especially Ted’s. I don’t see much of him during the day, because he leaves for his office at six thirty every morning. But sometimes I’ll see him at night, after I’m back from a run. He’ll be sitting on the patio with his laptop and a glass of wine, or he’ll be out in the swimming pool doing laps, and he’ll wave me over and ask about my run. Or he’ll ask about my day with Teddy. Or he’ll ask my opinion of some random consumer brand—Nike, PetSmart, Gillette, L.L.Bean, and so on. Ted explains that his company designs “back-end software” for big corporations all over the world, and he’s constantly seeking out new partnerships. “What do you think of Urban Outfitters?” he’ll ask me, or “Have you ever eaten dinner at a Cracker Barrel?” And then he’ll really listen to my answers, as if my opinions might actually shape his business decisions. And it’s flattering, to be honest. Apart from Russell, I haven’t met a ton of people who care what I think. So I’m always happy to see Ted, and I always feel a little charge when he invites me over to talk.
Ironically, the only person at my new job who gives me any trouble is the one person who doesn’t exist: Anya. Teddy’s imaginary BFF has an annoying habit of undermining my instructions. For example, one day I ask Teddy to pick up his dirty clothes and put them in his laundry hamper. Two hours later, I’m back in his bedroom, and the clothes are still scattered across the floor. “Anya says Mommy should do that,” he tells me. “Anya says that’s her job.”
Another time I’m frying crispy tofu squares for lunch and Teddy asks me for a hamburger. I tell him he can’t have one. I remind him that his family doesn’t eat red meat because it’s bad for the environment, because cattle are one of the largest sources of greenhouse gases. I serve him a plate of tofu and white rice and Teddy just pushes the food around with his fork. “Anya thinks I would really like meat,” he says. “Anya thinks tofu is garbage.”
Now I’m no expert in child psychology but I understand what Teddy is doing: using Anya as an excuse to get his way. I ask Caroline for advice and she says we just need to be patient, that the problem will eventually take care of itself. “He’s already getting better,” she insists. “Whenever I come home from work, it’s always ‘Mallory this’ and ‘Mallory that.’ I haven’t heard Anya’s name in a week.”
But Ted urges me to take a stronger stance. “Anya is a pain in the ass. She doesn’t make the rules around here. We do. Next time she shares her opinions, just remind Teddy that Anya isn’t real.”
I decide on an approach that’s somewhere between these two extremes. One afternoon while Teddy is upstairs in Quiet Time, I bake a tray of his favorite snickerdoodle cookies. And when he comes downstairs with a new drawing, I invite him to sit at the table. I bring over the cookies and two glasses of cold milk, and I casually ask him to tell me more about Anya.
“How do you mean?” He’s instantly suspicious.
“Where did you meet? What’s her favorite color? How old is she?”
Teddy shrugs, like all these questions are impossible to answer. His gaze moves around the kitchen, like he’s suddenly reluctant to make eye contact.
“Does she have a job?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does she do all day?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Does she ever come out of your bedroom?”
Teddy glances across the table to an empty chair.