THE COZY OFFICE had one big window flanked by two gargantuan tropical plants. Beatrix crossed behind her desk to pull the curtain closed and dim the room. Then she raised the blinds that revealed the playroom. They could see Hanna, framed within the window, stacking Legos—something she enjoyed doing in Alex’s study, where he didn’t mind her leaving pieces all over his floor.
Beatrix came back around her desk and joined Suzette in the living-room-like area where Suzette had taken a seat on the couch next to a bright decorative pillow. There were also two armchairs and a solid Craftsman-style coffee table with a box of Kleenex and a bowl filled with cat’s-eye marbles. The walls were decorated with watercolors, mostly of landscapes with trees and cerulean pools of water.
“Did you make these?” Suzette asked, studying the artwork.
“Yes. A hobby I’ve been doing for many years.” She sat in a chair with the draped window at her back, and glanced at Hanna through the one-way glass at her right. In form and posture Beatrix looked like a ballet dancer, but her sharp movements lacked grace.
“You’re really good. They’re quite beautiful.” Simple and clean. The word haiku came to mind, as if the paintings were also poems.
“Thank you.” She crossed her legs and angled herself toward Suzette. “I always like to talk with the parents for a short time during each session—”
“My husband will be coming a bit later. Do you talk to Hanna”—she pointed toward the playroom—“in there?” The therapist held a Moleskine notebook and a pen in one hand. Suzette noticed the thin gold wedding band and wanted to ask her if she had children of her own, but didn’t.
“Sometimes, it depends on the child. Some prefer this room. While I’m talking with her I’ll have you wait by the entryway. I do honor the children’s privacy and I won’t reveal the specifics of what we communicate together. That trust needs to be there between me and Hanna—”
“Of course.”
“—but I also will keep you and your husband apprised of anything that you need to be aware of. And based on things I learn from Hanna, I might sometimes need to talk to both you and your husband. I view the family as a holistic unit and you’re all affecting one another. So, in a way, this isn’t just a process for Hanna but for all of you.”
“No, that’s good. I feel like, as a family, we’re really isolated. Like, we look a certain way when people see us, who don’t know us, but what happens at home…”
“So…” Beatrix breathed in and relaxed, smiling at Suzette. “How have things been since we talked? Better? Worse?”
“Okay. I haven’t been feeling that well, so Alex was with her most of the weekend. And she started school today.”
“How did that go?”
“According to her teachers? Pretty well. Maybe a little better than expected. She actually wrote something out on a piece of paper, which she doesn’t do with us. I guess she was really frustrated. She wrote one sentence in Swedish, and one in French. But then, on the way here…” It almost struck her as funny. “She told me, as her alter ego Marie-Anne, that she wanted to put a spell on one of the kids at school and kill them.”
“She’s just started talking—you said within the last couple of weeks?”
“Yes, as this other person.” Suzette found herself resorting to old, anxious habits—twisting her purse strap. She pushed the purse away, but doubted it was far enough to quell the temptation.
“It’s really … I know from your perspective it’s probably not fascinating, but I can almost see how, after not talking for so long, that this is protection for her, on some level. Hiding behind someone who can talk, so her identity of herself as someone who doesn’t talk is still intact.” She finally opened her notebook and jotted something down.
“It doesn’t sound at all frightening when you put it that way. It’s still only to me. She doesn’t pretend to be a witch with Alex. I tried to handle it a little better this time; I tried to engage her instead of freaking out.”
“How did that work?”
“Not bad. A weird conversation, but I guess that’s what it was.”
“It may not seem like progress, but it sounds to me like she really is trying to reach out.” Suzette winced. “No? You don’t interpret it that way?”
“It’s the other things. The savage dog, the weird acting like the devil’s fucking her—I never told my husband about that. I even looked for porn on his computer, to see if that’s where she saw, or found out about sex, but…” Conscious of the therapist’s intense, evaluating gaze she fought the urge to drag her purse back over. She pressed her hands tightly together instead.
“Are there a lot of things you don’t tell your husband?”
She considered the question. What did she tell Alex? The easy things, mostly. “Maybe, I guess … Early on we shared everything, but over time … From his perspective, I think he’d say he has everything. A fulfilling career—meaningful, runs his own business, loves his coworkers. A good relationship with his parents. A beautiful house, a devoted wife, an adorable child. He has enough money, and still has free time—goes to the gym, does what he wants. He loves me, and I love him … But … I can’t do this without him, and sometimes … You know, it’s just important … I don’t want him to lose faith in me.”
“Why would he lose faith in you if you told him everything that’s going on?”
“Because he doesn’t see it. I’ve always been the one who’s home with her all day—taking care of her, feeding her, schooling her, trying to keep her entertained. Keep her safe, healthy, well behaved. I bear the burden for raising her, really. Alex loves her—deeply, deeply loves her. But he only has to do it for tiny spans of time. Make her giggle. Read her a bedtime story. Maybe play with her a little on the weekends. She loves everything she does with him, and he feels like a hero—he feels her love.”
Beatrix nodded. “It is the curse of the caregiver. But surely Alex recognizes the important work you—”
“Yes, absolutely. But this—” She threw her hand toward the glass pane. “I seriously thought she was going to attack me, and bite me.” Suzette told her the rest—putting Hanna in the backyard to cool down, the marks on her arm, Alex’s hostile response.
Beatrix jotted down a few more notes. “Would you be uncomfortable if we talked about the sexual incident with Alex? I’d like to hear his thoughts.”
“He’s going to wonder why I didn’t tell him.”
“Maybe. Might be a chance, in a safe place, for you to talk about it.”
* * *
Suzette hadn’t expected to feel like the one on trial. She worried about what Beatrix had written in her notebook, what conclusions she was drawing. That she was abusive. A bad mom. A bad wife. A liar. Another broken, dysfunctional family hiding behind the façade of better-than-average accessories. Waiting by the door in one of three matching chairs, she pressed on her stomach, on the thing that was turning over and over, getting thicker and harder with each revolution. She felt it vibrating, threatening to rupture. It didn’t matter what she did, it was always the mother’s fault. She had vowed to do better than her own mother—had been certain, for a long time, that she was earning a passing grade. But every time she talked about what was going on … Insanity dipped around her like a swarm of frenzied bats.
What were Beatrix and Hanna doing in there? Would the therapist ask her yes and no questions, prying information from her child’s vaulted mind? Would she ask her to draw a picture? Would Hanna do it? Would she nod yes and no like she did when she wasn’t being Marie-Anne?
A door buzzer announced Alex’s arrival. She stood and peered through the window. On time as he’d promised, he smiled and kissed her when she let him in.
“Hej, älskling.”
“Hey.”
He glanced at the chairs, the hallway.
“She’s talking to Hanna right now.”
“How was school?”
“Promising, actually.”
“That’s good news.”
Beatrix popped out of the playroom. “Just checking, heard the door,” she said, seeing Alex. She turned back to the room, to Hanna. “A few more minutes on your own? Is that okay?” Hanna must have nodded, because Beatrix smiled. “Good.” She shut the door and gestured for Suzette and Alex to join her.
Round two. Suzette settled back on the couch. Alex and Beatrix shook hands and made their proper introductions. Before joining Suzette on the couch, he peered through the one-way glass, where Hanna played with Legos. Beatrix checked her watch as she took a seat.
“So we only have a few minutes, but—” she looked at Suzette “—I’d like to get Alex caught up.”
Suzette put her hand on her belly again, trying to keep the heavy thing from churning. Maybe it would sound better, less ridiculous—crazy—coming from the therapist.
“So Suzette has informed me of a couple of incidents. The dog barking—” Alex nodded. “—which was quite alarming to Suzette, because of how intense it was and she had concerns for her own safety.” Now it was Suzette’s turn to nod. Alex glanced at her, but she couldn’t read his expression. Concern? Regret? Doubt?
“But Hanna is exhibiting other disturbing behavior as—”
“What kinds of disturbing behavior?” he asked, annoyed. Skeptical.
Beatrix continued. “There was an incident where she acted out sexually—”
Alex snapped his head toward Suzette. She hoped Beatrix read his anger, his unwillingness to believe what he didn’t want to be true.
“Just because she’s a child,” he said to the therapist, “doesn’t mean she can’t have sexual feelings.”
“I agree. But the incident Suzette described—your daughter claimed, in that moment, that the devil was having intercourse with her.”
“What?”
His face bloomed red as he glared first at Beatrix, and then at Suzette.
“I told you, she’s … She thinks, or is pretending, to be this witch—”
“But you know she’s not a witch.”
“No, she isn’t,” said Beatrix. Suzette looked to the therapist, hoping she had a special technique for smoothing things over, for talking offended fathers down from a defiant ledge.
“My opinion is that this alter ego is a way for her to break the ice, of sorts. She’s adopted a persona who is allowed to speak, to be demonstrative, in a way that Hanna still won’t permit for herself. It doesn’t mean she’s a witch. But we do need to understand what this behavior means, and what your daughter’s trying to express. She’s a very precocious girl who’s built a wall around herself—and we don’t know why she felt she needed the wall, but I think she’s trying to find a way over it. And right now, this is manifesting in some new behaviors.”
Thank God. Beatrix and her art of rationalizing. Of being reasonable. Of being clinically professional in the face of deviance. Even Alex relented. His body relaxed. She slipped her hand into his, and was relieved when he squeezed it.
She should’ve taken that moment to tell them both about the voodoo-doll-potato thing, to hear Beatrix justify it as another attempt by Hanna to find a way over her wall. But the moment felt too precarious, and she didn’t want Alex to pull his hand away. And maybe, after all, Hanna hadn’t made an effigy of Mr. G.
Beatrix was on top of things. And Tisdale seemed to know how to handle Hanna.
They left a few minutes later after scheduling another appointment for the following Monday. Hanna monkey-climbed up Alex as soon as she saw him. He carried her to his car, babbling his Good Daddy babble, and she giggled, and both of them forgot about her. Suzette got in her own car, alone, aware of Beatrix standing on the stoop, arms crossed, watching the family dynamics on display. It was just as well. It confirmed everything she’d tried to say. From afar, father and daughter appeared so normal. Because that’s what the daughter wanted everyone to think. Still, Suzette knew it made her look bad, made it seem as if the problem existed only between mother and daughter.
It was hard to pour endless love into someone who wouldn’t love you back. No one could do it forever.
* * *
Alex sat double-parked with his flashers on, waiting so she could pull into the driveway first, and then backed in behind her. On the cramped city street, even with their double lot, they lacked the space for a garage. At the front door, Hanna scuffed her feet back and forth along the welcome mat, eager to get inside. Suzette was afraid he was angry, but he wrapped his arm around her as they crossed the stone-paved walk.
“You need to keep me fully apprised of what’s going on. I felt so stupid, not even knowing—”
“I want to, it’s not that I don’t want to.”
He unlocked the door. Hanna barged past, kicked off her Keds, and slunk off to her room. Alex and Suzette slipped out of their shoes, too, leaving them in a tidy row by the closet.
“Some of the things that happen…” She tried to figure out how to explain it. He patiently waited. “I find myself … I get so caught off guard, so freaked out. I know how crazy it sounds. And I don’t want to cast Hanna, in your eyes, as crazy—or myself.”
His fingertips sought hers and for a moment he seemed intent on reading her through touch. But before he could say anything, a high scream, as piercing as a Klaxon alarm, shattered the air. Startled and terrified, they both followed the noise, charging up the stairs to Hanna’s room.
“Lilla gumman?” Alex said, tearing past the corner into her room. “What’s wrong?”
Suzette pushed in beside him.
Hanna stood there holding the half-mashed legless potato in her hand. As soon as she saw her parents, the scream turned into a wail. Tears cascaded down her cheeks.
Alex fell to his knees. His hands wandered over her, making sure she wasn’t injured. “What happened?”
She held up the potato and scooped up the pencil legs and the flower hat, crying as she had never cried before.
Her daughter’s pain punctured Suzette’s chest, sending panic through her veins. Hanna uttered breathless, open-mouthed wails—the kind that turn a child’s face scarlet and wound a parent’s heart.
“Your UnderSlumberBumbleBeast?” Alex asked.
Oh God. Regret sliced through Suzette as efficiently as an executioner’s ax. She’d forgotten about the creatures in Hanna’s favorite book.
Hanna’s head was almost too heavy for her to nod. She tried to show him where the legs went, where the hat went. She picked up the red crayon and tried to stick it back in its broken hole. The horrible keening noises she made sounded like a dog that had been hit by a car. She threw the useless appendages back onto the floor.
“I don’t understand what happened.” Stricken and desperate, he sat on the bed and pulled Hanna onto his lap, trying to comfort her. She squirmed away on her hands and knees. Alex looked to Suzette and she, too, gaped in horror. Hanna had never thrown such a fit, and her breathing was so erratic, and the noises so fitful, so agonized.
“It was me—it was me.” Suzette fell to the floor, scrambling. She wrapped her arms around Hanna, rocking her. “It was me—it was Bad Mommy.” Alex looked confused. “I found it and it scared me,” she told him. “I didn’t know what it was, I thought maybe it was a voodoo doll.”
Hanna fought her way out of her mother’s arms and crawled to her father. He scooped her up and cradled her, but his hard eyes stayed on Suzette.
“It’s from the book we always read. It was her friend—she made it!”
“I didn’t know, I forgot. I’m sorry. At school, Mr. G—the principal—had an eye patch, over the same eye as…”
“As a potato?”
“I wasn’t thinking, it was the first thing that came to mind and—”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I know! But she said she was a witch. And she drew blood, dripping out of its eye…”
Hanna held the ruined beast clutched to her heart. Alex gently encouraged her to show it to him. She pointed to the red marks she’d drawn on the potato, then gestured to her own tears. Then pointed and gestured again, imploring for her father to understand. But even Suzette grasped it: they were tears, not drops of blood.
Suzette collapsed into sobs. She hadn’t meant to destroy something precious. She hadn’t meant to wound her child. They didn’t know the rage it had triggered, how she’d screamed and thrown her own tantrum. Jealous of Alex’s sympathy for Hanna, she questioned if he would have comforted her in that moment, when she’d been so overwhelmed. She read condemnation on his face as he held Hanna like a baby, rocking her as her wails subsided to hiccupping sobs.
“Sshh, lilla gumman … Daddy’s squirrely girl…” He cooed so softly Suzette couldn’t hear everything he said. But Hanna quieted. She looked so tiny in his arms, a rag doll.
“I’m so sorry.” Suzette steepled her hands against her mouth. She knew she looked pathetic, on her knees, guilty, beseeching their forgiveness.
Alex planted kisses on Hanna’s tear-streaked face. “We’ll go upstairs to Daddy’s room?” Hanna nodded. He eased the ruined potato out of her hand and held it out for Suzette.
With her head bowed, she had no choice but to take it. The punishment. The reminder of her foolishness. He carried Hanna away and she couldn’t look. She heard him climbing the stairs, mumbling something. Probably about getting away from Bad Mommy.
Bad Mommy wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She gathered up the detritus she’d discovered under the bed. She considered what to do with the pencils, the flower eraser, the broken crayon, aware that they weren’t just objects, but body parts.
Once, in second grade, she’d taken one of her beloved stuffed animals to school. Baby Bear was actually a mouse, but she’d named him as a three-year-old and no one corrected her. He spent most of the day at the bottom of her backpack, and when she got home she realized Baby Bear’s face was streaked with blue ink stains—scars from a leaking pen. She tried to wash them off—gently with water and a Q-tip, and then more vigorously with a soapy washcloth—but the stains wouldn’t come out. Holding back the tears, she went to her mother, parked in front of the TV, and asked for help.
“It’s just a stupid toy,” her mother said.
But Baby Bear wasn’t stupid, or a toy. In fact, young Suzette ascribed to him more empathy and nurturing capabilities than the human she lived with. He watched over her. He cared about her feelings. She’d damaged Baby Bear and, consumed with guilt, could do nothing but curl up with him on her bed and cry.
A good mother would have known what the UnderSlumberBumbleBeast was. A good mother would have recognized how, in a child’s eyes, it might be a cherished friend.
She left the little body parts in a neat row on the shelf above Hanna’s bed. She carried the rest away, cupped in her hands like a delicate bird that might yet come back to life.