Outside the car, it’s a hot muggy June afternoon. Russell toots the horn as he drives away and I guess there’s no turning back now. The Maxwell house is a big classic Victorian, three stories high, with yellow wood siding and white gingerbread trim. There’s a big wraparound porch with wicker furniture and planters full of yellow flowers— daisies and begonias. The property backs up to a large forest—or maybe some kind of park?—so the street is full of birdsongs, and I can hear the insects buzzing and chirping and trilling.
I walk up the flagstone path and climb the steps to the front porch. I ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers. He has orange-reddish hair that’s sticking straight up. He reminds me of a Troll doll.
I squat down so we’re seeing eye to eye. “I bet your name is Teddy.”
The boy gives me a shy smile. “I’m Mallory Quinn. Is your—”
He turns and sprints up the stairs to the second floor, vanishing from sight.
“Teddy?”
I’m not sure what to do. Ahead of me is a small foyer and a passage leading back to a kitchen. I see a dining room (to the left) and a living room (to the right) and gorgeous hard pine floors (everywhere). I’m struck by the fresh clean scent of central air-conditioning—mixed with a hint of Murphy Oil, as if someone has just given the floors a good scrubbing. All
the furniture looks modern and brand-new, like it’s just arrived from the Crate and Barrel showroom.
I press the doorbell but it doesn’t make a sound. I press it three more times—nothing.
“Hello?”
At the far end of the house, in the kitchen, I see the silhouette of a woman turning to notice me.
“Mallory? Is that you?”
“Yes! Hi! I tried your doorbell but—” “I know, sorry. We’re getting it fixed.”
Before I can even wonder how Teddy knew I’d arrived, she’s stepping forward to welcome me. She has the most graceful walk I’ve ever seen—she moves soundlessly, like her feet are barely touching the floor. She’s tall, thin, and blond, with fair skin and soft features that seem too delicate for this world.
“I’m Caroline.”
I put out my hand but she greets me with a hug. She’s one of those people who radiate warmth and compassion, and she holds me an extra moment longer than necessary.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Russell’s told us so many wonderful things. Are you really eighteen months clean?”
“Eighteen and a half.”
“Incredible. After everything you’ve been through? That is just extraordinary. You should be really proud of yourself.”
And I worry I might start to cry because I wasn’t expecting her to ask about recovery right away, first thing, before I’ve even stepped inside her house. But it’s a relief to get it over with, to just put all my worst cards on the table.
“It wasn’t easy, but it’s easier every day.”
“That’s exactly what I tell my patients.” She steps back, reviews me from head to toe, and smiles. “And look at you now! You’re so healthy, you’re glowing!”
Inside the house, it’s a crisp pleasant sixty-eight degrees
—a welcome retreat from the muggy weather. I follow Caroline past the staircase and underneath the second-floor
landing. Her kitchen is full of natural light and looks like a cooking show set on the Food Network. There’s a large refrigerator and a small refrigerator and the gas range has eight burners. The sink is a kind of trough, wide enough to require two separate faucets. And there are dozens of drawers and cabinets, all different shapes and sizes.
Caroline opens a tiny door and I realize this is a third refrigerator, a miniature one, stocked with cold drinks. “Let’s see, we’ve got seltzer, coconut water, iced tea…”
“I’d love a seltzer.” I turn to marvel at the wall of windows facing the backyard. “This is a beautiful kitchen.”
“It’s huge, isn’t it? Way too big for three people. But we fell in love with the rest of the house, so we went for it. There’s a park right behind us, did you notice? Teddy loves to go stomping through the woods.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“But we’re constantly checking him for ticks. I’m thinking of buying him a flea collar.”
She holds a glass to the ice dispenser and it makes a gentle tinkling sound—like the wind chimes on her front porch—and out fall dozens of tiny crystalline ice pearls. I feel like I’ve just witnessed a magic trick. She fills the glass with fizzy seltzer water and hands it to me. “How about a sandwich? Can I make you something?”
I shake my head no but Caroline opens the big refrigerator anyway, revealing a smorgasbord of groceries. There are jugs of whole milk and soy milk, cartons of brown eggs from cage-free hens, one-pint tubs of pesto and hummus and pico de gallo. There are wedges of cheese and bottles of kefir and white mesh bags exploding with leafy green vegetables. And the fruit! Giant clamshells of strawberries and blueberries, raspberries and blackberries, cantaloupe and honeydew. Caroline reaches for a bag of baby carrots and a pint of hummus and then uses her elbow to close the fridge. I notice there’s a child’s drawing on the door, a crude and unskilled portrait of a bunny rabbit. I ask
if Teddy is responsible, and Caroline nods. “Six weeks in this house and already he’s hinting for pets. I told him we have to finish unpacking.”
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“He seems gifted,” I tell her, and I worry the words sound forced, that I’ve gone too far too soon.
But Caroline agrees with me!
“Oh, definitely. He’s really advanced for his peer group.
Everyone says so.”
We settle at a small dining table in the breakfast nook and she hands me a sheet of paper. “My husband typed up some guidelines. Nothing too crazy but we might as well get them out of the way.”
HOUSE RULES
- No drugs
- No drinking
- No smoking
- No profanity
- No screens
- No red meat
- No junk food
- No visitors without permission.
- No photos of Teddy on social media.
- No religion or superstition. Teach science.
Underneath the typed list, there’s an eleventh rule, handwritten in delicate feminine script:
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Have fun!
Caroline starts apologizing for the rules before I’ve even finished reading them. “We don’t really enforce number seven. If you want to make cupcakes, or buy Teddy an ice cream, that’s fine. Just no soda. And my husband insisted on number ten. He’s an engineer. He works in technology. So science is very important to our family. We don’t say prayers and we don’t celebrate Christmas. If a person sneezes, we won’t even say God Bless You.”
“What do you say?”
“Gesundheit. Or ‘to your health.’ It means the same thing.”
There’s an apologetic tone in her voice and I see her glance at the tiny gold cross that hangs from my neck—a gift from my mother on my first Holy Communion. I assure Caroline that her House Rules won’t be a problem. “Teddy’s religion is your business, not mine. I’m just here to provide a safe, caring, and nurturing environment.”
She seems relieved. “And have fun, right? That’s rule eleven. So if you ever want to plan a special trip? To a museum or a zoo? I’m happy to pay for everything.”
We talk for a while about the job and its responsibilities, but Caroline doesn’t ask a lot of personal questions. I tell her that I grew up in South Philly, on Shunk Street, just north of the stadiums. I lived with my mother and younger sister, and I used to babysit for all the families on my block. I attended Central High School and I had just received a full athletic scholarship to Penn State when my life ran off the rails. And Russell must have told Caroline the rest, because she doesn’t make me rehash the ugly stuff.
Instead she just says, “Should we go find Teddy? See how you two get along?”
The den is just off the kitchen—a cozy, informal family room with a sectional sofa, a chest full of toys, and a fluffy shag rug. The walls are lined with bookshelves and framed posters of the New York Metropolitan Opera—Rigoletto, Pagliacci, and La Traviata. Caroline explains that these are her husband’s three favorite productions, that they used to visit Lincoln Center all the time before Teddy came along.
The child himself is sprawled on the rug with a spiralbound pad and some yellow number two pencils. At my arrival, he looks up and flashes a mischievous smile—then immediately returns to his artwork.
“Well, hello again. Are you drawing a picture?”
He gives his shoulders a big, exaggerated shrug. Still too shy to answer me.
“Honey, sweetheart,” Caroline interjects. “Mallory just asked you a question.”
He shrugs again, then moves his face closer to the paper until his nose is practically touching the drawing, like he’s trying to disappear inside it. Then he reaches for a pencil with his left hand.
“Oh, I see you’re a leftie!” I tell him. “Me, too!”
“It’s a common trait in world leaders,” Caroline says. “Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan—they’re all lefties.”
Teddy maneuvers his body so I can’t see over his shoulders, I can’t see what he’s working on.
“You remind me of my little sister,” I tell him. “When she was your age, she loved to draw. She had a giant Tupperware bin full of crayons.”
Caroline reaches under the sofa and pulls out a giant Tupperware bin full of crayons. “Like this?”
“Exactly!”
She has a light, pleasant laugh. “I’ll tell you a funny story: The whole time we lived in Barcelona, we couldn’t get Teddy to pick up a pencil. We bought him markers, finger paints, watercolors—he showed no interest in art. But the moment we move back to the States? And move into this house? Suddenly, he’s Pablo Picasso. Now, he draws like crazy.”
Caroline lifts the top of the coffee table and I see it doubles as some kind of storage chest. She removes a sheaf of paper that’s an inch thick. “My husband teases me for saving everything, but I can’t help myself. Would you like to see?”
“Definitely.”
Down on the floor, Teddy’s pencil has stopped moving. His entire body has tensed up. I can tell that he’s listening carefully, that he’s focusing all his attention on my reaction.
“Oooh, this first one is really nice,” I tell Caroline. “Is this a horse?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“No, no, no,” Teddy says, springing off the floor and moving to my side. “That’s a goat, because he has horns on his head, see? And a beard. Horses don’t have beards.” Then he leans into my lap and turns the page, directing my attention to the next drawing.
“Is that the weeping willow out front?”
“Yes, exactly. If you climb it, you can see a bird’s nest.”
I keep turning pages and it isn’t long before Teddy relaxes in my arms, resting his head against my chest. I feel like I’m cradling a large puppy. His body is warm and he smells like laundry that’s fresh out of the dryer. Caroline sits off to the side, watching our interaction, and she seems pleased.
The drawings are all pretty standard kid stuff—lots of animals, lots of smiley-faced people on sunny days. Teddy studies my reaction to every drawing and he soaks up my praise like a sponge.
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