Playing With Fire

by Tess Gerritsen

  “And you knew this piece would sound beautiful, just by looking at it?”

  “Yes. When I read music, I can hear the notes in my head. I thought it might work as an arrangement for my quartet. When I got home, I played it on my violin. That’s when Lily…” I stop. “That’s when she changed.”

  “And you’re convinced Incendio caused this.”

  “There’s something very wrong about this piece. Something dark and disturbing. It has a negative energy, and I felt it the first time I played it. I think Lily felt it, too. I think she reacted to it.”

  “And that’s why she hurt you.” Dr. Rose’s expression is perfectly neutral, but she can’t disguise the skepticism in her voice. It’s as obvious to me as a single sour note in an otherwise perfect performance. “Because of the music’s negative energy.”

  “I don’t know what else to call it. There’s just something wrong about it.”

  She nods as if she understands, but of course she doesn’t. “Is this why you’ve been making all those phone calls to Rome?”

  “I want to know where this music comes from and what its history is. It might explain why it has this effect on Lily. I’ve been trying to reach the man who sold me the music, but he doesn’t answer the phone. His granddaughter wrote me a letter a few weeks ago, saying she’d ask him to find out more information. But I’ve heard nothing since then.”

  Dr. Rose takes a breath, rearranges her position. A nonverbal cue that she’s about to shift strategy. “How do you feel about your daughter, Mrs. Ansdell?” she asks quietly.

  That makes me pause, because I am not sure of my answer. I remember Lily smiling up at me when she was a newborn, and how I thought at the time: This will always be the happiest moment of my life. I remember the night she burned with a fever, how frantic I was that I might lose her. Then I think of the day I looked down to see that shard of glass embedded in my leg, and heard my daughter chanting hurt Mommy, hurt Mommy.

  “Mrs. Ansdell?”

  “I love her, of course,” I answer automatically.

  “Even though she attacked you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though she doesn’t seem like the same child.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever feel the urge to hurt her in return?”

  I stare at her. “What?”

  “Feelings like that aren’t unusual,” she says, sounding quite reasonable. “Even the most patient mother can be pushed to the edge and spank or slap a child.”

  “I’ve never hurt her. I’ve never wanted to hurt her!”

  “Have you ever felt the urge to hurt yourself?” Oh, how easily she slipped that in. I can see in which direction her questions are taking us.

  “Why are you asking that?” I say.

  “You’ve been injured twice. You were stabbed in the leg. You fell down the stairs.”

  “I didn’t stab myself. Or throw myself down the stairs.”

  She sighs, as if I’m too dense to understand what’s obvious to everyone else. “Mrs. Ansdell, no one else was there to see those incidents. Is it possible they didn’t occur quite the way you remember?”

  “They happened exactly the way I described them.”

  “I’m only trying to assess the situation. There’s no reason to be hostile.”

  Is that what she hears in my voice? I take a deep breath to calm down, even though I have every reason to be hostile. My marriage is collapsing, my daughter wants to hurt me, and there sits Dr. Rose, so serene and in control. I wonder if her life is as perfect as she appears to be. Maybe she’s a secret drunk or a shoplifter or a nymphomaniac.

  Maybe she steals other women’s husbands.

  “Look, I don’t know why I’m talking to you,” I say. “I think this is a huge waste of your time as well as mine.”

  “Your husband’s concerned about you. That’s why you’re here. He said you’ve lost weight and you’re not sleeping well.”

  “What else has he told you?”

  “That you’ve become alienated from your daughter, and from him as well. That you seem so preoccupied, you don’t seem to hear what he says. Which is why I need to ask you this. Are you hearing other voices?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Voices talking in your head? People who aren’t there, telling you to do things? Maybe hurt yourself?”

  “You’re asking if I’m psychotic.” I burst out laughing. “The answer, Dr. Rose, isn’t just no. It’s hell no!”

  “I hope you understand that it’s just something I have to ask. Your husband’s worried about your daughter’s welfare, and since he has to work during the day, we need to be sure she’s safe alone with you at home.”

  At last we’ve come to the real reason I’m sitting in a psychiatrist’s office. They think I’m a danger to Lily. That I’m a baby-killing monster like my mother was, and Lily must be protected from me.

  “I’m told your daughter’s now staying with your aunt. That isn’t a long-term solution,” says Dr. Rose. “Your husband wants his daughter to come home eventually, but he also wants to be sure it’s safe for her to do so.”

  “Don’t you think I want her home, too? Since the day she was born, I’ve hardly been apart from her. With her gone, I feel like part of me’s missing.”

  “Even if you do want her home, think about what’s happened. You were hours late picking her up from day care and you didn’t even realize it. You believe your daughter is violent and wants to harm you. You are obsessed with a piece of music that you think is evil.” She pauses. “And you have a history in your family of psychosis.”

  It all paints an undeniably ugly picture. Anyone who hears the relentless litany of facts could not argue with her conclusions. So what she says next comes as no surprise.

  “Before I can feel comfortable about your daughter returning home, I believe you need further evaluation. I recommend a period of observation in an inpatient setting. There’s a very good clinic outside Worcester, which I’m sure you’ll find comfortable. This will be completely voluntary on your part. Think of it as a short vacation. A chance to shed all responsibility for a while and just focus on yourself.”

  “How short a vacation are we talking about?”

  “I can’t be specific at this point.”

  “So it could be weeks. Even months.”

  “It depends on how much progress you make.”

  “And who’d be the one to determine my progress? You?” My retort makes her lean back in her chair. Patient extremely hostile will certainly be in her notes. It’s yet another detail that will reinforce the disturbing picture of Julia Ansdell, crazy mom.

  “Let me emphasize, this period of evaluation is completely voluntary,” she says. “You can sign out of the clinic anytime you want to.”

  She makes it sound as if I actually have a choice, as if what happens next is entirely my decision, but we both know I’m boxed in. If I say no, I’ll lose my daughter and most likely my husband. In truth, I’ve already lost them both. All I have left now is my freedom, and even that is entirely up to Dr. Rose. She only needs to declare me a danger to myself or others, and the asylum door will slam shut.

  I feel her eyes on me as I consider my response. Must stay calm, must stay agreeable. “I’ll need some time to get ready for this,” I say. “I want to talk to my husband first. And I need to make sure Aunt Val is able to help with Lily.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  “Since I might be gone for a while, there are practical details to arrange.”

  “We aren’t talking about forever, Mrs. Ansdell.”

  But for my mother, it was forever. For my mother, a mental institution was the final stop in her short, turbulent life.

  Dr. Rose walks me out to the waiting room, where Rob has been sitting. To be certain I made it to this appointment, he drove me here himself, and I see the questioning look he gives Dr. Rose. She nods to him, her silent assurance that all went well and the crazy wife will cooperate with thei
r plans.

  And I do cooperate. What alternative do I have? I sit meekly in the car while Rob drives. When we get home, he lingers for a while, watching to make sure I don’t jump out a window or slit my wrists. I putter around the kitchen, set a kettle on the stove, trying to appear as normal as I can, even though my nerves are so frayed they could snap at any instant. When at last he leaves to go back to work, I’m so relieved I let out a sob and collapse into a chair at the kitchen table.

  So this is what it’s like to go insane.

  I drop my head in my hands and think about mental hospitals. A clinic was what Dr. Rose called it, but I know what kind of place they want to send me to. I’ve seen a photo of the institution where my mother died. It had beautiful trees and sweeping lawns; it also had locks on the windows. Is that the sort of place where I too will end my days?

  The kettle screams for my attention.

  I get up to pour hot water into the teapot. Then I sit down to confront the stack of mail that’s accumulated on the kitchen table. There’s three days’ worth, still unopened; that’s how distracted we’ve been, too embroiled in our family crisis to deal with the day-to-day issues like ironing shirts or paying bills. No wonder Rob looks so rumpled lately. His wife is too busy going nuts to starch his collars.

  On top of the stack is an offer for a free manicure at my local mall, as if I give a damn anymore about my nails. In a sudden rage I sweep the mail off the table and it goes flying. An envelope lands on the floor at my feet. An envelope with a Rome postmark. I recognize the sender’s name: Anna Maria Padrone.

  I snatch it up and rip it open.

  Dear Mrs. Ansdell,

  I am sorry it has taken me so long to reply, but we have had a terrible tragedy. My grandfather is dead. A few days after I last wrote to you, he was killed during a robbery at the shop. The police are investigating, but we have little hope they will find whoever did this. My family is in mourning, and we wish to be left in peace. I am sorry, but I cannot answer any more of your questions. I ask that you do not call or write me again. Please respect our privacy.

  For a long time I sit staring at what Anna Maria has written me. I’m desperate to share this news, but with whom? Not Rob or Val, who already think I’m dangerously obsessed with Incendio. Not Dr. Rose, who’ll just add this to her evidence list for why I’m crazy.

  I pick up the phone and call Gerda.

  “Oh my God,” she murmurs. “He was murdered?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense to me, Gerda. He had nothing but junk in his shop, old furniture and horrible paintings. There are so many other antiques shops on that street. Why would thieves break into his?”

  “Maybe it looked like an easy target. Maybe there were more valuable items you didn’t notice.”

  “Old books and music? That was the most valuable stuff he had. Hardly what a thief would go for.” I look down at the letter from Rome. “The granddaughter doesn’t want to hear from me again, so I guess we’ll never find out where the music comes from.”

  “There’s still a way,” says Gerda. “We have that Venice address, written on the back of the book of Gypsy tunes. If the composer once lived there, maybe we could track down his family. What if he’s written other music that’s never been published? What if we could be the first to record it?”

  “Your fantasies are getting ahead of you. We don’t even know if he lived there.”

  “I’ll try to find out. I’m packing for Trieste right now. Remember that gig I told you about? Right after it’s over, I’m heading to Venice. I’ve already booked a cute little hotel in Dorsoduro.” She pauses. “Why don’t you meet me there?”

  “In Venice?”

  “You’ve been sounding so depressed lately, Julia. You could use a little escape to Italy. We could solve the mystery of Incendio and have a girl’s getaway at the same time. What do you think? Can Rob set you free for a week?”

  “I wish I could go.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  Because I’m about to be locked away in the nuthouse and I’ll probably never see Italy again.

  I look down at the letter and think of the gloomy little shop where I found the music. I remember the gargoyles over the door and the Medusa head knocker. And I remember how chilled I felt, as though I already sensed that Death would soon pay a visit there. Somehow I brought the curse of that place home with me, in the guise of a single sheet of manuscript paper. Even if I burned that music here, now, I don’t think I’d ever be able to break free of that curse. I’ll never get my daughter back. Certainly not while locked away inside a mental institution.

  This could be my only chance to fight back. My only chance to reclaim my family.

  My head lifts. “When will you be in Venice?” I ask Gerda.

  “The festival in Trieste runs through Sunday. I plan to take the train to Venice on Monday. Why?”

  “I’ve just changed my mind. I’ll meet you there.”

  15

  When everyone believes you are being perfectly cooperative, it’s a simple matter to escape your life and slip out of the country. I buy my ticket online at Orbitz—only two more tickets left at this price!—departing in the late afternoon, arriving in Venice early the next morning. I ask Val to keep Lily at her house while I prepare for my upcoming hospitalization. I listen attentively to everything Rob says, however inane, so he cannot accuse me of hearing imaginary voices while he’s talking to me. I cook three excellent dinners in a row, serve them all with a smile, and mention not a word about Incendio or Italy.

  On the day of my flight, I tell him I’ll be at my hairdresser’s until five, which, when you think about it, is a ridiculous excuse because why would any woman care how her hair looks when she’s about to check in to the loony bin? But Rob thinks this is perfectly reasonable. He won’t start to worry about my whereabouts until later in the evening when I don’t return home.

  By then I am already over the Atlantic Ocean, sitting in row twenty-eight, middle seat, between an elderly Italian woman on my right and a distracted-looking businessman on my left. Neither one wants to chat with me, which is too bad because I’m desperate to talk with someone, anyone, even this pair of strangers. I want to confess that I’m a runaway wife, that I’m scared but also a little thrilled. That I have nothing left to lose because my husband thinks I’m insane and my psychiatrist wants to lock me away. That I’ve never done anything this crazy and impulsive, and it feels strangely wonderful. It feels like the real Julia has broken out of prison, and she has a mission to complete. A mission to reclaim her daughter and her life.

  The flight attendants dim the cabin lights and everyone around me nestles down to sleep, but I sit wide awake, thinking about what must be happening at home. Rob will surely call Val and Dr. Rose, and then he’ll call the police. My crazy wife has disappeared. He won’t know right away that I’ve left the country. Only Gerda knows where I’m headed, and she’s already in Italy.

  While I have been to Rome several times, I have visited Venice only once before, when Rob and I were on vacation four years ago. It was in August, and I remember the city as a confusing maze of alleys and bridges overrun with tourists packed skin to clammy skin. I remember the smell of sweat and seafood and sunscreen. And I remember the white-hot glare of the sun.

  Once again, that sun is glaring down as I walk out of the airport, dazed and blinking. Yes, this is the Venice I remember. Only it’s even more crowded—and much more expensive.

  I blow almost my entire stash of euros on a private water taxi ride to the neighborhood of Dorsoduro, where Gerda has booked a room in a small hotel. Tucked into a quiet alley, the modest establishment has a dark lobby with worn velvet chairs and the sort of local character that she would call charming, but which I find merely shabby. Although she hasn’t yet checked in, our room is ready and the twin beds look clean and inviting. I’m so exhausted I don’t even bother to shower, but collapse on top of the sheets. In seconds, I am asleep.

  —

  �
�Julia.” A hand nudges me. “Hey, are you ever going to wake up?”

  I open my eyes and see Gerda bending over me. She looks bright and cheerful—too cheerful, I think, as I groan and stretch.

  “I think I’ve let you sleep long enough. It really is time for you to wake up.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Hours ago. I’ve already been out for a walk and had lunch. It’s three o’clock.”

  “I didn’t sleep at all on the plane.”

  “If you don’t get up soon, you won’t sleep a wink tonight. Come on, or you’ll never get over jet lag.”

  As I sit up, I hear my cellphone vibrate on the nightstand.

  “It’s done that about half a dozen times now,” she says.

  “I turned off the ringer so I could sleep.”

  “Maybe you should check your messages. It sounds like someone really wants to reach you.”

  I pick up the phone and scroll through the half-dozen missed calls and text messages. Rob, Rob, Rob, Val, Rob. I drop the phone into my purse. “Nothing important. Just Rob checking in.”

  “Was he okay with you coming to Venice?”

  I shrug. “He’ll understand. If he calls you, don’t bother to answer. He’ll just give you grief about my being here.”

  “You did tell him you were coming to Venice, didn’t you?”

  “I told him I needed to get away for a while, that’s all. I said I was going on a girls’ holiday and I’ll come home when I’m good and rested.” I see her frowning at me and I add: “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got a long way before I max out my credit card.”

  “It’s not your credit card that concerns me. I’m worried about you and Rob. This isn’t like you, to leave without telling him where you’re going.”

  “You did invite me here, remember?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t expect you to jump on a plane without first discussing it with him.” She studies me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I avoid her gaze and turn to look out the window. “He doesn’t believe me, Gerda. He thinks I’m delusional.”