residents.
None of them had poisoned their kids.
Cindy touched her braid and looked back at me.
I smiled, trying to look reassuring, wondering about her certainty that
Cassie and she were able to communicate on a neartelepathic level.
Blurred ego boundaries?
The kind of pathologic overidentification that feeds into child
abuse?
Then again, what mother didn’t claim-often correctly-a radarlike link
with her baby? Why suspect this mother of anything more than good
bonding?
Because this mother’s babies didn’t lead healthy, happy lives.
Cindy was still looking at me. I knew I couldn’t go on weighing every
nuance and still come across as genuine.
I glanced over at the child in the bed, as perfect as a bisque doll.
Her mother’s voodoo doll?
“You’re doing your best,” I said. “That’s all anyone can ask.”
I hoped it sounded more sincere than I felt. Before Cindy could
respond, Cassie opened her eyes, yawned, rubbed her lids and sat up
groggily. Both hands were out from under the covers now. The one that
had been concealed was pufly and bore needle bruises and yellow
Betadine stains.
Cindy rushed over to her and held her. “Good morning, baby.”
New music in her voice. She kissed Cassie’s cheek.
Cassie gazed up at her and let her head rest against Cindy’s abdomen.
Cindy stroked her hair and held her close. Yawning again, Cassie
looked around until her eyes settled on the LuvBunnies on the
nightstand.
Pointing to the stuffed animals, she began making urgent whining
noises: “Eh, eh.”
Cindy reached over and snagged a pink animal. “Here you go, baby.
It’s FunnyBunny and he’s saying, Good morning, Miss Cassie Jones. Did
you have a good dream?”” Talking softly, slowly, in the goof’,
eager-to-please voice of a kiddy-show host.
Cassie snatched the doll. Holding it to her chest, she closed her eyes
and swayed, and for a moment I thought she’d fall back asleep.
But a moment later the eyes opened and stayed that way. Big and brown,
just like her mother’s.
Her big-eyed gaze jumped around the room once more, swinging in my
direction and stopping.
We made eye contact.
I smiled.
She screamed.
Cindy held her and rocked her and said, “It’s okay. He’s our
friend.”
Cassie threw the LuvBunny on the floor, then began sobbing for it.
I picked it up and held it out to her. She shrank back and clung to
her mother. I gave Cindy the doll, took a yellow bunny from the shelf,
and sat back down.
I began to play with the animal, manipulating its arms, chatting
nonsense. Cassie continued crying and Cindy kept up a quiet,
comforting patter, too soft to hear. I stayed with the bunny. After a
minute or so, Cassie’s volume dropped a notch.
Cindy said, “Look, honey-you see? Dr. Delaware likes the bunnies,
too.”
Cassie gulped, gasped, and let out a wail.
“No, he’s not going to hurt you, honey. He’s our friend.”
I stared at the doll’s overbite and shook one of its paws. A white
heart on its belly bore yellow letters: SillyBunny and the trademark
OR. A tag near its crotch said MADE IN TAIWAN.
Cassie paused for breath.
Cindy said, “It’s okay, honey, everything’s okay.”
Whimper and sniff from the bed.
“How bout a story, baby, okay? Once upon a time there was a princess
named Cassandra who lived in a great big castle and had wonderful
dreams about candy and whipped-cream clouds……
Cassie stared up. Her bruised hand touched her lips.
I placed the yellow bunny on the floor, opened my briefcase, and took
out a notebook and a pencil. Cindy stopped talking for a moment, then
resumed her story. Cassie was calm now, caught up in another world.
I started to draw. A bunny. I hoped.
A few minutes later it was clear the Disney folk had nothing to worry
about, but I thought the end product managed to be cute and
sufficiently rabbitlike. I added a hat and a bow tie, reached into the
case again, and found the box of colored markers I kept there along
with other tools of the trade.
I began coloring. The markers squeaked. Rustles came from the bed.
Cindy stopped telling her story.