MISHA

MISHA

The crusts must be cut off the sandwiches. That’s what my seven-year-old daughter always reminds me. Today was no exception. I glided into her play fort, two sandwiches in hand.

“Mommy, why did you put both sandwiches on one plate?” Aria looked up from the doll she was dressing. The other doll sat, untouched in the corner of the fort. Her voice came out in an offended echo, “did you forget Misha?”

“Sweetie, I would never forget Misha. Can you and Misha share a plate?” I held my hand over my heart to exaggerate my sincerity. The truth was, I was tired of wasting plates. Tired of wasting my precious conversations with my daughter over someone who didn’t exist. Misha’s imaginary existence seemed to wedge herself in between our real existences. If I so much as addressed Aria without pretending to address Misha, she would tantrum.

I blame myself for this. As a single mother, traumatized by the abuse of a narcissist ex-husband who cheated with my ex-best friend; I was an isolationist. I could barely bring myself to greet the cashier at the grocery store. I didn’t trust anyone anymore. I never would again.

Aria was my saving grace. When she was born, I named her Aria. My ex-husband had said he never heard a name so pretentious. He just didn’t understand. Aria meant “air” in Italian. She was the air I breathed. The only reason I continued under the constant scrutiny and torment of that marriage.

And now, she was my only friend and confidant. What was I doing to her? I tried to encourage her to enroll in activities at school. To make friends and mingle with other children. Yet when she attempted, she brought Misha with her. You know how kids are. You know where I am leading with this.

Now looking at my daughter, my beautiful child, playing all alone in her fort; I felt like an utter failure.

Aria looked beside her, at the only vacant spot in her fort. She nodded her head intently. For a quick instant, I swore I saw a strand of her hair move. I could feel the skin on my arms begin to prickle at the odd encounter. Aria never had any qualms about speaking freely to and about Misha in front of me, or anyone else for that matter. Lately, she’s been more reserved. As though she is listening to something. Or someone.

“Misha says it’s okay if we share a plate.” Aria picked up her sandwich and took a bite too big for her tiny mouth. I excused myself then, for my children both real and invisible were content.

It was on my way out of Aria’s room that she said something startling.

“Mommy?” Aria called out from beneath her play fort. I stood at the doorway, holding my breath. “Misha said you look sad lately. She said she’ll be friends with you too. All you have to do is ask.”

My eyes fluttered over my shoulder and that’s when I saw it. The outline of Aria under the sheets that hung over the chairs she used for the fort. Behind Aria’s outline, was another one. A shadow. Only it didn’t resemble a little girl.

The shadow fanned upward like a crepuscular flame. Before I knew it, it was about 9 feet tall. Then as quickly as it had spread upward, it had fizzled away.

From what I had just witnessed; I wasn’t sure I wanted to have Misha for a friend.

*

The streamers had to be purple. With the advent of winter came Aria’s birthday. The frigidness of that particular day wasn’t enough to combat the sweat beads that tumbled down my forehead. There was much to be done.

As I was saying, Aria requested purple streamers. I found it interesting. Aria’s favorite color was yellow. When I began hanging the streamers, I noticed the embers of Aria’s brown eyes, ablaze with satisfaction. “Misha loves them.” Aria interrupted.

Of Course. Misha loves them. Misha also loves strawberry shortcake apparently. Naturally because that’s what Misha wanted, that became Aria’s birthday cake. I looked over my shoulder from the chair I stood precariously on top of. Aria seated at our teakwood kitchen table; hands folded. Her birthday hat lopsided on top of her golden-brown tresses. It was around 1 pm, almost time for guests to begin to arrive. As I hung the last of the streamers, I manned my station next to my daughter at our table.

As we sat in wait, I took a moment to admire my handiwork. In the dining room was a gorgeous spread of hors d’oeuvres. I had made a splendid fondue. Its’ creamy eggshell hue tranquilly spilled down the fountain I used as a display. I anxiously stood, walking toward the food display. I snuck a bite of raw broccoli. Dipping it generously into the melted divinity of Gruyere and Swiss I had created. My eyes peeled away from the door to Aria. She still sat at the kitchen table, expectantly.

1:00 had turned into 1:15, which then quickly morphed in 1:45. I kept the bravest face I could for my little girl. But my heart was aflame with anguish. All of this preparation and for what?

Misha? The entity that was ruining my little girl? Aria sat with her legs dangling off of the kitchen chair. Ever since that day I saw the shadow in her room, there have been strange occurrences. The strangest of them all was the radical change in demeanor I saw in my child. She didn’t want to go out to play anymore. Her grades were slipping. The most devastating of it all was that I couldn’t seem to ever bring a smile to her face. Would I ever see her smile again?

I have to help her. My mother recommended I start taking her to a psychologist. The idea had me absolutely perturbed. Nothing screams failure quite like having to enroll my child in the care of a psychological specialist. As I stared at the image of my daughter sitting alone on her birthday in our kitchen, I realized my ego needed to be put away. Along with Misha.

I resumed my spot at the kitchen table with Aria. I placed my hand on hers. “Aria,” I gave her little fingers a tight squeeze. “You gave the invitations out to your classmates, right?”

She glumly nodded. Call it mother’s intuition or what have you, but I knew something was amiss. Out of thirty children, not one bothered to show up. Something was strange.

It wasn’t until a week later when I was cleaning Aria’s room. She was at school. I was at home cleaning up the explosion of clothing all over her floor. I bent down to retrieve a sock I saw beneath her bed. That’s when I saw them.

The invitations. All unopened, like fossils waiting to be excavated. I felt acid elevate itself into my throat. The anger within me threatening to squall like a monsoon.

I picked Aria up at her bus stop. I bent down, taking her shoulders into my hands. “Aria.” I kept my voice as nonconfrontational as possible. “Are sure you gave those invitations to your classmates.”

Again, the same vacant stare. The same brusque nod. I dived into my purse and pulled out one of the purple, embellished envelopes. “I found this cleaning your room.”

“It’s not my fault!” She retorted. “Misha doesn’t like the kids in my class.”

“Aria!” I snarled. “Stop it! Stop it right now! I am tired of Misha! I do not want you playing with her anymore! Do you understand?”

Aria writhed out of my grasp, stomping away furiously. But not before she gave me a chilling warning.

“Misha said you can’t keep us apart. She’s here to stay.”

Leaves detached from branches in droves and scattered around the back of Aria’s silhouette as she walked away from me. And just like that, trees were losing their leaves and my child was losing her sanity.

＊

Dr.Hoffmann’s office was a metropolis for intellectual scholars and philosophical bohemians alike. The office itself was drab like the fine leather exterior of a briefcase. Large, rustic brown chairs sat in a corner, against an ivory wall. A dreary fish tank sat nestled in between the chairs. The only eye-catching color it managed to offer was that of the blanched, slimy sea moss that was crusted to the bottom of the tank. A few outdated copies of Psychology Today lie collecting dust on an end table by the door.

What really drew my attention was Sigmund Freud’s Psychopathology of Everyday Life conveniently placed next to Jen Sincero’s You are a Badass.

Yes, what a badass I am. My daughter needs psychotherapy for her imaginary friend whom I am starting to think isn’t imaginary. I should be the one sitting in that room. I thought to myself callously.

Aria shuffled out of Dr.Hoffmann’s office. Her mouth was puckered like she had just sucked a lemon. Dr.Hoffman appeared behind her, ironing the lapels of his blazer with his hands. “Mrs. Renzi, would you join me in my office for a brief moment?”

“Ms.” I corrected him from my seat. The title of “Mrs.” absolutely repulsed me. Once we were in the safety of Dr.Hoffman’s office, I felt the tension release from my shoulders. “Dr.Hoffmann, how did she do?”

He clasped his hands beneath his chin. A maneuver that told me he was reflecting on the wording he would choose. He cleared his throat politely. “Well, Ms.Renzi, I can assure you it is quite normal for a child in your daughter’s age range to partake in an imaginary companion. From my assessment of Aria, it seems it is a coping mechanism against loneliness. Isolation. I am not saying you are the cause of this isolation but rather, her companion Misha seems to fit the bill for what she is looking for in terms of emotional fulfillment. Thus, leading her to show disinterest in connecting with other children her age.”

“Does she know… does she know Misha isn’t real?”

Dr.Hoffmann’s eyes were patient and benevolent. “This is where I draw some reservations. I’d like to continue having sessions with her. What concerns me is the line that divides reality and fantasy seems to be blurred. From what we discussed prior to her appointment, the changes in behavior; I need to evaluate further.” He guided you back to the door, holding an appointment card in his hand.

“Do I think her cognitive dissonance is related to something like childhood schizophrenia? Absolutely not. In fact, it’s quite rare for a child to receive such a diagnosis. Rest assured. I think what your daughter is going through is the exploration of her own emotions. A natural response to the abuse she’s witnessed and endured.” He passed you his card with Aria’s next session written on it.

You joined Aria in the waiting room. The same scowl still painted on her lips.

Yeah. Badass mother indeed.

*

It was almost a week since Aria’s appointment with Dr.Hoffmann. It was around 1 a.m. when I awoke to the sound of Aria, laughing from down the hall. I flipped my quilt off of me and began to fumble with the tie of my robe. As I padded down the hall, I stood outside of Aria’s door. I gently pressed my ear against the door, intent on hearing what she was saying.

Aria chuckled. “I told you Misha; you have to stop opening the cabinets. It’s bad enough you showed mommy what you looked like. If you stop trying to scare mommy, she won’t make you go away.”

“Aria!” Your hand rapped on the back of the door. “Go to sleep. You have school tomorrow!”

An unenthusiastic “yes mommy” was audible from the other side of the door. A hearty yawn escaped my lips. Despite the ferocious roar of sleepiness that escaped me, I knew I wouldn’t go back to sleep. I tip-toed down into my kitchen, deciding on a steaming cup of hot tea and some Milano cookies.

I flicked the light on and was greeted to the cabinet containing my coffee mugs open in wait. Isn’t Misha thoughtful? I mused internally as I put the kettle on. I began to travel down my familiar path of self-implication. Aria’s self-soothing behavior was a result of my poor choice of a husband. Misha was a product of my design. Perhaps it would behoove me to talk to Dr.Hoffmann myself. I had my own coping mechanisms I picked up during those few years of a hellfire marriage.

The kettle screeched, freeing me from the chains of my self-imprisoned mind. As I poured myself a cup of tea, I realized I forgot something.

I grabbed another mug from the cabinet and began to pour water in it.

“One bag or two?”

I grabbed two tea bags and plunked them into the boiling water. I sat down at my table across from my friend.

“Don’t worry, Annalie. If I go to Dr.Hoffmann, he won’t keep us apart.” The sound of your laughter drowned out the sound of Aria’s from upstairs.

“You’re here to stay.”