“No.”
Eric shoots me the grin of a conqueror.
Toby says, “Here.”
“Here? Like now?” I hold up my hand to keep Eric from interrupting.
Toby doesn’t say anything.
I lean forward. “Please, baby, this is important and you won’t get in trouble. Tell Momma. Is John Robberson here right now?”
He looks at his plate. His lip starts to quiver.
Eric offers his hand, palm up, in Toby’s direction. Toby holds tight and nods.
“Yes? Toby, are you saying yes?”
“Yes.”
It’s like a stop-motion blanket falls on the dining room. I can almost feel the ceiling fan slow down. A bird chirps outside. I see dust particles in the sunbeam coming in the window and hear Thud breathing in the corner. I look down at my half-eaten halibut and detect the aroma of pine nuts in the pesto sauce. I steady my fork in my hand and slowly place it on my napkin.
I say, as gently as I can, “Tell Momma. What do you see right now?”
“You and Daddy.”
“What do you hear?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Tell me. What did he say to you? Tell me.” Even before I see Toby recoil, I can hear the pointy steel in my voice.
Eric twists his head so Toby can’t see his expression. Stop it, he mouths.
He turns back to Toby. “It’s okay, buddy.”
Toby’s tears, which were about to pop, recede with his father’s assurance. “No Kay,” he hisses, his eyebrows scrunched together for emphasis.
I say, “Is that what he said? That you have to go see Kay?”
He kicks his feet out, bucking like I’ve just thrown a spider in his lap. “I don’t want to!”
Eric reaches over and lifts Toby out of his chair. “All right, all right. Let’s go play.” Standing, he says to me, under his breath, “You’re freaking him out.”
Fine. I breathe. I do the dishes. I can’t prevent the flood of possible explanations from polluting my mind. Or the boulder that seems to have settled in the center of my chest.
I pull a load of laundry from the dryer. As Toby plays on the floor, Eric sits near me on the sofa to help me fold.
I whisper, “What happened in there?”
“Toby has an imagination and you don’t.”
“Or our son just had an auditory hallucination. Have you considered that?”
“Not for one second.”
“Eric. Be serious. Have you ever heard about early-onset schizophrenia? Little kids, they hear voices. Voices that tell them to do things they don’t want to do.”
“Come on. You can’t be serious.”
“But what if he’s …” My voice cracks.
“A perfectly normal three-year-old with an imaginary friend?”
“I’m calling the pediatrician.”
“Right now? Look at him. He’s fine. Can’t you wait until morning? This doesn’t exactly qualify as a life-threatening emergency.”
He’s right. I put away the laundry and leave them alone to play until Eric volunteers to give Toby his bath and tuck him in. I slip to the office and quickly find a website describing childhood schizophrenia symptoms. I create a list so I know what to say to the doctor.
Onset: three weeks ago
Voices: One, but it’s not scary to Toby, except when he talks about Kay.
Speech: Not disorganized or out of context.
Social Isolation: No. He has other friends, real ones.
Reduction in Emotional Expression: No.
Lack of Motivation: No.
Loss of Enjoyment: No.
I read a bit more, browse a few case studies, and finally push back from my desk, somewhat pacified. I’m still going to call, but he’s going to tell me not to worry. I return to the living room and overhear Eric reading from that airplane book that doesn’t have a Thud in it. Finally, the door closes and I hear his bare feet in the hallway. I intercept him before he makes it to the living room and read him my list.
“Good. Glad you’re feeling better about it.” He walks around the sofa. “Where’s the remote?”
“I don’t know if I feel better. Let’s just say I can wait until morning to call the doctor.” I put the list away. “I would love to know what this John Robberson keeps whispering about.”
I pause and watch him change channels in silence.
“And why does he tell Toby to go see Kay? It’s like he’s sending our kid on an errand.”
He’s still changing channels and doesn’t even make eye contact. “I don’t know. Maybe his imaginary friend has an imaginary girlfriend. Toby doesn’t like girls yet, so it’s not a stretch to understand why a girl doesn’t sound like fun to him. I don’t see why it bothers you.”
Keeping my tone deliberately calm, I let my words come out slowly. “Toby doesn’t like her. It’s almost like he’s scared. He doesn’t want to meet her.”
He matches my cadence. “So he won’t. We’re the parents. We can control this. Create a Kay-free zone.”
“Can we? We haven’t been able to create a John Robberson–free zone.”
“Whose fault is that?”
My face burns.
“Just drop it, Shel.” He flips to the sports channel and leaves it there.
“I can’t. All these coincidences—what if they actually mean something? What if there really is a John Robberson?”
“There is, Shelly, but only because Toby made him up. Let him have it. The whole thing is harmless.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Yes,” he says. “It is. Unless you start messing with his head about it, like tonight. You totally freaked him out, jumping all over him.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I know. You couldn’t stop yourself,” he says. “I just don’t get it. Why take a trivial detail and make it scary?”
I’m all jittery inside and have no idea how to articulate it. I say, “Because it’s scary to me.”
“Only because you didn’t think of it for him. Get used to it, Shel. Our son is going to have independent thoughts.”
“I know, Eric, but this is different.”
“How?”
I exhale a deep breath. “The details are too specific. What three-year-old gets obsessed with a plane that hasn’t been flown since Vietnam? How can he know these things? I can’t just pretend he’s pretending.”
“You can’t? Or you won’t?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I pick up the remote, mute the volume, and turn toward him on the sofa. “Okay, look. I found a list of Thud pilots—don’t say anything, just listen. It had the names of all the pilots who were shot down, and John Robberson wasn’t on it—don’t say it, because it doesn’t really mean anything because, Eric, there were 395 Thuds that crashed, but only 334 were shot down.”
Eric sighed. “So?”
“So that means 61 went down for operational reasons, and they weren’t on that list, so there’s still a possibility that John Robberson was a real person and a pilot. Stop. Stop rolling your eyes.”
“Want me to close them?”
“I want you to listen.” I hit him with a sofa pillow. “I’m trying to be logical and just look at the facts. There has to be an explanation. Here’s what I have to establish: One, if there was a real person named John Robberson who flew an F-105. If there was, then he’s not imaginary.”
I continue the count on my fingers. “Two, find out if he crashed his plane, and three, find out if he died in it. And I’m close. But even if all that is true, it happened, like, fifty years ago. Vietnam. Which would mean his soul has been in limbo since … what, 1965?”
Eric picks up the remote and unmutes it but lowers the volume. “So?”
“So then—and this is the thing that’s really bothering me—why now, all of sudden, does he appear in Toby’s body?”
“Are you listening to yourself?”
“All I’m saying
is, even if I can prove John Robberson is real, it doesn’t sound like an imaginary friend or a reincarnation.”
“Because it’s not.” He takes my hand. “You know what it sounds like to me?”
“Like a ghost? Or some kind of spirit talking to him?” I shudder. “That’s worse!”
“Wow.” He shakes his head. “I can’t decide if Lakshmi has brainwashed you or you’re losing your shit.”
“You could decide I’m taking a logical approach to researching a phenomenon I don’t understand.”
He takes a breath and tries again. “You know what it sounds like to me?”
“No.”
“It sounds like a developmental milestone—an indication of maternal separation, which is normal. Maybe it’s hard for you to see what’s right in front of you—”
“Stop patronizing me. If you have something to say, just say it.”
“Okay. I’ll say it.” He stands up. “Our son is not your personal human experiment. He is allowed to have independent thoughts and dreams. He’s three. He gets to pretend without you dissecting it and turning it into a phenomenon. Do you get it? This is not about him! This is about you. Get out of his head.”
And with that, he tosses me the remote and grabs Thud’s leash. “I’m going for a run.”
“Why is our dog named the same thing as an airplane? Tell me that.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
I know. The dog’s name has nothing to do with an airplane. But John Robberson does.
Later that night, I feel like I’m sleeping with a corpse on the opposite side of the bed. I accidently brush up against him, my hand landing on his chest, and he rolls over. As if it repels him.
I don’t sleep a wink that night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
*
I’M THE BOSS
I don’t have time to dwell on Eric’s coldness the next day, because Toby doesn’t understand why he has to go to the doctor if he’s not sick. Once we get there he’s happy to watch half a movie in the lobby. When they call our names, I let him watch a little longer so I can pull the nurse aside and whisper my concerns before we go back into the examining room.
I appreciate Dr. Moore, our pediatrician, even though we always have to wait. It’s worth it because for my allotted ten minutes, he’s fully present and focused on Toby.
He reads the chart and tells the nurse to take Toby to be measured and weighed, which leaves us alone. He smiles when I hand him the list I made, but he takes his time to read it thoroughly. His eyebrows pull together when I describe John Robberson’s appearance at our dinner table.
Toby returns and jumps onto the examining table. Dr. Moore sits on a wheeled stool and pulls up close. After a general examination, he says, “Toby, Mom was telling me about John Robberson. I’d like to ask you some questions. Is that okay?”
Toby nods.
“Mom says he talks to you. Is that right?”
“He whispers.”
“When do you hear him?” Dr. Moore continues. “Does he whisper more in the mornings when you wake up, or at the end of the day, when you’re eating dinner, or at night, when you go to bed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Does your head ever hurt when he talks to you? Or right after he talks to you?”
Toby shakes his head.
“Tell me about John Robberson’s plane.”
Toby nods. “Thud. We saw it at the museum. And I have one. In my bucket.”
“His toy bucket.” I start to explain, but stop mid-sentence when I notice Dr. Moore fails to turn his head toward me.
“Thanks, Mom.” Eyes still on Toby, he says, “Does John Robberson ever tell you to do bad things?”
“No.”
“Are you ever scared of him?”
“No.”
“Do you have other friends, Toby?”
“Sanjay.”
I say, “That’s his—” but his lifted index finger stops me short.
“Does Sanjay know John Robberson?”
Toby looks puzzled.
I explain about the park and how the boys play the airplane game together. I talk fast, telling him about the crashing and the broken leg. I hear a baby’s shriek from the next room. My time is almost up.
I say, “Toby, tell the doctor about Kay.”
“No!” He flings his feet in a stomping motion, but he’s sitting on the edge of the examining bed, so all he does is crumple paper. Or maybe he’s trying to kick me; I’m not sure.
Dr. Moore restrains Toby’s legs. “My. That’s a big reaction. What’s all this about Kay?”
Toby repeats, “I don’t want to go see her.”
“Ah. This is not your idea, is it? Let me guess. This is John Robberson’s idea?”
Toby nods, miserably.
“I see.” Dr. Moore nods along with him.
I explain it’s the only thing about John Robberson that Toby finds objectionable. It also seems to be the only thing John Robberson has asked Toby to do. Go see Kay.
“Thank you, Mom.” Dr. Moore scoots his stool closer to the examining table once again. “Toby, I’m your doctor and I’m about to tell you something important. Are you ready?”
Toby’s eyes grow wide and serious.
“You,” he says, with his finger in the middle of Toby’s little bare chest, “You are the boss of John Robberson. Do you understand what that means?”
He squints. He wants to say yes, I can tell, but he can’t. Not yet.
“It means that if you don’t like John Robberson’s idea, if you don’t want to do what John Robberson says, you don’t have to. He can’t make you.”
Toby beams. I can’t tell if he’s proud or relieved.
The doctor continues, “I want Mom to hear this, so she can help you if you need it. So that means you have to do your part and tell Mom any time John Robberson says something you don’t like. If he starts being mean, you tell her. If he has a bad idea, you tell her. If it happens too many times, she’s going to come and tell me. Will you do that for me?”
Toby nods.
“Who is the boss of John Robberson?”
“I am,” Toby says.
“That’s right.” Dr. Moore gives little Toby a big hug, another one of those things I like about him. “Now I’m going to talk to Mom outside here for just a minute.” He nods to the nurse, who shows Toby a tongue depressor and tries to make it interesting.
Outside the examining room, in a crowded hallway, he tells me he thinks there’s nothing to worry about. He sees no clinical indicators but offers a referral to a child psychiatrist in case I want to have him evaluated. I ask what that entails, and when he explains it, I know I won’t be making that call. Psychiatric evaluation? Antipsychotic drugs? Not if there’s any other explanation.
All I know for sure is that Toby will not be doing the one thing John Robberson wants him to do. Ever. Because I am the freaking boss of John Robberson, effective immediately.
CHAPTER NINE
*
THE REAL JOHN ROBBERSON
Toby is jumping up and down next to my chair as I check my e-mail one more time before we head out to the park. Still nothing from the Air Force or the guy who keeps the list. If I’m ever going to figure out those sixty-one crashes, I’m going to have to change strategies.
“All right, jumping bean,” I say to Toby. “Let’s go to the park.”
As soon as Toby and Sanjay see each other, their arms pop out into wing position and stay that way for hours.
“They’re going to have some great delts if they keep this up,” I say, walking up to Lakshmi.
“Well, that’s looking on the bright side,” she says, patting the blanket for me to sit down. “Was John Robberson at breakfast this morning?”
“If he was, he behaved himself. Yesterday I claimed it. I’m the boss of John Robberson.” I fill her in on our visit to Dr. Moore. She’s impressed. I also tell her about my argument with Eric.
“What are you going to do
with him?”
“I’m going to make my case.”
I tell her about my latest discovery: the Division of Personality Studies at the University of Virginia and the work of Dr. Evan Stevenson, who made it his life’s work to investigate the past-life claims of small children. I’m fascinated by his research exploring the spontaneous, waking memories of small children who recount dates, names, relatives—intimate details about things the children would have no way of knowing.
This professor of psychiatry, well respected and seemingly legitimate, trotted the globe for over twenty years and interviewed literally thousands of these children. He interviewed the surviving family members of the dead person the child was referencing, as if it were a foregone conclusion, and tried to confirm what they said while identifying things like family bias and the child’s perception of pressure. It’s exactly what Ms. Pushpa described, only now with a social scientist’s validating evidence.
“The only way he’s going to take me seriously is if I can quantify it.”
Lakshmi offers such encouragement, I can hardly wait to get back to my computer. I’ve found a hotbed of actual case studies, all involving small children: one remembering the deceased uncle she had never met, another—an eighteen-month-old—who calmly told his father, in the midst of a diaper change, “I remember when I used to do this for you.”
I had thought that when I told Eric about it at dinner that night, he’d appreciate Dr. Stevenson’s attempts at objectively validating these claims. But no. When I tell him about the boy Toby’s age who identified a past-life wife with the matter-of-fact attitude of a forty-year-old, he snorts.
“Come on. A three-year-old talks about his wife?” he asks.
“Weird, isn’t it? But you know what I can’t reconcile?”
“Oh, please. Enlighten me.”
“Never mind.” I jab at my green beans until my fork is overfull and I have to use my fingers to pull them off.
“Aw. Don’t take it out on your vegetables.” He laughs.
“It’s not funny, Eric. I want to be able to talk to you about this.”
“Okay. I’m listening. What’s gotten you so interested in this?”
I whisper, so Toby can’t hear, “It’s a philosophical question, really. For the sake of argument, let’s say the grandfather’s soul is in the son’s body. Where’s the son’s soul? Does he not have one of his own? Do you see what I’m saying? If an old soul takes a new body, does it kick the existing soul out? Or did the new body not have a soul? Maybe it only happens at birth. I can’t figure it out.”
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