The Three: A Novel

by Sarah Lotz

  Then, just after that died down, those damn End Timers started more of their nonsense, saying that a fourth child must have survived the crash in Africa. This brought on a fresh wave of journalists and film crews, and another crowd of those religious types with their wide staring eyes and end-of-the-world placards. Betsy was furious. ‘Those meshugeners, they should be arrested for spreading those lies!’ I’d stopped reading the papers after the poison they spread about Bobby being ‘unnatural’, never mind what else they were saying about him being possessed. In the end, I had to ask Betsy not to show me the articles or even tell me about them. I couldn’t bear to hear it.

  It got so bad that I had to devise a special routine before Bobby and I could even leave the apartment. First I’d ask Betsy to look outside and check that there were none of those alien people or the shouty religious types hanging around in the park, and then Bobby would put on his disguise–a baseball cap and a pair of clear-lensed glasses. He treated it like a game, bless him: ‘Dress up time again, Bubbe!’ I’d taken to dyeing my hair after all those photographs of me and Bobby at Lori’s service were published. It was Betsy’s idea, we’d spent half-an-hour in Walgreens choosing a colour. We decided on auburn, which I worried made me look a bit brassy. How I wished I could have got Reuben’s opinion on that!

  Bobby and I had a fine time that day. It was raining, so there were no other children there, but it did both of us good. For an hour, I could almost pretend we were living a normal life.

  After we got back from the park, I settled Reuben in bed. He’d been more serene, I suppose you’d call it, since Bobby came to live with us. He slept a lot and his dreams didn’t seem to haunt him.

  I made a rare roast beef sandwich for both of us, and Bobby and I settled onto the couch to watch a movie on Netflix. I chose something called Nim’s Island, which I regretted immediately as there was a dead mother right in the opening credits. But Bobby didn’t flinch. He still hadn’t internalised (I think that’s the correct term) what had happened to Lori. He’d settled into life with me and Reuben as if he’d always lived with us. And he never mentioned Lori unless I talked about her first.

  I told him over and over again that his mother had loved him more than life itself, and that she’d always be with him in spirit, but this didn’t seem to go in. I’d been putting off taking him to another trauma counsellor–he didn’t seem to need it–but I still kept in touch with Dr Pankowski, who assured me not to worry. She said children have an inbuilt coping mechanism to help them come to terms with sudden trauma, and not to panic if I noticed some changes in his behaviour. I never liked to say anything to Lori, but a few times when I babysat Bobby, just after Reuben got sick, he’d acted out a little. Thrown a tantrum or two. But after the crash and his mother’s… after Lori… it was as if he’d grown up overnight; as if he knew we all had to work together to get over it. And he was far more affectionate. I tried to hide my grief from him, but whenever he saw me crying, he’d put his arms around me and say, ‘Don’t be sad, Bubbe.’

  As we watched the movie, he snuggled against me, and then he said, ‘Can’t Po Po watch with us, Bubbe?’ Po Po was Bobby’s name for Reuben. I can’t remember where it came from, but Lori thought it was cute, so she encouraged him to use it.

  ‘Po Po’s sleeping, Bobby,’ I said.

  ‘Po Po sleeps a lot, doesn’t he, Bubbe?’

  ‘He does. It’s because…’ How do you explain Alzheimer’s to a child? ‘You know Po Po has been sick for a while, don’t you, Bobby? You remember that from before you came to live with us.’

  ‘Yes, Bubbe,’ he said gravely.

  I don’t remember falling asleep on the couch, but I must have done. I woke up to the sound of laughter. The movie had finished so it wasn’t the television.

  It was Reuben.

  I sat completely still, Elspeth, barely daring to breathe. Then I heard Bobby saying something–I couldn’t catch the words–followed by that laugh again.

  I hadn’t heard that sound for months.

  My neck was aching from the angle in which I’d fallen asleep, but I didn’t take any notice of that. I moved faster than I had in years!

  They were in the bedroom, Reuben sitting up, his hair all mussed, Bobby perched at the end of the bed.

  ‘Hello, Bubbe,’ Bobby said. ‘Po Po has woken up.’

  That dead expression–the Al mask–was gone. ‘Hello,’ Reuben said, clear as you please. ‘Have you seen my reading glasses?’ I had to clap my hand to my mouth to stop myself from screaming. ‘Bobby wants me to read him a story.’

  ‘Does he?’ I think I said. I’d started shaking. It had been months since Reuben had had a clear period–an anti-Al moment–if you don’t count that hand squeeze he gave me just after we found out about Bobby surviving. Word coherence was the first thing Al had stolen from Reuben, and here Reuben was, speaking clearly, all the words in their correct order.

  I thought perhaps I was dreaming.

  Then Reuben said, ‘I’ve looked in the turvey but I couldn’t find them.’ I didn’t care that he’d used the wrong word then–all I could think was that I was witnessing some kind of miracle.

  ‘I’ll look for you, Reuben,’ I said. He hadn’t needed his glasses for months–well, he wasn’t going to be reading, not with Al. My pulse racing like a runaway train, I searched everywhere I could think of, pulling things all over the place. I was terrified that if I didn’t find those glasses he’d retreat and Al would take over again. I finally found them at the bottom of his sock drawer.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Reuben said. I remember thinking that was strange; Reuben had never called me ‘dear’ before.

  ‘Reuben… are you… how are you feeling?’ I was still finding it a struggle to speak.

  ‘A little bit tired. But otherwise goodness.’

  Bobby padded off to the bedroom and brought back one of his old picture books. A strange one that Lori had bought him years ago called Vegetable Glue. He handed it to Reuben.

  ‘Hmmmm.’ Reuben squinted at the book. ‘The words… they’re not right.’

  He was fading again. I could see the shadow of Al reappearing in his eyes.

  ‘Shall I ask Bubbe to read it to us, Po Po?’ Bobby asked.

  Another look of confusion, then a spark of life. ‘Yes. Where’s Lily?’

  ‘I’m here, Reuben,’ I said.

  ‘You’re a redder. My Lily was dark.’

  ‘I dyed my hair. Do you like it?’

  He didn’t answer–he couldn’t. He was gone again.

  ‘Read it to us, Bubbe!’ Bobby said.

  I sat on the bed and started reading the book, my voice shaking.

  Reuben fell asleep almost immediately. When I was tucking Bobby into bed, I asked him what they’d been talking about when I heard Reuben laughing.

  ‘He was telling me about his bad dreams, and I told him that he didn’t need to have them anymore if he didn’t want them.’

  I didn’t expect to sleep a wink that night. But I did. I woke to find Reuben gone from his side of the bed. I ran through to the kitchen, my heart thudding in my chest.

  Bobby was sitting on the counter, jabbering away to Reuben who was spooning sugar into a cup filled with milk. I didn’t care that the counter top was covered in coffee grounds and crumbs and spilled milk, the only thing I could take in right then was the amazing fact that Reuben had dressed himself. His jacket was inside out, but other than that, he looked fine. He’d even tried to shave, and he hadn’t done too bad a job of it. He glanced at me and waved. ‘I wanted to fetch bagels, but I couldn’t find the key.’

  I tried to smile. ‘How are you feeling today, Reuben?’

  ‘Fine thank you for asking, you’re welcome,’ he said. He wasn’t all back, there was something not quite right about him–something lacking in his eyes still–but he was up and about, he was dressed, and he was talking.

  Bobby tugged on Reuben’s hand. ‘Come on, Po Po. Let’s go watch TV. Can we, Bubbe?’

&
nbsp; Still feeling dazed, I nodded.

  I didn’t know what to do with myself. I called the care agency and told them that I didn’t need anyone that day, and then I made an appointment with Dr Lomeier. I did all these things automatically.

  Getting out of the apartment, even with the miracle, wasn’t going to be simple. Reuben hadn’t been outside for weeks and I worried about him getting overly tired. I thought about asking Betsy to do her usual sweep of the area to check there weren’t any reporters lurking around, but something stopped me from knocking on her door. Instead, I called a taxi even though it was only a few blocks to the Beth Israel clinic, and told Bobby to put on his disguise. We were lucky that day. I couldn’t see any of those reporters, and the people passing by the apartment–a Hasidic man and a group of Hispanic teenagers–didn’t spare us a glance. The taxi driver managed to park right outside the front door. He gave Bobby a strange look, but didn’t say anything. He was one of those immigrant drivers. A Bengali or something like that. I don’t think he even spoke English; and I had to direct him to the clinic.

  Probably I should tell you a little bit about Dr Lomeier. I didn’t like him, Elspeth. There’s no doubt that he was a good doctor, but I didn’t appreciate the way he used to speak about Reuben as if he wasn’t there when I used to take him in for his check-ups: ‘And how is Reuben doing today, Mrs Small, are we having any difficulties with him?’

  He was the first doctor who’d mentioned the possibility of Alzheimer’s as the cause of Reuben’s forgetfulness, and Reuben didn’t like him either. ‘Why’d I have to get news like that from a putz like him?’ The specialist we were referred to was far more personable, but that meant a trip into Manhattan, and I wasn’t ready to take Reuben all that way. For now, Dr Lomeier would do. I needed answers. I needed to know what we were dealing with.

  When we were shown into his room, Dr Lomeier was friendlier than usual. ‘Is this Bobby?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard all about you, young man.’

  ‘What are you doing on your computer?’ Bobby said. ‘You have pictures. I want to see!’

  Dr Lomeier blinked in surprise, and then turned his computer screen around. It showed a photograph of an alpine scene. ‘Not that picture,’ Bobby said. ‘The ones with the ladies holding their peepees.’

  There was an awkward silence and then Reuben said, clear as a bell, ‘Well, go on, show him the pictures, doc.’ Bobby grinned at him, as pleased as punch.

  Dr Lomeier’s mouth dropped right open. It sounds like I’m exaggerating, Elspeth, but you should have seen the man.

  ‘Mrs Small,’ he said. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  I told him Reuben had started talking last night.

  ‘He started talking coherently last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘I see.’ He shifted in his chair.

  I almost expected Reuben to say something like, ‘Oy, I am here you know, schmuck.’ But he kept silent.

  ‘I have to say, Mrs Small, I am quite astonished if what you say is true. Reuben’s deterioration has been… In fact, I’m quite surprised to see that he is mobile at all. I expected that I would have to refer you to one of the state homes quite some time ago.’

  The anger hit like a fist. ‘Don’t talk about him like that! He’s here! He’s a person you… you…’

  ‘Putz?’ Reuben said brightly.

  ‘Bubbe?’ Bobby looked at me. ‘Can we go now? This man is sicky.’

  ‘It’s your grandfather who is sick, Bobby,’ Dr Lomeier said.

  ‘Oh no,’ Bobby said. ‘Po Po isn’t sick.’ He tugged at my hand. ‘Let’s go, Bubbe. This is silly.’ Reuben was already on his feet, making for the door.

  I stood up.

  Dr Lomeier was still flustered, and his pale face had turned red. ‘Mrs Small… I urge you, please make another appointment immediately. I can refer you to Dr Allen at Mount Sinai again. If Reuben is showing signs of improved cognitive ability, then it could mean that the Dematine dosage he is on is working with far more efficacy than we could ever have envisaged.’

  I didn’t say that Reuben had been refusing to take his medication for weeks now. Whatever was causing his transformation, it wasn’t the Dematine. I couldn’t get him to swallow it.

  Stan Murua-Wilson’s daughter, Isobel, is a former classmate of Bobby Small’s. Mr Murua-Wilson agreed to talk to me via Skype in May 2012.

  Goes without saying that all of us parents at Roberto Hernandes were super-shocked when we heard about Lori. We just couldn’t believe something like that could happen to someone we knew. Not that Lori and I were close or anything. My wife, Ana, isn’t jealous, but she had an issue with Lori’s behaviour at a couple of PTA meetings. Ana said she was flirty, called her a grade-A flake. I wouldn’t have gone that far. Lori was okay. Most of the kids at Roberto Hernandes are Hispanic–but it’s got this integration and diversity ethos thing going on–and Lori was never like, hey, look at me, sending my kid to a public school so that he can get real with the kids from the neighbourhood. A few of the white parents whose kids go to Magnet schools are like that, you know, smug. And Lori could easily have sent Bobby to one of the good yeshiva schools in the neighbourhood. I reckon part of Ana’s problem with Lori was Bobby… he wasn’t the easiest kid, if you want to know the truth.

  I’m an English major, was planning on teaching before Isobel came along, and Bobby’s behaviour–pre-crash, I mean–and Lori’s attitude to it reminded me of that short story by Shirley Jackson, Charles. You know it? About this boy called Laurie who comes home every day from kindergarten with tales about this evil kid called Charles, who’s been acting up in class, bullying the other kids and killing the class hamster and stuff. Laurie’s parents are full of schadenfreude, and say things like, ‘Why don’t Charles’s parents discipline the boy?’ Course, when they eventually go to the school for a parent-teacher meeting, they find out that there’s no kid in the class called Charles–the bad kid is actually their own son.

  A couple of parents tried to speak to Lori about Bobby, but it never seemed to go in. Ana freaked out last year when Isobel came home and said that Bobby had tried to bite her. Ana was all for going in to see the principal, but I talked her out of it. Knew it would blow over, or maybe Lori would come to her senses and dose him up with Ritalin or whatever; that kid had serious ADD.

  Can I say he was a different child after the crash? There’s a lot of talk about this, what with all that shit the prophecy nut jobs are saying, but because Bobby’s grandmother Lillian decided to put him into the home schooling programme–I guess because of all the attention he was getting from the media and those freaks–it’s hard for me to say. But there was one time I came across him, round about late March. The weather wasn’t great, but Isobel had been on my back about going to the park all day, and in the end I gave in.

  When we got there, Isobel was like, ‘Look, Daddy, there’s Bobby.’ And before I could stop her, she ran right over to him. He was wearing a baseball cap and glasses, so I didn’t recognise him straight off, but Isobel saw through that straight away. Bobby was with an elderly woman who introduced herself as Betsy, Lillian’s neighbour. She said that Lillian’s husband, Reuben, was having a bad day, so she’d offered to take Bobby out for a while. Betsy was a real talker!

  ‘You want to play with me, Bobby?’ Isobel asked. She’s a good little girl. Bobby nodded and held out his hand. Together they went over to the swings. I was watching them closely, giving half an ear to Betsy. You could tell she thought it was weird that I stayed home and looked after Isobel while Ana went out to work. ‘Never would have happened in my day,’ she kept saying. Lots of my buddies in the area are the same. Doesn’t make you less of a man or any of that shit. We don’t get bored. We have a jogging club; meet at the rec centre for racquetball, that kind of thing.

  Isobel said something to Bobby and he laughed. I started to relax. There they were, heads together, chattering away. They seemed to be having a great time.

  ‘He doesn
’t see enough of other children,’ Betsy was going on. ‘I don’t blame Lillian, she has her hands full.’

  On our way home, I asked Isobel what she and Bobby had talked about. I was worried that maybe Bobby had been telling her about the crash and his mother dying. I hadn’t broached the death issue yet with Isobel. She had a hamster that was getting more and more sluggish by the day, but I was planning to just replace it without her knowing. I’m a coward like that. Ana’s different. ‘Death is a fact of life.’ But you don’t want kids to grow up too quickly, do you?

  ‘I was telling him about the lady,’ she said. I knew exactly what she meant. Since she was three, Isobel had suffered from night terrors. A specific hallucination where she’d see a terrifying image of a hunched old woman whirling in front of her eyes. Part of the problem is that my mother-in-law fills Isobel’s head with all kinds of stories, superstitious stuff like El Chupacabra and all kinds of other bullshit. Ana and I used to fight about that a lot.

  Isobel’s condition had gotten so bad last year that I’d shelled out for a psychologist. She said that Isobel would eventually get over it, and I prayed this would be the case.

  ‘Bobby is like the lady,’ Isobel said. I asked her what she meant, but all she said was, ‘He just is.’ Freaked me out a bit.

  This doesn’t mean anything, but… after she saw Bobby that day, Isobel hasn’t woken up screaming once or complained about ‘the lady’ visiting her. Weeks later I asked her again what she meant–that thing about Bobby being like the lady–but she acted like she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

  Transcript of Paul Craddock’s voice recording, March 2012.

  12 March, 5.30 a.m.

  It was just one drink, Mandi. Just one… I had another one of those nights, Stephen came again, but this time he didn’t speak, he just…