It was odd to be meeting him at a busy diner. Dr. Anderson had suggested meeting at her home—it was his usual protocol, it makes the children more comfortable, he’d said—but she needed to get a sense of the man first, do a quick kook check, so they’d compromised on the place at the corner. Still, what kind of a doctor made home visits? Maybe he was a quack, after all—
“Ms. Zimmerman?”
A man stood over her: a tall, lean figure wearing an oversize navy blue wool sweater and khaki pants.
“You’re Dr. Anderson?”
“Jerry.” He smiled briefly, a flash of teeth in the crowded room, and extended his hand to her, then Noah, who glanced away from the TV just long enough to brush Anderson’s huge hand with his tiny one.
Whatever she’d been expecting (someone professional, maybe a bit geeky, with the sharp profile and dark, curly hair she’d glimpsed in the video), it wasn’t this man. This was a person pared down to his essence, with the high cheekbones and glittering eyes of an Egyptian cat deity and the weathered skin of a fisherman. He must have been handsome once (the face had a fierce, elemental beauty) but was now somehow too austere for that, as if he had left handsome by the side of the road many years back, as something for which he had no use.
“I’m sorry if that sounded rude. It’s just on the video you seemed—”
“Younger?” He bent slightly in her direction, and a whiff of something came off of him: she had a sense of something unruly running beneath the elegant, contained surface. “Time does that.”
Just pretend it’s a client, she told herself. She shifted modes, smiled professionally. “I’m a little nervous,” she said. “This isn’t exactly my sort of thing.”
He settled himself across from her in the booth. “That’s good.”
“It is?”
His gray eyes really were unnaturally bright. “It usually means the case is stronger. Otherwise you would not be here.” He spoke crisply, enunciating each word.
“I see.” She was not used to thinking of Noah’s illness as a “case” that might be “strong.” She might have objected but the waitress (purple-haired; harried) was handing out menus. When she turned back toward the kitchen, a YOLO tattoo in Gothic letters stood out against the pale skin of her shoulders.
YOLO. A slogan, a rallying cry, carpe diem for the skateboarder set: You only live once.
But was it true?
That was the problem, wasn’t it? She had never thought about it in any deep way. She hadn’t had the time or inclination to speculate about other lives: this one was hard enough to manage. It was all she could do to pay for their food and rent and clothes, to try to give Noah love and an education and get him to brush his teeth. And lately she had barely been managing any of it. This had to work. She didn’t have another option, aside from medicating her four-year-old. But what had she been thinking about?
Oh, right. Other lives. Which she wasn’t sure she believed in.
And yet: here she was.
Anderson was looking at her expectantly across the table. Noah was watching the television, doodling away on his place mat. The waitress who only lived once came and took their orders and left again like a purple cloud of surliness.
Janie reached out and lightly touched her son’s shoulder, as if to protect him from the man’s quiet intensity. “Listen, Noey, why don’t you go stand by the counter for a minute and watch the game from there? It’s much closer.”
“Okay.” He squirmed out of his seat, as if happy to be released.
With Noah out of earshot, her body seemed to wilt into the booth.
On the television near the counter, someone hit a home run; Noah joined the regulars in cheering.
“He likes baseball, I see,” Anderson said.
“When he was a baby it was the only thing that could calm him down. I used to call it baby Ambien.”
“Do you watch as well?”
“Not on purpose.”
He pulled a yellow pad out of his briefcase and scribbled a note.
“I don’t see how that’s uncommon, though,” Janie added. “Lots of little boys like baseball, don’t they?”
“Sure they do.” Anderson cleared his throat. “Before we begin. I’m sure you have questions for me?”
She looked down at her binder with all the colored tabs. The binder that was Noah. “How does it work?”
“The protocol? Well, I ask you some questions and then I ask your son—”
“No, I mean—reincarnation.” She flinched at the word. “How does it work? I don’t understand. You’re saying all these kids are—reincarnated and they remember these things from their other lives, right?”
“In some cases that seems to be the most likely explanation.”
“The most likely? But I thought—”
“I’m a scientific researcher. I take down statements from children and I verify them and suggest explanations. I don’t jump to conclusions.”
But conclusions were exactly what she had been hoping for. She picked up the binder and held it against her chest, comforted by its physicality.
“You’re skeptical,” he said. She opened her mouth to respond, and he silenced her with an upraised hand. “That’s okay. My wife was skeptical, too, at first. Luckily, I’m not in the belief business.” His lips twisted wryly. “I collect data.”
Data. She clung to the word, as to a wet rock in a raging river. “So she’s not skeptical anymore?”
“Hmmm?” He looked confused.
“You said—your wife was skeptical at first. So she believes in your work now?”
“Now?” He glanced up at her face. “She’s—”
He didn’t finish his thought. His mouth hung open for a moment that seemed to go on, embarrassing them both, and then he snapped it shut. Yet the moment had happened, and there was no taking it back; it was as if his defenses, that ordinary force field shielding one’s basic human nature, had inexplicably shattered.
“She’s gone. Six years ago,” he said at last. “I mean—she’s not alive anymore.”
He was grief stricken, that’s what was wrong. He was lonely; he had been dealt a blow. Janie knew what that was like. She looked around the ordinary room at the children munching on their French toast, their dads fondly wiping away dribbles of syrup; those people were on the other shore, and she was on the side of the aggrieved with this pained-looking man who was patiently waiting for whatever she was about to say.
She kept her voice soft. “Shall we continue?”
“Of course,” he said, more vigorously than she’d expected. He pulled himself together quickly, the elegant planes of his face realigning. He held his sharpened pencil aloft over his yellow pad.
“When was the first time you remember Noah doing something that seemed out of the ordinary?”
“I suppose … it was the lizards.”
“The lizards?” He was scratching away.
“Noah was two. We were at the Museum of Natural History. We went to see the lizard and snake exhibit. And he was … just…” She paused. “The only word for it is transfixed, I guess. He stood right in front of the first tank and starting yelping. I thought something was wrong, and then he said, ‘Look, a bearded dragon!’”
She glanced at Anderson and saw how intensely he was listening to her. The other psychologists had never been interested in the lizards. He bent to write a note, and she noticed that his blue sweater, which looked so soft and expensive, had a conspicuous hole in the sleeve. It was probably as old as she was.
“I was pretty surprised, because his vocabulary was limited at that point, he had just turned two, it was all ‘I want Mom-Mom and water and duck and milk.’
“Mom-Mom?”
“He usually calls me that, or Mommy-Mom. I guess he likes to have his own name for me. Anyway, I thought he was making it up.”
“Making what up?”
“The name. Bearded dragon. It sounded fanciful to me, like something a child would dream up, a dragon with a beard
. So I laughed at him, thinking it was cute. And I said, ‘Actually, sweetie, it’s a—’ and looked over, you know, at the card. And, sure enough, it was called a bearded dragon.
“And so I asked him, ‘Noah, how do you know about bearded dragons?’ And he said—” She looked again at Anderson. “He said, ‘’Cause I had one.’”
“’Cause I had one?”
“I thought … I don’t know what I thought. He was being a kid, making things up.”
“And you never owned a lizard?”
“God, no.” He laughed, and she felt an uncoiling, a relief at talking freely about Noah’s differences. “And it wasn’t only bearded dragons. He knew all the lizards.”
“He knew their names,” Anderson murmured.
“Every lizard in the place. At the age of two.”
She had been so startled, so proud of his obvious intelligence, of his—why not say it?—giftedness. He knew the names of all the lizards—something she had never known. It thrilled her, watching him stare into each miniature rain forest, so cunning and mossy, its inhabitants barely moving except for the flick of a tongue or a jerky journey across a log, while his high pure voice exclaimed, “Mommy-Mom, it’s a monitor! It’s a gecko! It’s a water dragon!” She had thought with relief that his way in life would be clear: scholarships to the best schools and universities, his formidable intelligence greasing the way to a successful life.
And then, gradually, her pride had turned into confusion. How did he know this stuff? Was there some kind of book or video he’d memorized? But why hadn’t he mentioned it before? Had someone taught him? The matter had never been clarified; she had merely accepted it as part of his specialness.
“Was there a book or video at a friend’s house, maybe?” Anderson asked now, as if reading her mind, his quiet voice bringing her back to the clatter of the diner. “Or his nursery school? Something he might have seen somewhere?”
“That’s the strange thing. I asked around—I was pretty thorough. There was nothing.”
He nodded. “Would you mind if I asked around a bit myself? At his school and with his friends and sitters?”
“I guess not.” She looked at him sideways. “It sounds like you’re trying to explain it away. Don’t you believe me?”
“We have to think like the skeptics think. Or it’s all—” He shrugged. “Now: did you notice any change in his behavior, after the episode with the lizard?”
“His nightmares got worse, I guess.”
“Tell me about those,” he said, his head bent over his pad. But it was too much, suddenly, to tell.
“You might want to look at this.” She placed the binder that was Noah on the table and slid it across to him.
* * *
Anderson turned the pages slowly, poring over the details. The case was not as strong as he’d hoped—the nightmares and water phobia were commonplace, if unusually intense, the rifle and Harry Potter references were interesting but inconclusive, and the knowledge of lizards was promising, but only if he could prove that there was no clear source for the child’s expertise. Most important, there was nothing concrete that might lead him to a previous personality—guns and Harry Potter books were as widespread as air in this culture, and a bearded dragon pet was nothing much to go on. The child had mentioned a lake house to his teachers, but it was useless to him without a name for the lake.
He glanced up at the woman, who was building a structure out of sugar cubes. She was, like most people, a contradiction: steady blue eyes, fidgety hands. When she looked at Anderson her eyes were evaluating, cautious, but when she turned to her son a palpable warmth shone from her features. Still, he wished she had trusted him enough to invite him home. The diner was loud, and it would be difficult to get anything from a child in this setting.
He watched her nimble fingers finishing the little white brick house. “Nice…”
What was it called? The word dropped down suddenly from the gods of language, like sugar to his lips. “… igloo,” he continued. Being back on a case was good for his vocabulary, at least. The child in him was sorry when she dismantled it quickly, piling the cubes neatly back in the dish.
He took a sip of tea. He had forgotten to take out the tea bag. The liquid felt dense against his lips. He tapped the binder. “You’re very thorough.”
“But—what do you think?”
“I think his case has promise.”
She glanced at her son, engrossed in the baseball game at the counter, and leaned across the table. “But can you help him?” she whispered.
He could smell the coffee on her breath; it had been a long time since he had felt the warmth of a woman’s breath on his face. He took another sip of tea. He had managed mothers before, of course. Decades of mothers: skeptical, angry, sorrowful, dismissive, helpful, hopeful, or desperate, like this one. The main thing was to remain composed and in control.
He was saved from answering by the waitress, who, hoarding the smiles afforded her for her one and only life (Why did people tattoo that on their bodies? Did they really find it inspiring to live only once?) set down a steaming plate of pancakes with a scowl.
He watched the mother fetch the boy.
Now he could get a good look at him. He was lovely, of course, but it was the watchfulness in his eyes that drew Anderson. There was occasionally another dimension in the awareness of children who remembered; not a knowledge so much as a wariness, a shadow consciousness like that of a stranger in a new country who can’t help thinking of home.
Anderson smiled at the boy. How many thousands of cases had he handled? Two thousand, seven hundred and fifty-three, to be exact. There was no reason to be nervous. He would not let himself be nervous. “Who’s winning the game?”
“Yankees.”
“Are you a Yankees fan?”
The boy took a mouthful of pancake. “Naw.”
“What team do you like?”
“Nationals.”
“The Washington Nationals? Why do you like them?”
“’Cause that’s my team.”
“Have you ever been to Washington, D.C.?”
His mother spoke up. “No, we haven’t.”
Anderson tried to keep his voice gentle. “I was asking Noah.”
Noah picked up a spoon and stuck his tongue out at the distorted spoon-boy reflected in its bowl. “Mommy, can I go back and watch?”
“Not now, sweetie. When you’re done eating.”
“I am done.”
“No, you are not. Besides, Dr. Anderson wants to speak to you.”
“I’m sick of doctors.”
“Just this one more.”
“No!”
His voice was loud. Anderson noticed a couple of nearby women glancing in their direction, judging this other mother over their scrambled eggs, and felt a twinge of empathy for her.
“Noah, please—”
“It’s okay.” Anderson sighed. “I’m a stranger. We need to get to know each other better. It takes time.”
“Please, Mommy-Mom? It’s opening day.”
“Oh, fine.”
They watched him leap out of his seat.
“So.” She looked at him forcefully, as if closing a deal. “You’ll take him on?”
“On?”
“As a patient.”
“It doesn’t work quite like that.”
“I thought you were a psychiatrist.”
“I am. But this work—it’s not a clinical practice. It’s research.”
“I see.” She looked puzzled. “So, what are the next steps, then?”
“I need to keep talking to Noah. See if we can find something concrete that he remembers. A town, a name. Something we can track down.”
“You mean, like a clue?”
“Exactly.”
“So he can go to see … where he used to live in his previous lifetime? Is that it? And that will cure him?”
“I can’t promise anything. But subjects do tend to calm down after we solve a case and fi
nd the previous personality. He may well forget on his own, you know. Most do, by the age of six or so.”
She took this in warily. “But how can you find the—previous personality? Noah hasn’t said anything that specific.”
“Let’s see how it goes. It takes time.”
“That’s what they all say, all the doctors. But the thing is—” Her voice quavered and she stopped abruptly. She tried again. “The thing is, I don’t have time. I’m running out of money. And Noah’s not getting better. I need to do something now. I need something to work.”
He felt her need across the table, taking hold of him.
Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps he should go back to his house in Connecticut … and do what? There was nothing to do but lie on the couch that was his bed now, under the paisley comforter that Sheila had bought twenty years ago and that still smelled very faintly of citrus and roses. Only, if he did that, he may as well be dead.
She frowned and looked away from him, clearly trying to regain control of herself. He wouldn’t comfort her with false promises. Who knew if he could help her son? Besides, the case was weak. There wasn’t anything to go on, unless the child suddenly became a lot more talkative. He looked down at the table, at the remains of the brunch, the boy’s half-eaten pancake, the dirty place mat.… “What’s that?”
The woman was wiping her eyes with a napkin. “What?”
“That place mat. What’s written on it?”
“This? It’s a doodle. He was doodling.”
“Can I see it?”
“Why?”
“Can I see it, please.” He held his voice steady with great effort.
She shook her head, but she moved the plate and the orange juice glass and handed him the thin rectangle of paper. “Watch out, there’s syrup on the edges.”
Anderson picked up the place mat. It was sticky under his fingertips and smelled of syrup and orange juice. Yet even before he properly examined the marks on the paper, he felt the blood beginning to tingle in his veins.
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