Missing Soul

by Dominika Waclawiak

  "All of that is possible, Mrs. Rogers. My idea is just theory, but it fits with what you've told us. I don't know how to prove the existence of a reincarnated soul," the priest said in a gentle voice. As far as she was concerned, reincarnation didn't exist.

  She stood up and smoothed her skirt down. "Thank you for coming to speak with us. I can't express how much I appreciate it. I do, however, need to get ready for work," she said and saw Father Luken frown. She had spoken too sharply, but she didn't care. She wanted them out of her house. She stepped behind Sam and lifted him up to standing.

  "Will you go to your room, darling?" He nodded and waved goodbye to the two of them.

  "Bye Father Luken, bye Sara," he said in a sing-song voice, skipped down the hall, and out of sight.

  They stood in awkward silence until Ms. Caine nudged Father Luken, who couldn't take his eyes off the horrible drawing.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Rogers. If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to call us," he said and managed to meet her eyes before glancing back at the drawing. "Would you let me take this? I'd love to study it a bit more."

  She nodded and walked to the front door. "By all means. I don't want to see that thing again," she said and opened it for them. She hoped her intention was clear.

  They got the message and left without saying much else. She locked it behind them and leaned against it. If her son was a reincarnated soul then did that mean he had no soul of his own? Her mind raced at what that actually meant. The very idea made her sick. She couldn't think that. She wouldn't think that. She smoothed her slacks down and took a deep breath.

  She checked the time and went down her checklist: call Mrs. Martinez to come earlier, stop at the dry cleaners, and finish prepping Sam's lunch. She would wear that white blouse with the navy slacks today, she thought and noted she'd be late. She should have asked them to leave the moment he mentioned reincarnation.

  * * *

  Cait sat behind the front desk of the Lincoln Boulevard Emergency Care clinic and logged into her computer. Janet Batchler had left cookies for the swing shift and Cait had already stuffed two in her mouth. Stress always made her eat sugar. The cookies weren't even good, she thought and pushed the plate further down the desk.

  "Those are delicious, aren't they?" Sandra Morris said as she came back from one of the patient's rooms. She wore her yellow ducky scrubs today and with her blond hair swept back into a ponytail, she didn't look a day over 25. Cait knew she was supposed to feel jealous, but she was just too exhausted for anything more than a smile.

  "I've already had three. Janet just wants us to get fat, I'm sure of it," Sandra said and took a couple more. "They're good with coffee." She stopped and leaned over, peering into Cait's face. Cait pulled back, uncomfortable with such an invasion of her private space. "You sleeping OK? You look like hell, girl."

  "Is it obvious?"

  "Very."

  "It's Sam."

  "Has he been having nightmares again?"

  Cait turned back to her computer as a client walked in. "Good afternoon, welcome to Lincoln. Do you have an appointment with us?"

  The bearded man nodded.

  "Sign here. Name and social. We'll call your name," she said and handed him a pen.

  She swiveled back to Sandra. "I think he has an imaginary friend. At least that's what I hope it is. He's calling himself Jimmy now."

  Sandra's face screwed up into a frown. "That's weird. Do you know anyone named Jimmy?"

  "No, I don't and unless Granny Martinez is having wild parties at my house when I'm gone, he didn't meet anyone named Jimmy either."

  "Could be an imaginary friend. Lots of kids have them," Sandra offered as a one of the doctor's motioned her to follow him. "He'll be fine. Every kid goes through phases," she said with a parting wave and hurried down the hall after the doctor. Cait's shoulders slumped. If what Father Luken said was true, then this was definitely not a phase, she thought as another customer came in.

  She put on a smile. "Welcome to Lincoln. Do you have an appointment with us?"

  * * *

  Cait was too exhausted from her day to deal with her difficult door. The stupid lock got stuck when the temperature dropped to sixty degrees and Mrs. Martinez must have fallen asleep on the couch again. She jiggled the key in the lock and twisted it hard to the left. It finally gave.

  Mrs. Martinez startled awake and wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth with her shirtsleeve.

  "You're home so late, Cait," she admonished as she got up. "Working such late hours is bad for you." She clucked and nodded again. "Very bad for you."

  "I know, Mrs. Martinez but I didn't have much choice this week," she said and threw her purse on a chair. She joined Mrs. Martinez on the sofa. "How was Sam tonight?"

  "Good. He was good until bedtime. That boy just doesn't want to go to sleep," Mrs. Martinez said.

  "Not many boys his age do, I hear," Cait said with a pang, knowing it was more than that. The poor kid had to be afraid of the nightmares.

  "Is he still having the night terrors?" Mrs. Martinez crossed herself as she said it. "Pray for his soul, Mother of God."

  Cait just nodded. The woman didn't need to know they tortured him every night. "Thank you again for staying this late. I don't have any cash on me tonight, but I can come by tomorrow and pay you for the week," she said. Mrs. Martinez nodded.

  "Tomorrow will be fine, dear. Good night," she said and hobbled to the door.

  "Do you want me to walk you home? It's rather late for you to be out alone," Cait said and stood up on unsteady feet.

  "Oh honey, it's only two houses down. I'll be fine. I also don't think Sam is asleep," she said and made the sign of the cross again. "I'll see you both tomorrow." And with that she was gone.

  * * *

  Cait tiptoed down the hall, wanting, in fact, hoping, her son would be asleep. She, herself, hadn't slept in weeks.

  When she peeked into his bedroom, her heart sank in sadness. He huddled under his covers, the glow of the flashlight giving him away. "Sam, it's so late. Why aren't you asleep?" she asked and sat on his bed. She pulled the covers off him.

  "Is she gone yet?" he asked instead.

  "She is," Cait said and kissed him on the forehead. "Why are you still up, honey?"

  "I wasn't tired."

  "But it's almost two thirty in the morning. You must be exhausted." She took the flashlight and comic book from him and clicked off the light. "Lay back, I'll be here to protect you."

  He did as she requested but his back was ramrod straight, and he was about to cry. "I'm here, honey. I'll always be here for you," she said and lay down next to him.

  "I know you are Mom. But you can't stop the dreams from coming."

  He sounded different tonight. "Do you remember the dream you had last night?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "If you tell me the dream, it won't be stuck in your head anymore. Dreams lose their power when you say them out loud."

  "It's not just a dream," he said and snuggled in closer to her. He smelled of the baby shampoo she still used on him.

  "If it's not just a dream, then what is it, sweetie?"

  "It's real," Sam whispered.

  "We've gone over this, Sam. Dreams aren't real. They might feel as though they are the realest thing ever when you're in them, but then you wake up and the morning sun streams in. There's nothing to be afraid of."

  "Mom, it's not. This dream is real. It happened." He pulled away from her. She had hurt his feelings.

  "Sam, you know how much I love you. I would never say or do anything to hurt you. You know that, right?" He nodded into the pillow. "Believe me when I say dreams are just dreams," she said and brushed his bangs away from his damp forehead. "They can't hurt you."

  "But they already have," he said.

  "You mean by scaring you?"

  "No, not in that way," Sam said and she recognized the other voice. The voice that didn't sound like her little baby anymore. She imagined the m
aturity and wisdom that must be evident in his eyes and wished she could let the light in and chase it away. She hesitated, unsure whether she should go any further or just beg him to go to sleep.

  She waited several moments and when she was sure she was ready, she said, "In what way, Sam." She held her breath, waiting. It didn't take him long.

  "Last night wasn't just a dream. It happened. It was a memory," he said so quietly that Cait had to strain to hear him.

  "What was the memory of?" she choked out. She was so afraid of what he would say next but, if she was going to get her innocent son back, she would have to find out what was going on with him.

  "My murder," Sam said in a flat tone that sent shivers down her back.

  "Your murder? How is that possible, Sam? You're only six years old. How do you even know what murder is?" she said and tried not to sound as hysterical as she felt.

  "That's the memory that comes every night. The hours up to and including my murder. My name was Jimmy and I was shot in the head."

  7

  Diagnosis

  Cait Roberts put cereal in front of Sam and went in for a second cup of coffee. She stared out into her yard, sipping the strong black brew and wondered if she was out of her mind for what she wanted to do. She looked back at Sam's head and made the choice. If she wasn't going to believe what Father Luken had proposed to her, then she would need to find another way to help Sam. He couldn't live his life plagued by nightmares of being a murdered man named Jimmy.

  She searched her memory for any relatives who had psychiatric issues, but came up short. Her late husband Dean had cut off his family before they married and she'd never met any of them. Maybe one of them was nuts. She took another sip and reached for the phone.

  * * *

  Once she had confirmed the appointment and made sure that Mrs. Martinez had the afternoon open, she was able to relax a bit, as much as she could although three cups of coffee jittered through her veins. Sam had given her a break and was his usual self, playing with his toy truck and some plastic dinosaurs they had gotten at the Natural History Museum several weeks ago. How she wished he could just stay that way.

  Reality wasn't made up of wishes though, she thought. She joined him on the floor and pushed the truck further down his imaginary road.

  "Sam, I need to go to a meeting this afternoon. Mrs. Martinez will come by to look after you," she said and checked her watch. "She'll be here any minute. I won't be longer than a couple of hours."

  "Are you going to go somewhere and talk about me?" he asked, looking up at her with such a sad expression on his face that Cait's heart broke in two.

  "Oh honey, I'm just trying to figure out how to help you," she said.

  "Is there something wrong with me?"

  "No, baby. You are perfect. We just need to find out what's going on when you have the shakes. Mommy's worried about them," she said lamely.

  "So it's not about me saying I was Jimmy and not Sam," he said.

  "Oh baby." She pulled him into a crushing hug and fought back tears. "I will figure this out, I promise you. Mommy will make the shakes go away," she said, her voice muffled by his hair. She let him go before he had a chance to squirm away just as Mrs. Martinez walked in with a bag filled with crafts.

  "You brought the art supplies today. Look Sam, it's craft day!"

  "Yeah," Sam cried out and rushed Mrs. Martinez with arms outstretched. He gave her leg a hug and was instantly mesmerized by the markers and stickers in her bag. Cait mouthed thank you to Mrs. Martinez, who nodded with a small smile. Cait grabbed her bag and took one last look at her son. She had to make him well, that was all there was to it. She marched out the door with more resolve than she'd had in weeks.

  * * *

  "Is that all?" Dr. Amy Jones asked as she finished jotting down all Sam Roger's various symptoms. Her interest piqued the moment Mrs. Caitlyn Rogers mentioned the hallucinations her son was having, especially since he was only six years old. She'd only read of cases similar to this one and it sure beat the typical cases of hyperactive disorder and ADD that most of her other patients displayed. However, she needed to make sure to cover all her bases before she made a more exotic diagnosis.

  "Could Jimmy be an imaginary friend? Many kids create active interior worlds to help navigate everyday life," she said.

  Mrs. Rogers shook her head vigorously. "Sam has specifically said he IS Jimmy not that he is speaking with Jimmy. He doesn't talk to someone who isn't there. He talks to me and when I look into his eyes, he's a different person," she said, leaning forward in her chair.

  "Hallucinations in someone this young have many causes that include depression, ADHD, a number of disruptive behavior disorders and possible psychosis," Dr. Jones said. One look at the mother's face made her regret mentioning psychosis. No one wanted to hear something like that about their child. "The likelihood it's some of the more severe disorders is very small, Mrs. Rogers," she amended.

  "He doesn't exhibit ADHD symptoms. I work at an Emergency Clinic, and I've seen children with ADHD. That's not my son. The only symptoms are the nightmares, the seizures which numerous tests have ruled out as a neurological disease, and the insistence that he is this other person, Jimmy."

  "Have you or Sam lost anyone important? I hope you don't mind my asking but where is his father?" Dr. Jones probed.

  "We haven't lost anyone important recently, and I don't mind you asking about his father. Dean died about three and a half years ago from cancer. Sam was only two and a half. I've been very honest with him when he asks where his Dad went."

  "How so?"

  "I tell him his Daddy got very sick and went to Heaven. When he asks me where it is, I point to the sky and tell him that his Dad is watching over him and that he loved him very much. About a year ago we found a dead bird in the alleyway behind our house, and he pointed to it and asked whether the bird was sick and went to Heaven as well and I said yes," Mrs. Rogers stopped and frowned.

  "What is it?"

  "I just remembered something. About a week after the bird incident, we were eating dinner, and Sam had one of his episodes. He looked me straight in the eye and asked me why I didn't just tell him that the bird had died. I was confused and told him I had, but he wouldn't let it go and said that death was not the same thing as going to Heaven. It bothered me at the time, but I thought that he had brought it up with Mrs. Martinez, and she had explained to him what death was. Would a child that young even comprehend the concept of death? Sam is smart, but that seems too adult of a concept for him?"

  Dr. Jones nodded as she jotted down this new tidbit. "Children mature at very different speeds and without meeting Sam, I can't speak to his maturity level. Your conversation with Sam does not necessarily indicate an advanced maturity level. If your nanny explained her idea of death and it wasn't a religious definition, he could be parroting what she said to him. Just because he said it, doesn't mean he has a full understanding of the meaning."

  "I see," Mrs. Rogers said and turned her attention to picking her cuticles. Dr. Jones noted the anxiety of the mother down as well.

  "The seizures could be affecting his brain and creating this confusion of self. The young brain is developing rapidly during these years and seizures could easily knock the child off the normal development path. I'm assuming he's had MRI's done?" Dr. Jones carefully studied the woman to watch for the truth. She'd encountered parents who lied about the diagnostic treatments their children had undergone.

  "Of course he has. At first, his pediatrician thought he was epileptic. He's undergone screening for brain tumors, epilepsy, and brain trauma. Every test has come out completely normal. The specialists have no idea what is causing this."

  "Do you have those records?" Dr. Jones asked.

  "Yes, I'll have the neurologist send them over to you if need be. I don't see how this is physical, do you?"

  "Again, I'd need to see him before giving any sort of diagnosis. Children with night terrors sometimes confabulate them with thei
r awake hours and get confused. However, every brain is unique. The only way I can make any sort of diagnosis is to talk with Sam myself. Could we start the therapy this week?" Dr. Jones flipped through her schedule for the next several days, "I have openings tomorrow at 10 am and Friday at 1:30? We will help him, Mrs. Rogers. We just need to see what's triggering him." Mrs. Rogers nodded, and Dr. Jones smiled reassuringly at her.

  She wanted this case, and badly. Mentioning the psychosis was a bad move, and she needed to learn to keep certain ideas to herself. Her mentor Dr. Fielding would have disapproved of her eagerness to take on the case and would mention that she wasn't keeping a professional distance. She shrugged the imaginary disapproval off and waited. She'd learned that silence often worked much better than the hard sell.

  "Tomorrow morning at ten would work best for us. Thank you for seeing us so promptly," Mrs. Rogers said and got up to leave. "Oh, I'm sorry. How would you like payment for today?"

  "I'll bill your insurance and see what your share will be. You can pay the difference the next session. I should know be then," Dr. Jones said and Mrs. Rogers nodded.

  Mrs. Rogers stood awkwardly for several moments and Dr. Jones couldn't help but smile. Every single one of her patients' parents never knew how to say their goodbyes. Some hung around asking unnecessary questions, others left abruptly. Mrs. Rogers did the third option and gave a small wave.

  "See you tomorrow. Thank you, Dr. Jones," Mrs. Rogers said and Dr. Jones nodded again.

  "Tomorrow then," she said and dipped her head down to read over the notes she had taken. She didn't look up until she heard the click of the door.