Eight Minutes (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

AN ALTERNATE TRUTH

T
oday, the window over my kitchen sink allows me a peek at the ethereal blooms on our desert willow tree. My teakettle makes a sputtering sound, and I pluck it off the burner a split second before it whistles. I sprinkle a little extra nutmeg into my chai and slice a handful of fresh cherries to add to Toby’s yogurt. He twirls his spoon around his bowl, creating a pattern with the purple-red juice.

I love our neighborhood. Oasis Verde is right outside Phoenix and two hours from Pa, a planned community of environmentally green homes and shared spaces built around an urban farm. It’s full of earnest hipsters and second-career artists who volunteer at the Montessori school right alongside the vegetarian wives of graduate students here on temporary visas.

We didn’t know that the first time we drove into town, after house hunting all day. We just knew we were home. That’s what we have in common with our neighbors: the internally induced exhale we all felt when we found the place. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to pay attention when something reverberates in the core of your being.

We didn’t even have to talk about it. We just knew. Right then. We parked our car at the farmers’ market and grabbed a free neighborhood map. Half hoping we’d be mistaken for residents, we walked up and down every street, our fingers intertwined, looking for the house that would be ours.

Some think Oasis Verde is too planned, even creepy, but we don’t mind a deliberate step away from the frantic Adderall-and-SUV mainstream. We like living close enough for Eric to bike to his office. We want to know our neighbors, to have roots. Growing up, Eric went to nine schools in twelve years. Oasis Verde is our version of the village it takes to raise a child.

It’s cool today by Arizona standards, but after we finish breakfast, I can’t get Toby into long sleeves. We make our way to the park, and his squeal pierces the quiet when he sees his best buddy, Sanjay, near the slide. I pick up the bucket of plastic cars he’s dropped and join Lakshmi on a brightly patterned blanket in the shade.

If we’d known each other before kids, we probably would’ve had even more in common. We both loved our work—Lakshmi in investment banking, me in software project management. We’d both planned to stop working when we had kids. On the surface, our situations are the same, but of course, I had to do it the hard way. Lakshmi got pregnant and didn’t return from maternity leave. I got laid off. It took me awhile to regroup before Eric and I decided it was time to start a family. After three miscarriages in two years, I was more than ready to stay home with Toby, but that wasn’t an option while Eric was recovering. That year of freelance work zapped whatever meager career ambitions I had left. Now, at home full time, Lakshmi and I agree that we’ve channeled all that energy into motherhood.

We fall into the easy conversation that comes from seeing each other daily. I tell her about the invisible John Robberson.

“The worst part is that Eric didn’t even notice. I must’ve had the stranger-danger talk with Toby ten times in a row. Do you think I’m being paranoid?”

“Not at all! I would’ve had the same reaction. He’s the supervising adult, right? If this happened to Sanjay, I’d question Nik about it.”

I may have my beefs with Eric, but her husband, Nikhil, is even more hands off. He’s an engineering professor at the university, very reserved, a true brainiac. I could never imagine him down on the floor, wrestling with his son.

“Does Nik do anything like man-watching?”

“What do you think?” Lakshmi laughs.

Sometimes her mother will join us, sitting in her sari on the rigid park bench. Toby couldn’t pronounce her last name, so I suggested we call her Ms. Pushpa. When I explained it was the kind of courtesy compromise used by one of Toby’s preschool teachers with an equally difficult surname, she was as delighted as if I’d offered her an ice cream. I can’t decide whether she’s childlike or wise enough to not allow her years to weigh heavy on her soul.

Our conversations on those days have a different tenor, less personal, more civilized. I don’t mind. I’d give anything to be able to spend an ordinary afternoon in the park with my mom. It’s been almost four years. She died right after I found out I was pregnant with Toby. I’d had so much trouble hanging on to my pregnancies that I waited too long to tell her the news. At the time, I thought the worst thing would be to get her hopes up again.

I wave as Ms. Pushpa walks up with a picnic basket. We call the boys over and poke straws into their juice boxes. When they finish eating, I tell Ms. Pushpa all about John Robberson—from the winking to the conundrum of the oatmeal cream pies—making Lakshmi listen to it all yet again.

The boys throw handfuls of sand onto the bottom of the slide and take turns sliding into it. I smile as Toby glides on his belly, head first, his arms outstretched like an airplane. Sanjay howls after a bad landing and we look over, still talking. Lakshmi pulls her blue-black ponytail off her neck and twists it into a clip as she gets up to make sure he’s okay. We’re used to having our conversations interrupted.

Ms. Pushpa blinks her owl eyes and asks in her singsong English, “So if he’s not a museum official, what do you make of John Robberson?”

“Eric assures me Toby was just pretending, but he’s talked about John Robberson for two days now. I’m thinking John Robberson might be his imaginary friend.”

About this time, Lakshmi returns. She isn’t familiar with the idea of imaginary friends. She moved to America at age eleven, and sometimes I find these odd little gaps in her cultural knowledge.

I explain and Ms. Pushpa listens with her eyes closed, nodding. Turning to Lakshmi, I ask, “Has Sanjay ever had one?”

“An invisible playmate?” She shakes her head. “But it’s cute, isn’t it? Shows lots of imagination and all.”

“Unless the imaginary friend is a bad influence.”

“How could that be?”

I shrug. “Why does Toby want an oatmeal cream pie?”

“Why does anyone want an oatmeal cream pie?”

Ms. Pushpa says, “What is this pie of oatmeal?”

I have to look over at the boys to cover my smile while Lakshmi explains. They jump impatiently at the water fountain. I get up and lift each of them, their squirmy bottoms resting on my hip as they slurp.

I return to the blanket, wiping my hands on my paisley skirt. “I’ve never heard of a kid whose imaginary friend is a full-grown adult. Toby says John Robberson is as old as Eric. Of course, when I asked if he was as old as Pa, he said yes again.”

“Anyone over the age of ten probably looks old to him,” Lakshmi says.

Now both boys have their arms out like airplane wings and are flying toward a tree. The afternoon sun seems to dapple through the leaves, mixing warmth with the wind.

Ms. Pushpa says, “It is a common experience, yes, when they see the imaginary friend? How old, again?”

I trap a wayward sandwich wrapper with my foot. “About the age of our boys. Why?”

Lakshmi gathers the trash from our lunch. “If I’m not mistaken, my mother doubts the ‘imaginary’ part.” She says to Ms. Pushpa, “Can I tell her the story?”

Ms. Pushpa nods. Lakshmi describes a boy in a rural village outside New Delhi who began to call himself by another name when he was about four years old. He referred to himself as an adult man with a different name. He spoke of his life as a blacksmith, for example, and gave detailed descriptions about a specific village, where the child said he lived. But the child had never been anywhere except his own home. He didn’t know the name of his village, but he insisted on visiting his “other” family, whom he could name.

Lakshmi says, “I’m sure this all sounds superstitious to you, but these details add up. It was obvious to the boy’s parents.”

“What do they think it means?”

Ms. Pushpa answers, “That the boy is the reincarnation of an older soul. At young ages, the soul is strong in the new body and may retain its memories. When a child is old enough to express himself, it is common for the child to speak of the previous life.”

Lakshmi continues, “I think the imaginary friend is an American concept—or Western European at least. In India, the same thing exists, a child speaking of an invisible but friendly spirit. Yet the parents interpret it differently. They assign their own cultural meaning.”

“The truth is in the child’s experience, not the parent’s interpretation,” Ms. Pushpa says. “Is it so difficult to believe the soul may speak out of turn?”

I try to ignore the jitters in my gut. “How would one know if it were true? If an old soul were speaking through Toby, for example? What would I look for?”

Lakshmi says, “You’d see signs that the child
was
the deceased person, and he would take on the persona of the old soul. For example, it would be more likely he would ask for living people you don’t know, instead of saying he sees someone you don’t.”

My chest feels heavy as I remember what Toby said about going to see Kay. I can’t help seeking visual contact with my son. There he is, flying his imaginary plane into a tree with a loud crash. Sanjay’s hand is cupped on the top of his head like a siren, and he wails “woo-woo-woo” as he rushes over to Toby’s rescue.

“There is no cause for concern.” Ms. Pushpa draws a pattern, a circular labyrinth around a rock, in the ground with a twig. “Perhaps your son is providing you with a tiny glimpse of a universal phenomenon. It is a lovely way to live, to be that open to the soul. If the innocent have access to other spiritual realms, it does not surprise me in the least.”

Lakshmi winds her fingers into her mother’s hand and brings it to her lips. Ms. Pushpa strokes her hair in response. I have to look away. My mother’s hand would’ve gotten tangled in my hair. We would’ve been more likely to discuss shampoo than the spiritual access of innocents.

Lakshmi, deep in thought, breaks the conversational lull. “In this case, the parents eventually discovered the identity of the deceased man. Of course, they contacted the family and introduced their son as soon as they could.”

“They did what?” From the corner of my eye, I notice Ms. Pushpa has stiffened. Changing my tone, I add, “Sorry. I didn’t see that coming.”

Lakshmi laughs. “See? It sounds outrageous in this context. But this kind of thing happens all the time.”

I try to recap. “Okay, okay. Let’s say it’s true. There was a man who died; let’s call him Joe. And four years later, this little boy starts saying he
is
Joe, so his family’s first reaction is to start asking around to see if anyone has ever heard of Joe?”

“Yes.”

“And they found Joe? Not any old Joe. The right Joe.”

Ms. Pushpa says, “Yes. I understand it was a difficult journey because their villages were miles apart. I believe the entire family traveled in one wagon.”

“That’s a lot of effort to humor a four-year-old.”

“They didn’t do it to make the child happy.”

“Why, then?”

Lakshmi says, “Put yourself in the other family’s shoes. If your husband died and you heard there was a possibility that his soul had been reincarnated in the body of a young boy, wouldn’t you want to meet that child? Wouldn’t you want to see for yourself?”

I wonder how much time has to pass before I can hear someone talk about husbands dying without my throat closing up. At least I don’t cry anymore.

“Yes,” I admit. “I would want to see for myself. But the boy’s family initiated the contact, right? The dad? The mom? Which one?”

Ms. Pushpa says, “I believe the mothers made the arrangements. To bring peace to both parties.”

“I wonder if she had to convince the dad to go.” I try to laugh. “Can you imagine Eric in that situation? What about Nik?”

Lakshmi rolls her eyes. “He wouldn’t mind, as long as he didn’t have to take a day off.”

“What a project! I mean, what kind of person has the energy to do what it would take to track it all down?”

Even as I say it, I know I am exactly the kind of person who has the energy for this kind of thing. If it weren’t so ridiculous, that is.

“I don’t know,” Lakshmi says. “Sometimes there are secondary benefits, more material reasons. For this boy, I think the family of the dead husband practically adopted him and his family. They gave him gifts, helped pay for his schoolbooks, even had a big party. The boy has a second family now. It’s very nice for all of them.”

“Oh. Well.”

Ms. Pushpa dismisses this with a wave of her hand. “Take away the money, pfft, take away this idea of superstition, pfft . . .”

Lakshmi strokes Ms. Pushpa’s bare arm, calming the clink of bracelets. “And what?”

“Still, there is a child who knows what he knows and a mother who honors that.”

Lakshmi turns her head toward me. “Of course,” she says. I return her smile and look up to check on the boys.

CHAPTER FOUR

SOULS SPEAKING

S
till thinking about my conversation with Lakshmi, before Eric gets home, I search online for parenting books with “imaginary friend” in their titles. When Toby starts to fuss in his upstairs bedroom, I make my purchase and tend to him while my book downloads.

As soon as I start to skim the chapter titles, I realize I made an impulsive choice. None of the scenarios fit our situation. Toby doesn’t really play with John Robberson, nor does John Robberson protect him from anything. Toby doesn’t insist that John Robberson is sitting at the table or require that we include him in conversations. And as an imaginary friend, John Robberson isn’t exactly pulling his weight. He isn’t a superhero. He doesn’t show up only when Toby is alone. He isn’t very fanciful or imaginative about John Robberson at all. Toby always calls him by his full name. He’s completely matter of fact about it. Or him. Or whatever.

The only thing I find about adult imaginary friends is the chapter describing kids who make up someone to function as a stand-in grandparent—or worse, how children of addicts make up the mommies they need.

The book is full of optimistic assurances that imaginary friends are a normal phase of a child’s life. Maybe it’s the same thing with John Robberson. I close out of the e-book and go online. There’s a funny article about a kid in New York City whose imaginary friend was always too busy to play with him. Well, it starts out funny. The longer I read, the lower I slump in my chair. It seems an imaginary friend is a massive defense mechanism, a way to compensate—not, as I originally envisioned it, a delightful display of my child’s creativity.

It seems to me that a big part of parenting is explaining how the world works. Toby points to a tree and I say “tree.” He points to a dog and I say “dog.” He points to his imaginary friend and I say . . . nothing? If I refuse to validate this experience, my silence teaches him there is nothing real unless you can see it, hear it, or touch it. But what about the things you know are real because you feel them? How do you teach that to your kid?

That night as I’m setting the table with Eric, I recount the story of the boy in New Delhi and tell him all the reasons John Robberson doesn’t qualify as an imaginary friend.

“Okay. Why are we talking about this?”

“Because Toby keeps talking about it.”

He calls Toby to the table, and our conversation is interspersed with the mechanics of eating with a toddler. I’m marinating in my own thoughts, barely participating.

“What’s on your mind?” Eric finally asks.

I nod in Toby’s direction. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if you see anything weird.”

“Weird? Like what?”

I drop my voice. “Like if he seems to know things he can’t know. Or talks as if he . . . I don’t know . . . has memories. You know, that aren’t his.”

He sets down his fork. “Oh, please.” He looks over at Toby. “Hey, do you even remember John Robberson?”

“Of course he does,” I answer. “We talk about him all the time, don’t we, baby?”

Toby, trying to make his broccoli stand up like a tree, answers without looking up. “Yes.”

“But you know, you never told me,” I continue. “What did he look like, Toby?”

He points to Eric.

Toby thinks all grown men look like Eric. “So he’s a grown-up like Daddy?”

Toby nods.

“Can you tell me more? What did he wear, for example?”

“Just cwoase.”

“Clothes? Like a shirt and pants? Did they look like Daddy’s shirt and pants? Or more like a uniform?”

Eric says, “Mannequin, I bet. They had some in old fighter pilot suits there.”

“What’s a man-kin, Daddy?”

“It’s like an action figure, as big as a person. They usually wear a uniform. Like the pilot we saw, with the helmet, sitting in the glass bubble in the front of the plane? He wasn’t real. He was a mannequin. It doesn’t talk or move; it just stands there.”

“John Wahbuhson talked to me,” Toby says, mimicking a hushed tone but without the accompanying drop in volume. “He whispered.”

I raise an eyebrow to Eric and ask Toby, “What did he say to you?”

Toby, still not getting the volume part of the whisper equation, says, “Do I wike his pwane.”

We both smile, over his head. I’m going to cry the day he can say his
l
’s correctly. “Did you like his plane?”

He nods again. “Thud. I seen it. I have one.”

“Saw it, not seen it,” I say. “One what?”

“Thud,” he says. “Can I have dessert now?”

I will never get used to the ping-pong quality of the three-year-old brain. Thud is our dog’s name. I choose to ignore that part.

“Yes,” I say, “if you eat that last bite and answer one more question.”

“Okay.” He shoves the broccoli into his mouth.

“Is he real? I mean, if you wanted to, could you touch John Robberson?”

“I didn’t want to,” he says with a big swallow.

I open my mouth, but Eric holds up his hand. “One question, you said.” He pulls Toby’s chair out, plucks him from the booster seat, and heads to the freezer.

Eric goes to bed early, anticipating his morning run with the dog. He’s been asleep for two hours before I undress in the dark and sneak into bed without a word. Reaching over, I place my hand over Eric’s heart, soothed by the lullaby of that familiar beat as I drift to sleep.

Unfortunately, neither of us is a good sleeper. When I reach over again in the fuzzy dark, my hand lands on an empty pillow.

With one eye, I peer at the oversize red digits on our alarm clock. 4:19 a.m. I roll over, trying to regain my grip on peaceful slumber, but my eyelids won’t cooperate.

I slip out from between the sheets and prowl the moonlit hallway. A dark, slanted stain appears to be creeping out of Toby’s room. When I turn the corner, the angle of the moonlight changes and the stain shortens and takes the form of Eric’s shadow. I think he’s asleep standing up, at full height, with his legs locked stiff and his arms weirdly inanimate, hanging from his shoulders like unused puppet appendages. He’s looking down on our boy, sprawled in sleep, hands over his pillow, his entire body taking up only half of his twin bed. If it were anyone but Eric, I’d be scared to death.

Tiptoeing closer, I hear a low rumble of sleepy whispers. Are they coming from Toby or Eric? Seems like Eric’s voice only, but I can’t make out any of the words. I step back to allow him this moment of nocturnal male bonding.

I don’t know how much later it is when I hear the metallic jingle of Thud’s collar, his four padded paws keeping pace with the slow, deliberate footsteps approaching. I’m not surprised. Eric often lets the dog in when he sleepwalks.

“Eric?” I whisper into the dark, testing, but I don’t expect an answer. The doctor told me it’s better not to wake him.

Without a word, he crawls back into bed and turns his back to me. Thud settles on the carpet on that side of the bed. Eric flops onto his stomach, shaking the entire bed. I place my hand on his back and follow the pattern of his breath. This is the fabric of our marriage—these tiny intimacies and private quirks that become normal between us. Maybe this is the everyday language of souls speaking.

We may not even talk about it in the morning. He doesn’t remember anything that happens while he’s sleepwalking, so there’s no point in asking him what he said. I doubt Toby is aware that anything happened in the middle of the night. I’m the only one in my family who got to see it. I consider it my privilege.

This thought sustains me, and I’m the one who reaches for him this time.

My mom-friends tell me that everyone’s sex life gets put on hold after the baby comes and that most of them were grateful for the break. Our situation was different, of course. It wasn’t until we finally reconsummated that I realized how truly scared Eric must have been, because his sexual appetite was three times what it used to be. He instantly became more commanding in bed, as if someone had turned his testosterone up to concert volume. Everything was new again. It was exciting; I won’t deny it.

Sometimes he initiates sex only after the lights are off, and he won’t even talk to me, before or after. Or he wakes me up in the middle of the night, insistent, silent. That might sound bad to some women, but for me, it’s sort of thrilling—a little like having fantasy sex with a stranger. Then, there are times like tonight, when he reverts back to the Eric I used to know in bed, slower, more laid back. Sweet. I always soften toward him after nights like this.