Eight Minutes (5 page)

“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

T
oby 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.”

“Huh.” Eric turns away from me. “Want some more juice, Tobe?”

Toby holds out his sippy cup. Twisting off the top, Eric lowers his voice. “Could we talk about this later?”

This is code for “Shut up in front of Toby.” A flash of indignation tempts me, but I hold my tongue. We’ve always agreed that we won’t fight in front of him.

After Toby goes to bed, I’m dying to get back to my computer, but I don’t want to set Eric off, so I watch a basketball game with him in near silence.

After he goes to bed, I have to check. No answer from the Air Force. I send another e-mail to the guy with the list, and this time, I get an instant automated reply. His kids are keeping the website up in order to honor their dad’s work, but there will be no future updates. He passed away last month. I was just getting to know him.

What am I supposed to do now? Sit around and wait? Maybe I can work the broader angle. I may have to find all the John Robbersons out there and weed out the ones who didn’t fly a plane. It’s the long way around, but at least I know where to start. I don’t have enough details to use the more popular genealogy sites, and I’m working toward a search that’s specific enough to give me any meaningful results. The best I can do still returns more than three hundred thousand possibilities. I get comfortable in my chair and start to narrow down my search, trying to reduce the entries for John Robertsons and Robersons and Robinsons. Click. Scroll. Scroll. Click. Click. Hours.

At the end of a pretzel of click-throughs, I find myself on a poorly constructed genealogy blog with several Robbersons. My eyes burning from the strain, I somehow get to an entry from a city council meeting in Branson, Missouri, dated five years ago. John Robberson, the fire chief of Branson, announced he was sponsoring a potluck dinner at his home to raise money for volunteer firemen. It noted in the record that his wife, Kay, would be serving her famous icebox pie.

A shiver starts in my jaw, and I duck my chin as it spreads up the back of my head and loops around my ears, into my shoulders, and down my arms. I rotate my shoulders in their sockets, lean forward, and search the obituaries for Branson, Missouri.

There it is.

John Robberson. Survived by his wife, Kay. Preceded in death by his son, John Jr. Air Force Vietnam vet, fighter pilot with a Purple Heart, and the beloved fire chief of Branson, Missouri. Died on March 16, 2010.

Toby was born on March 16, 2010.