Eight Minutes (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

NOW YOU KNOW

I
don’t wake Eric up to tell him. He leaves for work before I get out of the shower, so I don’t get a chance to tell him. I don’t even know if he realized what time I finally slinked into bed. I hope he didn’t smell the bourbon on my breath, because that’s the only way I could dull my senses enough to sleep. I hope he didn’t peek into the office before he left, because I’m sure all those notes I scribbled look like the mind map of a bipolar on an upswing. Good thing I didn’t have colored yarn and thumbtacks at my disposal.

Who am I kidding? I wasn’t ready to tell him. To fight about it. I just wanted to tell someone who would understand.

I practically run to the park today. It all comes out in a jumble, but Lakshmi gets it. She isn’t even surprised. She acts like it was just a matter of time before I had the proof in hand. “Now you know,” she keeps saying. Now you know. That alone makes me feel more grounded.

“John Robberson is real.” I can’t stop saying it. Not because I can’t believe it. Because I’m so damn proud of myself for finding it. Because I was right. Because it wasn’t all in my head.

“Now you know,” she repeats.

“But there’s still so much I don’t know,” I say. “If he didn’t die in a plane crash, what’s the point of the airplane game?”

“It’s fun.” Lakshmi says, matter-of-factly.

“That’s what Eric would say,” I laugh.

“No. I’m not being dismissive. Fun serves a purpose. To increase empathy,” Lakshmi says. “Maybe the airplane game is just a way to get Toby to let his guard down.”

Suddenly, I have a metallic taste in my mouth. “And then what?”

Lakshmi adds, quickly, “If Toby is John Robberson’s reincarnation, maybe all he wants is for you to acknowledge him. Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Now you really sound like Eric.”

“When are you going to tell him?”

“Not yet. I know what he’ll say, and I have no answer for any of his objections.” I lean in. “But I know what I need to do. I have a plan.”

It came to me last night. Eric puts no stock in case studies involving people he doesn’t know. I have to use Dr. Stevenson’s approach and collect objective data on Toby. Firsthand. It’s the only way to know if Toby is just responding to my cues (humoring me, as Eric would put it), or if he’s responding to John Robberson’s spirit. If we can rule out reincarnation, that means we’ve got some kind of ghost or spirit on our hands. Totally different problems. Anyone can see that.

So, starting today, I am doing the most counterintuitive thing I can imagine. I’m backing off. I will no longer bring up the subject of John Robberson. At all. I won’t mention Kay. I won’t ask any more questions of Toby so I can be sure I’m not contaminating the process. If he makes a comment, I will make a note of it. I’m now an observer. It’s the only way I can be sure. Lakshmi agrees.

It feels good, like I’m reclaiming some distant part of myself. My old self. Even Eric would appreciate my new approach. I’ll tell him about it at some point. Not yet.

Down in my gut, I know John Robberson is not good for Toby. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it yet. My gut is also telling me Kay is at the center of this, but the clouds are going to have to crack open with a message from beyond before I’m going to let my kid anywhere near her.

Now I know.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TOXIC

L
akshmi’s in-laws are in town, so I don’t take Toby to the park. He’s watching his favorite movie,
Cars
,
for
the third time this week while I’m at the computer. Again. I’m grinding through books and articles and journals and blogs like a wood chipper. If Toby’s a reincarnation, I can learn to accept it, as long as I can convince myself he’s not in danger. I decide I have to let it be true in my mind, if just for the afternoon.

One surefire way to confirm that Toby is John Robberson’s reincarnation is to do a past-life regression. I don’t have to look long to find a multitude of hypnotherapists, all within a half-hour drive, who offer this service. Before I can even start to consider which one to use, the thought of subjecting Toby to deep hypnosis stops me cold. I conjure up the image of my sweet little curly-headed boy lying on some stranger’s couch, looking over at me with his puppy-dog eyes, the way he used to when he had to get his shots at the pediatrician’s office. That trusting gaze squeezes my heart like a sponge.

I can’t do it. Not until I’m sure it’s absolutely necessary. Why would I risk triggering a bunch of traumatic memories that don’t even really belong to him? No, thank you.

I have to be patient.

As soon as Eric comes home, I turn off that part of myself and make small talk. Sometimes I wonder if he even notices that I’m talking about absolutely nothing. Or worse, if he’s relieved.

Toby chatters away at the dinner table, oblivious. He’s talking about Mater, the goofy best friend in the
Cars
movie.

Eric says, “That Mater, he’s a funny truck, isn’t he, bud? How come you’re so interested in him all of a sudden?”

“I saw that movie today,” Toby says.

“Didn’t you see that movie yesterday?”

I say, “It was really crowded at the park. We decided to stay home.”

“Did you watch the movie yesterday, too?”

Toby nods and holds up three fingers. “Fwee times.”

“You watched the movie three times yesterday?”

“No,” I say, “he only saw it once.”

“Fwee days,” says Toby, using his fingers again.

“I see,” says Eric.

When dinner is over, Eric does the dishes and I slide away to the computer, idly reviewing the web pages I visited earlier that day. But I can’t focus on any of them. It feels like I’m sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for my punishment. When I hear footsteps coming toward the office, I turn in my seat, feeling like I’ve been caught in a lie.

“What?” I say, unable to dull the sharp edge in my voice.

“You know what.”

We look at each other evenly, neither of us breaking eye contact. He speaks first. “You put our kid in front of the television three afternoons this week? You, the Queen of Structured Activity? Little Miss Outdoors? Don’t you have a rule: one movie a week?”

He’s got me on this one. I don’t know if I’m mad at him or mad at myself.

“I’ve been busy this week, and okay, I let him watch his favorite movie three times. It was hot outside. Sanjay wasn’t there. It won’t kill him.” My voice sounds hollow, even to me.

“I don’t care how many movies he watches. That’s not the point. It’s your rule! If I did that, you’d kill me. I would never hear the end of it! And what are you so busy doing? Because it’s evidently not the housework,” he says, kicking a pile of toys and dirty clothes that I shoved into a corner two days ago.

What the hell? I’m so mad, I have a metallic taste in my mouth. Thanks to many hours of therapy with Anna, I’ve learned to recognize this as my cue to not open my mouth and let loose. The real Eric, the one I married, barely notices whether the laundry is done. This kind of complaint, in contrast, is one of those brain farts I used to sneak away and report to his doctors. I will not take the bait. I call for a break, go to the kitchen, and drink a tall glass of iced tea in one gulp.

When I come back, hoping he’s had time to cool off enough to have a normal disagreement, I say, “What’s this really about?”

“Your little secret. Whatever you’re keeping from me. I can only imagine what you’re saying to Toby all day. You can’t drag him through all this New Age mumbo jumbo. You’re interested in it, fine, whatever. But don’t try to turn him into some Dalai Lama doppelgänger just because you’re bored.”

There. He said it.

My theory is that every couple has one toxic word, and every time it’s spoken, it pollutes the marriage. It turns into a code word that means every little thing you do wrong is proof of a chronic character flaw. Eric just said that word: “bored.”

I don’t let him get away with that one.

“Bored?” I hiss.

“Call it whatever you want.”

“I call it pursuing my interests . . . with determination and purpose! I call it the very trait we have in common!” I fight off the urge to cram the dirty clothes in the hamper and start straightening the clutter on a dresser instead.

He rolls his eyes. “Really. You’re calling it work ethic?”

“I call it having the right to do what I want after I pay the bills and buy groceries and cook dinner every night. And when I cook, I don’t make a stupid casserole with cream of mushroom soup; I’m talking about a fresh, nutritionally balanced meal seven freaking days a week, week after week, because I care about our family and I care about what I do, and you have no idea what I have to get done in a day or how much energy it takes to raise another human being and make sure we have the kind of life we both want!”

I throw a handful of loose change into a jar and turn on him, fists clenched at my sides. “So don’t you
dare
look sideways at a pile of your own dirty clothes and tell me I’m bored if I decide to spend my time on an activity more intellectually challenging than picking up your sweaty running shorts.”

He walks over to the pile of laundry and pulls my bra out. “Does this look like a pair of my sweaty running shorts?” He reaches down, grabs the entire pile, and throws it in the air. The smell is as sour and stale as his voice. “Don’t make this about me. Have I ever asked you to do half the stuff you choose to do? If you want to cook everything from scratch, why does that make me your oppressor? If you don’t want to stay home, don’t! If you want to go back to work, go back to work! But if you stay home, and you want to keep making up a shitload of rules about how Toby can’t watch TV, then you can’t get pissed if I notice that you’re not even living by your own rules. Jeez! That’s all I’m saying!”

“That’s
not
all you’re saying.” I bend to pick up the dirty T-shirt nearest me. “At least have the balls to go ahead and say it.”

“Fine,” he hisses, as he picks up a pair of jeans and throws them back in the corner. He takes a deep breath, and his voice is almost back to normal. “Look. I know this John Robberson thing freaks you out. I don’t get it, but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel compelled to fill in the blanks. But you do. And you can’t explain why.”

With my back to him, I mutter under my breath, “Because I care about our son.”

“Oh, that’s right. Thank you for that.” He stops moving. “I am so fucking clear on that point, you don’t need to keep throwing it in my face. Got it.
You
care about our son.” His voice is low and even. “And you don’t give a rat’s ass what I think about anything having to do with him. Got it.”

“Because you won’t even entertain the idea that something is going on with John Robberson that you don’t understand.”

“I don’t feel the need to understand it because I don’t feel threatened by it.”

“Well, I do. Need to understand it,” I add.

“Look at you, Shel. You’re already not acting like yourself. You’re freaking Toby out and you don’t even notice. You’re freaking me out and you don’t even care. Get a grip on this.”

John Robberson is real
, I want to scream at him.
I’ve got a good reason to freak out.
But I don’t say anything. This is not the time. I could produce John Robberson in the flesh right now, and Eric would still deny his existence. I have to play the long game. I stomp into the bathroom and brush my teeth until my gums bleed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

DO CAVEMEN GET REINCARNATED?

O
n Saturday night, Eric and I go to a party with some of our friends from the old days, most of whom are still single and a few of whom are married but don’t have kids yet. Toby is thrilled for a night with the babysitter. I wear a vintage dress with a big skirt. After our argument, things have been tense between us. It’s important that we go out and remember who we are.

We head to downtown Phoenix, where our friend Ian lives. It looks dirty and unfriendly. I realize I probably haven’t left Oasis Verde for months. We pull up to Ian’s new loft and park in a lot that requires a security code.

“What do you think the crime rate is here?”

“He says his next-door neighbor is a policeman.”

“Well, I guess that helps. Where would Toby play? He has no grass at all.”

“Ian doesn’t have kids, remember?” I appreciate his tone of voice. I can tell he’s trying. He squeezes me close in a hug as we walk to the door. I press my cheek to his chest, glad to be out with him again, acting like an adult. He’s wearing a cool retro-style plaid shirt and khakis and smells good, like sandalwood soap. He even trimmed his mustache, and it’s not so bad. For a mustache.

He grew that damn mustache after his accident. At first, he didn’t shave at all, and when I finally refused to let his scraggly face near mine for a kiss, he started to shave experimentally. He tried a goatee at first, but I couldn’t help snickering at it. I convinced him it was the mullet of the new millennium, one of those trends all those shaved-head guys were going to look back on and regret. So he turned it into a soul patch but said he felt like he was trying too hard. Hipster central. He wanted to be different. Nobody has a mustache anymore, he said, as he shaved off the little tuft under his lip. At that point, I was thankful he’d already shaved off his sideburns, because nobody has pork chops anymore, either.

He talks to it. It’s funny; he looks in the bathroom mirror and says things like, “There you go, sport,” like it’s his long-lost friend. I have to admit, it’s a great coppery shade of blonde. The mustache is like Thud—not my idea, but I’m getting used to it.

We knock on Ian’s industrial steel door, which has three small, square windows aligned down one side. His doorknob is square and placed lower than a normal doorknob, to line up with the windows. Eric motions to the doorknob and says, “That’s Ian for you.”

As soon as we follow Ian inside, I realize the door is not the only detail that he’s meticulously designed.

“Your loft is great.”

It smells like clean, fresh linen. Exposed brick walls, a stainless-steel kitchen with an industrial worktable built into one side, and twenty-four-foot ceilings with exposed air conditioning ducts—black, so it’s there, but not in your face. Ian is an architect. He even designed the coffee table and bar stools himself. There’s one dividing wall, painted a brilliant shade of cerulean—not too blue, not too green, but perfect as an accent. Tucked away on the other side of the cerulean wall is Ian’s sparse, minimalist bedroom. On one side of the brick wall in the bedroom space, I see enormous photographs, some thirty-six inches wide, mounted on foam core, comprising an entire galley of saturated close-ups of plants and body parts and metal toys and vintage detective-book covers.

“Taking up photography?” Eric asks.

“No, that’s Mamie’s work.”

Mamie is Ian’s girlfriend. He won’t let her move in with him. He tells everyone that she thinks he’s too much of a slob, but I don’t buy it. Sure looks like everything is in its place. Including Mamie. On display, but could be removed without having to repaint the wall.

“I’m glad to be married,” I whisper in Eric’s ear.

“I don’t like to fight, either,” he says. “Let’s just have fun tonight.”

“That’s the idea, honey,” I say. Then I turn to Ian. “I need a margarita!”

Ian takes one look at me and makes it extra strong. He calls it a Mexican martini, which seems like nothing more than a giant tequila shot with fresh lime juice. It’s made with exceptionally smooth
añejo
tequila, so I’m soon sipping away and catching up on the gossip with a couple of my old, single college buddies. I show pictures of Toby.

I’m glad Carla is here, back from Europe or wherever she was on her latest business trip and looking fantastic. Her only complaint these days is that she doesn’t dare date her favorite client, Steve, the only unmarried one she’s had in ages. Separated, actually, but the divorce is pending. Her boss is super-strict in his interpretation of their conflict of interest policy. You do not date clients. Ever. So she’s hoping Steve will change jobs and not hire her at his new company. Of course, she can’t breathe a word of that to Steve. She’ll make less money if it happens, but it would give her love life a chance. Once again, I’m happy to not have her set of problems.

By the time Eric and the other guys return from Ian’s patio holding a tray of fresh grilled fajitas, I’m finishing my second Mexican martini. I need to get food in my stomach. When I stand up, my brains slosh against the sides of my cranium, which feels as impenetrable as a Neanderthal’s.

I tend to ponder out loud when I’m tipsy. Eric says it’s more like pontificating. He likes to get me engaged in conversation once I have what we call a “swimmy head.” I’m good comic material for weeks afterward, evidently.

Tonight, the image of my brain as soup and my Neanderthal skull as the tureen makes me think of cavemen. Which makes me wonder if cavemen ate soup. No, they ate meat. I wonder if cavemen ever cared about the animals they hunted. Nobody pictures an empathic caveman. A caveman with a soul. But surely a soul would be older than a caveman. Then I wonder if cavemen got reincarnated, which makes me feel bad for the poor stupid caveman with the protruding brow. I imagine he might be relieved to be reincarnated into a more evolved body. Which makes me think about big old John Robberson cramming himself into Toby’s little chubby body. I cringe.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” It’s Ian, who offers a plate of fajitas and puts his hand on my elbow.

“No, no, I’m fine. I think I need to eat.” I steady myself. “Thank you.” I feel like one of those people who can’t recognize faces because they only see one facial feature at a time. Eyes. Nose. I see Ian’s big goofy smile and I’m filled with fondness. He turns his head and I lose his smile. My focus is on the space where his chin should be. His skin hangs in a straight vertical line from his bottom lip to the top of his collar. Poor Ian.

I love the guy but don’t find him even remotely attractive. His appeal is on the inside. He’s so nice, so civilized. He’s like the opposite of a Neanderthal.

Which makes me think how disappointed some floating Neanderthal soul would be to leave behind his muscle tone and wake up in Ian’s supple skin. That would be the worst of both, wouldn’t it? I can’t help a little giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Do you ever wonder about who we are if we’re not our bodies?”

Ian looks at my empty glass and smiles. “Oh, yeah, I’m in. Whatcha thinking about, girl? This should be good.”

“I’m serious. Do you ever think about reincarnation?”

“Sure, sometimes. Do you?”

I look around for Eric, but he’s heading back to the patio, well out of earshot. I’m relieved to be able to just relax and talk about whatever I want. Ian settles in next to me on the sofa and we start with the caveman question, which evolves into a quasi rant. He hands me a sloppy nacho and another Mexican martini. Two sips in, all I can see is the lime pulp in my glass. My visual field is noticeably shorter, like I’m in permanent zoom mode on the camera. When I turn my head, it takes a second before the sound lines up with the picture. I try to focus.

He keeps prodding me for details, so even though I wasn’t planning to, I end up telling him about finding the real John Robberson.

“So tell, me. What do you really make of it? Is Toby a reincarnated fighter pilot?”

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to have the conversation only with Ian and not everyone who’s sitting on the back of the sofa. “I think if he really were the reincarnation of John Robberson, he’d speak differently of him. He’d recount memories, right? But it’s a mash-up. Toby talks about him like he’s a separate entity, but he’s replicating pilot memories when he plays. He knows things he can’t possibly know. See what I mean? That’s when it flips for me. Acting it out is a game. Memories are evidence.”

Eric approaches, beer in hand. “Did someone say pilot?” My neck and cheeks flush. I don’t know how much he overheard.

“Not just pilot. Fighter pilot, dude,” says Ian.

“Don’t encourage him.” I wave at Mamie. “Come over and tell me what you’re working on these days. Don’t you have a show coming up?”

I turn my back to Eric and Ian but can’t follow what Mamie says. All I can hear is the swagger in Eric’s voice.

He leans his head back, sticks out his chest, and says, “You know, back in the day, when it was just me in that single-seater Thud, carpet bombing the Dragon’s Jaw, I pulled a high-G barrel roll to get away from the little shit behind me about to gun my ass down.”

What?

Ian smiles. “Dragon’s Jaw?”

“You know you’re in trouble when you pickle the bombs off, pull back on the stick, and instead of a standard pullout, you get snapped into a hard right roll.”

Ian gestures to him and nudges me. “Check out the wannabe.”

“Do you think he practiced in the mirror?” I force a laugh, determined not to allow him the satisfaction of seeing he’s getting to me.

Eric winks at Mamie. “Yeah, I remember when I felt the resistance on that right side, I realized that damn bomb was still in the hole.”

“What are you talking about?” Mamie asks, as we turn to face the guys.

“My days back in ’Nam, sweetheart.”

She says to me, “Why’s he talking like that?”

“He’s drunk. How many fingers am I holding up, Eric?”

Eric asks Ian, “Don’t you want to know how I got out of it?”

“Bring it.”

Gesturing with his hands, he explains. “The weight pulled me right, so I knew the bomb was still there. So what do I do?” He raises his eyebrows, holds the question for a beat. “Reversed the rollout to the left side, going with the drag of the extra weight instead of fighting it.”

Ian pauses, head cocked, lips pursed. “You got the jargon down cold. Truly impressive.” He nods and offers his beer as a toast. “Simple physics, right?”

Eric clinks his long-necked bottle to Ian’s. “Engineers unite.”

“Been reading any military thrillers lately?”

Eric smiles and takes a swig. “Can I get you another beer, buddy?”