The Forgetting Time(15)

She glanced up, but Ms. Whittaker’s face was like a heavy metal door. You could bang and bang, but nothing would open it.

“So you must understand my dilemma.” Ms. Whittaker spoke slowly.

“Your dilemma? No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Miss Zimmerman. I’ve spent many years with small children, and in my experience they do not talk about their dreams this way. That sort of—confusion—is not common.”

Common, no; nothing about Noah was common, was it? Janie tried to think. It wasn’t only that he knew things; it was more than that, wasn’t it? When had she first become aware that Noah was different from other children? When had she stopped going to her single moms’ group? Somewhere along the line, when discussions had evolved from sleeping through the night and infant gas to baths and preschool there had been one too many moments when she’d looked around after sharing (his nightmares and fears, his long, inexplicable bouts of crying) and seen blank stares instead of nods. It was just part of Noah’s uniqueness—that’s what she’d always said to herself, only now—

Ms. Whittaker cleared her throat, an awful sound. “A young child with a water phobia talks about being held underwater … and clings for dear life to a junior teacher here, sobbing uncontrollably for hours when she’s absent—”

“I picked him up at noon that day.”

“… and then the other evidence of a house somehow not quite in order, the fact that the boy smells … well, you understand? I have an obligation. His teachers and I have an obligation.…” She lifted her head, a flash of silver, a sword, slicing. “To report any sign of child endangerment to child protective services.…”

“Protective services?”

The words dropped down into a well without a bottom. She felt a hot, tingling sensation, as if she’d been slapped hard on both cheeks. The Galloways; her financial worries; everything that had cluttered her mind fell away.

“You must be joking.”

“I assure you I am not.”

It was impossible. Wasn’t it? She was a good mother. Wasn’t she?

She looked away from her, at the playground out the window, and tried to pull herself together. They couldn’t take him away. Could they?

A crow alighted on the swing set, taking her in with its sharp beady eyes. She forced the panic back down her throat with an effort.

“Look,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Have you ever seen a mark of any kind on him? Or any evidence of abuse? I mean, he’s a happy kid.” And it was true, she thought. She could feel Noah’s joy, anyone could. “Talk to his teachers—”

“I have.” Ms. Whittaker sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “Believe me, I don’t take this lightly. Once you’re in the system—”

“Noah’s quirky,” Janie said suddenly, interrupting her. “He’s imaginative.” She cast her gaze out the window. The crow ruffled its feathers, cocking its head at her. She turned back into the room and faced her adversary. “He lies.”

Ms. Whittaker lifted an eyebrow. “He lies?”

“He makes up stories. Just little things, mostly. Like once, at the petting zoo, he said, ‘Grandpa Joe had a pig, remember? It was so loud.’ But he doesn’t have a grandpa, much less one with a pig. Or in school—one of the teachers said that he told the class about going to the lake house in the summer and how much he loved it there. How he’d jump from the raft into the water. She was proud of him for speaking up at circle time.”

“Yes?”

“Well, you see, there isn’t any lake house. And as for swimming … I can’t even get him to wash his hands.” She laughed, a dry sound echoing in the room. “And at night, before he falls asleep, he says he wants to go home and asks when his other mother is coming. That kind of thing.”

Ms. Whittaker was staring at her.

“How long has he been talking like this?”

She thought about it. She could hear Noah’s toddler voice, that plaintive whine. “I want to go home.” Sometimes she’d laugh at him. “You’re right here, silly.” And before that, when he was a baby, there was a period of time (a blur now, yet agonizing while it was happening) when he would cry for hours, calling “Mama! Mama!” while wriggling in her arms. “I don’t know. A while. But don’t many children have imaginary friends?”

The director was looking at her speculatively, as at a child who has bungled basic arithmetic. “This is beyond imaginative,” she said, and the statement rang in Janie’s ears, reverberating in a back room of her mind that had been waiting for it, she realized, for quite some time.

Janie felt all the fight begin to seep out of her. “What are you saying?”

Their eyes met. The hardness was gone; the woman’s eyes shone with a sadness Janie had no defense against. “I think you should take Noah to see a psychologist.”

Janie looked out the window, as if the crow might think otherwise, but he had gone. “I’ll do it right away,” she said.

“Good. I have a list you can choose from. I’ll e-mail it to you tonight.”

“Thank you.” She tried to smile. “Noah’s been happy here.”

“Yes. Well.” Ms. Whittaker rubbed her eyes. She looked exhausted, every hair on her silver head a testament to overseeing other people’s children. “We’ll all be looking forward to his return.”