The Forgetting Time(26)

And then, gradually, her pride had turned into confusion. How did he know this stuff? Was there some kind of book or video he’d memorized? But why hadn’t he mentioned it before? Had someone taught him? The matter had never been clarified; she had merely accepted it as part of his specialness.

“Was there a book or video at a friend’s house, maybe?” Anderson asked now, as if reading her mind, his quiet voice bringing her back to the clatter of the diner. “Or his nursery school? Something he might have seen somewhere?”

“That’s the strange thing. I asked around—I was pretty thorough. There was nothing.”

He nodded. “Would you mind if I asked around a bit myself? At his school and with his friends and sitters?”

“I guess not.” She looked at him sideways. “It sounds like you’re trying to explain it away. Don’t you believe me?”

“We have to think like the skeptics think. Or it’s all—” He shrugged. “Now: did you notice any change in his behavior, after the episode with the lizard?”

“His nightmares got worse, I guess.”

“Tell me about those,” he said, his head bent over his pad. But it was too much, suddenly, to tell.

“You might want to look at this.” She placed the binder that was Noah on the table and slid it across to him.

*

Anderson turned the pages slowly, poring over the details. The case was not as strong as he’d hoped—the nightmares and water phobia were commonplace, if unusually intense, the rifle and Harry Potter references were interesting but inconclusive, and the knowledge of lizards was promising, but only if he could prove that there was no clear source for the child’s expertise. Most important, there was nothing concrete that might lead him to a previous personality—guns and Harry Potter books were as widespread as air in this culture, and a bearded dragon pet was nothing much to go on. The child had mentioned a lake house to his teachers, but it was useless to him without a name for the lake.

He glanced up at the woman, who was building a structure out of sugar cubes. She was, like most people, a contradiction: steady blue eyes, fidgety hands. When she looked at Anderson her eyes were evaluating, cautious, but when she turned to her son a palpable warmth shone from her features. Still, he wished she had trusted him enough to invite him home. The diner was loud, and it would be difficult to get anything from a child in this setting.

He watched her nimble fingers finishing the little white brick house. “Nice…”

What was it called? The word dropped down suddenly from the gods of language, like sugar to his lips. “… igloo,” he continued. Being back on a case was good for his vocabulary, at least. The child in him was sorry when she dismantled it quickly, piling the cubes neatly back in the dish.

He took a sip of tea. He had forgotten to take out the tea bag. The liquid felt dense against his lips. He tapped the binder. “You’re very thorough.”

“But—what do you think?”

“I think his case has promise.”

She glanced at her son, engrossed in the baseball game at the counter, and leaned across the table. “But can you help him?” she whispered.

He could smell the coffee on her breath; it had been a long time since he had felt the warmth of a woman’s breath on his face. He took another sip of tea. He had managed mothers before, of course. Decades of mothers: skeptical, angry, sorrowful, dismissive, helpful, hopeful, or desperate, like this one. The main thing was to remain composed and in control.

He was saved from answering by the waitress, who, hoarding the smiles afforded her for her one and only life (Why did people tattoo that on their bodies? Did they really find it inspiring to live only once?) set down a steaming plate of pancakes with a scowl.

He watched the mother fetch the boy.

Now he could get a good look at him. He was lovely, of course, but it was the watchfulness in his eyes that drew Anderson. There was occasionally another dimension in the awareness of children who remembered; not a knowledge so much as a wariness, a shadow consciousness like that of a stranger in a new country who can’t help thinking of home.

Anderson smiled at the boy. How many thousands of cases had he handled? Two thousand, seven hundred and fifty-three, to be exact. There was no reason to be nervous. He would not let himself be nervous. “Who’s winning the game?”

“Yankees.”

“Are you a Yankees fan?”

The boy took a mouthful of pancake. “Naw.”

“What team do you like?”

“Nationals.”

“The Washington Nationals? Why do you like them?”

“’Cause that’s my team.”

“Have you ever been to Washington, D.C.?”

His mother spoke up. “No, we haven’t.”

Anderson tried to keep his voice gentle. “I was asking Noah.”

Noah picked up a spoon and stuck his tongue out at the distorted spoon-boy reflected in its bowl. “Mommy, can I go back and watch?”

“Not now, sweetie. When you’re done eating.”

“I am done.”

“No, you are not. Besides, Dr. Anderson wants to speak to you.”

“I’m sick of doctors.”

“Just this one more.”

“No!”

His voice was loud. Anderson noticed a couple of nearby women glancing in their direction, judging this other mother over their scrambled eggs, and felt a twinge of empathy for her.