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.
“Noah, please—”
“It’s okay.” Anderson sighed. “I’m a stranger. We need to get to know each other better. It takes time.”
“Please, Mommy-Mom? It’s opening day.”
“Oh, fine.”
They watched him leap out of his seat.
“So.” She looked at him forcefully, as if closing a deal. “You’ll take him on?”
“On?”
“As a patient.”
“It doesn’t work quite like that.”
“I thought you were a psychiatrist.”
“I am. But this work—it’s not a clinical practice. It’s research.”
“I see.” She looked puzzled. “So, what are the next steps, then?”
“I need to keep talking to Noah. See if we can find something concrete that he remembers. A town, a name. Something we can track down.”
“You mean, like a clue?”
“Exactly.”
“So he can go to see … where he used to live in his previous lifetime? Is that it? And that will cure him?”
“I can’t promise anything. But subjects do tend to calm down after we solve a case and find the previous personality. He may well forget on his own, you know. Most do, by the age of six or so.”
She took this in warily. “But how can you find the—previous personality? Noah hasn’t said anything that specific.”
“Let’s see how it goes. It takes time.”
“That’s what they all say, all the doctors. But the thing is—” Her voice quavered and she stopped abruptly. She tried again. “The thing is, I don’t have time. I’m running out of money. And Noah’s not getting better. I need to do something now. I need something to work.”
He felt her need across the table, taking hold of him.