Almost three thousand cases he’d worked on and he always did a postmortem and a follow-up, not only to track his subjects but also to learn how to do his work better. Now he was on his last case and he felt much as he did at the beginning, raw and unschooled. His last case had been significant, he had been right about that: significant not because it was the American case that could stir the world at large to take note at last that there was evidence of reincarnation, but because it was the case that proved once and for all that he was finished.
He should have known better. What had he been thinking? They should not have talked to the teenager, should have left immediately to regroup. Almost three thousand cases and certainly fifty or sixty decent American ones: he knew this wasn’t India, where the villagers would eagerly point out possible rebirths, sending him off to look at birthmarks he could barely see. In India they wanted him to succeed, were excited about the possibility of proving what they already knew. On American cases you were careful. You worked your way slowly, slowly, to the matter of what you did, in the gentlest possible terms, making it clear that all you were doing was asking questions.
They should have left before the mother got there.
He should have foreseen that the teenager might jump the gun like that. “Mama, this boy says he’s Tommy,” before the poor woman was even through the door.
He should have realized, most importantly, that since they had not found a body, the woman had not known that her son had died.
“Mama, this boy says he’s Tommy,” the teenager had said. And the woman still edging in the door, hip first, a bag of groceries clutched against her chest and a bundle of papers tucked under an arm.
“This boy says he’s Tommy,” and the boy inside playing the piano, and he himself paralyzed by goddamn verbal timidity and also the elation flooding the dopamine centers in his brain: the elation that always accompanied verification that a case was a match—for he was quite sure that the child had never played the piano before, and that the tune he was playing had meaning for the previous personality’s family.
Music: was anything more powerful in summoning what was lost? Was it really so surprising that when the woman turned to the room there was hope in her eyes, that wild, hopeless hope you saw sometimes in the faces of terminally ill people discussing the newest treatments? Was it really so surprising that for a moment she thought that her lost son was there in the room somewhere, that he was alive and had made it back to her?
Or that when, instead, her eyes lit on the small white child who was Noah, who was now running toward her like a blond heat-seeking missile, throwing himself at her legs, she would be undone? She’d had to process all of it at once, the hope and the shock of disappointment and of Noah’s life-force slamming against her body, all while standing on the threshold of her home with her coat on and her keys still in her hand and a heavy bag of groceries in her arms.
He should have taken over right then and there. Established a sense of order. Taken the bag from her arms. Mrs. Crawford, I’m Professor Anderson, please take a seat and we’ll explain our presence here. That was the sentence in his head. He heard himself saying it in a soothing tone. But he hesitated, wanting to be sure he had the words right, and before he had a chance to speak, Janie rushed forward, grabbing Noah by his arm and trying to tug him off the woman’s legs.
“Sweetie, let go.”
“No.”
“You have to let go of her. I’m so sorry,” she said to Denise. She tried to pull Noah away, but he clung tighter, squeezing both her legs in his small arms.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“Noah, you’re bothering this woman, let go NOW.”
“No!” he said. “This is my mama!”
“This is insanity,” Denise Crawford said. She jiggled her leg in an effort to extricate herself from the child. She was still holding the heavy bag of groceries. No one had taken it from her. The teenager was standing there with his mouth ajar. Anderson was watching, forming the words in his mind. There was Noah pressing himself against Denise and Janie trying to pull him the other way, the two of them locked together in a battle of wills like the primal struggle of mother and child, until the stack of papers Denise had been carrying tucked under her arm began to slip, and in an effort to regain control she jiggled her leg again, or kicked, and Noah fell.
He fell backward, his head hitting the wooden floor with a loud crack.
Anderson felt the sound shudder through his body.
The boy didn’t move. He lay still on the ground with his eyes closed. Anderson heard a gasp—that was Janie—then a splash as Denise’s papers slid down, fanning out before all of them, Tommy Crawford smiling in green and yellow and blue.
Janie was by his side in an instant. “Noah?”
Then Anderson got hold of himself and crouched beside the boy. He took the boy’s pulse, and the strong beats brought the room back to life again.
Noah’s eyes opened. He blinked, looked up at the ceiling. His pupils seemed normal.
“Do you know who I am?” Anderson asked.
The boy’s gaze glided from the ceiling to Anderson. He looked at him with a saddened expression, as if the question had disappointed him. “Of course I know who you are. I know everybody here.”