Madeleine answers the door in a flowered peasant blouse, holding a solid and very pink baby. She looks fresh, unruffled, and young—utterly unlike how Suzanne recalls her own first months of motherhood. Suzanne gives her widest, most sincere smile as she compliments her neighbor. When Madeleine steps to the side, Suzanne sees David in the living room. For a long moment, no one speaks, and she feels immediately sorry for coming.
“Would you like something to drink?” Madeleine finally asks. “Iced tea, coffee, water?”
“Some iced tea would be nice.” Suzanne smiles, still holding Elliot in the entrance hall. She does not want to put him down near the mirrored table.
“Have a seat,” David instructs her. “Make yourself comfortable.”
With as much dignity as she can, Suzanne strides into the living room and smooths her skirt before sitting on the couch. Elliot reaches beneath her dress collar, as is his habit, and digs his fingernails into her shoulder, but she refrains from pulling his hand away. She does not want to start a conflict so soon.
Madeleine brings the iced tea and takes a seat at the other end of the couch. David stands facing them like a workshop leader, in jeans and a thin brown T-shirt. Some kind of leather pouch hangs around his neck, bound with string.
“What I’m going to do is a modified version of an ancient custom,” he begins without prelude. “As Madeleine might have mentioned, I’ve recently been blessed with the ability to enter altered states of consciousness that allow me to access and diagnose hidden illnesses and blockages in people.”
Elliot is now clawing forcefully at Suzanne’s shoulder. She concentrates on keeping her face relaxed, her expression neutral. She hears what David is saying, but is unable to make meaning of the words. She gives an interested smile and nods for him to continue.
“What I’d like to do is spend a little time with Elliot and see if I can confront whatever it is that’s obstructing his development. It’s not uncommon for a young child to have problems on a spiritual level stemming from some early trauma, like a difficult birth. But most medical doctors don’t consider this.”
Suzanne’s shoulder flinches involuntarily, and Elliot digs deeper. She registers the words difficult birth. It had, in fact, been difficult.
“The whole session shouldn’t take more than an hour or so,” David says, turning away. He goes out of the room and returns with a rough wooden tray holding a collection of objects: a long striped feather, a group of round stones, a small animal skull. The tray is a peculiar prop in this anodyne beige room with its microfiber sofa and leather armchair, its shag rug the color of milky tea.
David lifts the coffee table up from this rug and moves it to a corner of the room. He puts a match to a bundle of weeds in a little clay pot, and after a moment the fragrance reaches Suzanne. He dims the lights, then squats in front of the couch and asks if Elliot would like to lie on the floor.
To Suzanne’s surprise, Elliot disengages his grip and allows himself to be placed on the rug. He does not lie down, but sits with his legs forked in front of him. Madeleine positions her own daughter into a saucer-shaped jumper seat. From a closet she retrieves a drum, moldy looking and embellished with bells and tassels. She lowers herself to the floor, legs crossed Indian-style, and nestles the drum in the crook of her knees. The herb bundle smokes, producing its exotic perfume. Suzanne looks instinctively to the window. The blinds are tightly closed.
David begins to walk a slow circle around Elliot, humming a meandering tune. After a number of circles, he lowers himself to the floor and stretches out beside the boy, while Madeleine begins to pat the drum. Elliot ignores both of them, picking at tufts of yarn on the rug.
Suzanne sits with her legs tight together, wishing herself out of the room. It is unpleasant to watch adults behave in this way. She does not like to see a grown man on the floor; she does not like to see a woman with a dirty drum. Madeleine increases her volume and tempo so that the drumbeats grow loud and insistent. At this, the baby girl stops bouncing. Her little face reddens and her mouth gapes silently for a moment. When the cries come, Madeleine looks up and falters in her drumming.
The baby’s father, flat on the floor, appears unaware of the disturbance. He is absent from the room, the movement of his eyeballs perceptible beneath his closed lids. Suzanne hesitates, then goes to the bouncer and picks up the baby. She gazes into the fat, wet-lashed face, so different from Elliot’s, and blinks her eyes playfully. To her amazement, the baby shows her nubby teeth in pleasure. For the rest of the ritual, she holds the little girl on her lap, breathing her smell of orange and vanilla.