The call came in at six that morning, and I rushed to answer it before it woke Reuben. I hadn’t been sleeping well since that day at the museum, and I’d got into the habit of slipping out of bed at around five, in order to spend a few minutes alone and settle my nerves before I discovered which husband I would be facing.
‘Who is this?’ I snapped into the phone. If it was one of the papers or a meshugener taking a chance by calling so early, I wasn’t in a mood to treat them lightly.
There was a pause, and then the caller introduced himself as Paul Craddock, Jessica’s uncle. His clipped English accent reminded me of one of those characters on that Cavendish Hall show Betsy never stopped talking about. It was a strange conversation, full of long, uncomfortable pauses, although you’d think we’d have lots to talk about. I remember thinking how strange it was that neither of us had thought to be in contact before. The children were always being linked together in the news articles, and every so often, the producers of one of the big talk shows would get it into their heads to try to get all three children to appear together, but I always turned them down. I could immediately pick up that there was something not right with Paul; I suppose I put it down to the time difference or maybe a distortion on the line. He finally managed to make himself clear. He wanted to know if I’d noticed anything different about Bobby, if his personality or behaviour had changed after the crash.
It was the same sort of question those damn reporters were always asking and I was short with him. He apologised for disturbing me and hung up without saying goodbye.
I was agitated after the call, couldn’t settle down. Why would he ask me something like that? I knew that Paul, like me and the family of that little Japanese boy, must be suffering under the pressure of all the press attention. I suppose I also felt guilty that I’d been so short with him. He’d sounded troubled, like he needed to talk.
And I was tired of feeling guilty. Guilty about not sending Bobby back to school; for not taking Reuben back to Dr Lomeier so he could be seen by the specialist; for hiding his condition from Betsy. Like Charmaine, who still called to check up on us every week, Betsy had been there for me from the beginning, but I couldn’t shift the feeling that what was happening to Reuben was my private miracle. And my private burden. I knew what would happen if the story got out. The ridiculous story about the little Japanese boy interacting with that robot his father made him was all over the news for days.
I made myself a cup of coffee, sat in the kitchen and stared out of the window. It was a lovely spring day, and I remember thinking how nice it would be to just go out for a walk, sit in a cafe somewhere. Have some time to myself.
Reuben was awake by then, and it was Reuben, and not Al, who was there that day. I thought, I could just pop out for ten minutes, sit in the park in the sun. Breathe.
I made Bobby his breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, and asked Reuben if he’d mind if I slipped out for a few minutes.
‘You go, Rita,’ he said. ‘Go and have a nice time.’
I made Bobby promise that he wouldn’t leave the apartment, and then I left. I walked down to the park, sat on the bench opposite the sports centre, and raised my face to the sun. I kept telling myself, just five minutes more, and then I’ll get back and change the sheets on the bed, take Bobby to the store with me to buy milk. A group of young men pushing baby buggies strolled past me, and we exchanged smiles. I glanced at my watch, realised I’d been sitting there for over forty minutes–where had the time gone? I was less than five minutes from my building, but accidents can happen in seconds. The sudden rush of panic made me feel nauseous, and I hurried home.
And I was right to be worried. I screamed out loud when I ran into the apartment and saw the two of them standing there in my kitchen in their identical suits. One of them had his eyes closed and was holding Bobby’s hand to his chest. The other one had his hand raised above his head, and was muttering something under his breath.
‘Get away from him!’ I yelled at the top of my voice. I could see right away what they were. The fanaticism radiated out of them. ‘Get the hell out of my apartment!’
‘Is that you, Rita?’ Reuben called from the other room.
‘The men asked to come in and watch The View with us, Bubbe,’ Bobby said. ‘Are they the ones Betsy calls bupkes?’
‘Go to your room, Bobby,’ I said.
I turned on the two men again, fury sparking through every vein. They looked like twins, their blond hair identically parted to the side, that same smug, self-righteous expression on their faces, which made the situation all the more disturbing. Bobby told me later they’d only been there for five minutes before I got home and that they hadn’t done anything other than what I’d seen in the kitchen. They must have watched me leaving and decided to take a chance. ‘All we ask is that you let Bobby’s spirit wash over us,’ one of them said. ‘You owe it to us, Mrs Small.’
‘She owes you nothing,’ Betsy said from behind me–thank God she’d heard me yell. ‘I’ve called the cops, so you get your Bible-thumping tushes out of here.’
The two men glanced at each other and made for the door. They looked like they were thinking about spouting more of their nonsense, but the look on Betsy’s face shut them up.
Betsy said she’d take care of Bobby while I made a statement. I knew it was too late to worry about her finding out about Reuben. The police commissioner himself came to see me later that day. He said I should consider round-the-clock protection, maybe hire private security, but I didn’t want a stranger in my home.
When I’d finished with the police, I could see immediately that Betsy knew and wanted to talk about Reuben’s transformation. What choice did I have then but to come clean? And who did I have to blame but myself?