Free Soul Survivor by Andrea Leininger, Bruce Leininger Page B

was only a moment—it seemed an hour—then Andrea’s training kicked in. “Okay, baby, let’s brush your teeth and go
     to bed.”

CHAPTER NINE
    J AMES FELT CHEATED out of
Ten Apples Up On Top!
He got to hear only half. He made Andrea promise to finish reading Dr. Seuss the next day. Okay, she said, but for now, bed.
    Andrea was rushing—she needed to discuss what had just happened with Bruce. She delivered James his expected “hundred kisses”
     (the long bedroom good-night routine known as the “tucky-in-ies,” included turning on the night light, reading the “just three
     books,” a song—invariably Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight”—and a rapid-fire series of kisses over his face and neck).
    Then there was the scripted part of the ceremony:
    She said, “Good night, sleep tight.”
    He said, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
    She said, “See you in the morning light.”
    He said, “Dream about Blue Angels.”
    Then Andrea closed his door and hurried down the hall to the den. She and Bruce had long since agreed never to discuss the
     nightmares in front of James; and they both were bursting. They spoke in urgent stage whispers:
    Bruce:
Did I hear what I just heard?
    Andrea:
I can’t believe it.
    Bruce:
Well, let’s not get too excited.
    Andrea:
Are you
nuts
? I’m freaking out. Where did that stuff come from?
    Bruce:
I’ll tell you this: wherever that shit came from, I’m sure it’s from your side of the family.
    Andrea:
What if he’s…
    Bruce:
What if he’s what?
    Andrea:
How did he know about the Japanese?
    Bruce:
I don’t know. How the hell did he know about a drop tank?
    Andrea:
I’m scared.
    Bruce:
Relax, honey. Look, there’s a reasonable explanation.
    Andrea:
What? I really want to hear a
reasonable
explanation.
    Bruce:
I don’t know. This is crazy. Let’s talk to Bobbi.
    Andrea:
It’s too late to call now.
    Bruce:
Talk to Jen tomorrow. What time’s her plane?
    Andrea:
In the afternoon.
    As they whispered worriedly, they half listened for the first outburst of a fresh nightmare. It was after midnight—the nightmare
     hour—and they danced around the subject of their tiny son’s newly explicit claims, managing to avoid their scary implications.
     The improbability or threat in their thoughts got censored out as too dangerous to be considered. Could it be something he
     saw, something he overheard, someone getting to him and planting an idea? Too ridiculous.
    And then they were too tired and too nervous to stay on watch, to go over the same ground again.
    Andrea lay awake all night, turning over the conversations. Bruce was also awake, but James slept like… well, a baby.
    The next day passed slowly, waiting for Aunt G. J. Her plane was due at three, and Andrea and James got to the airport early.
    Aunt G. J. came out of gate 1A, and the two sisters ran into each other’s arms, jumped around and screamed—their usual mild
     greeting—and in eight minutes they were back on West St. Mary Boulevard. In ten minutes they each had a rum-soaked “hurricane,”
     the traditional New Orleans beverage, which had won a place in the Leininger home.
    James was in the family room, involved with a video, and Andrea and Jen settled into the sunroom, where Andrea told her sister
     about last night’s new chapter in the bad-dream story. There was never anything neutral or withheld in the reaction of Aunt
     G. J. “Holy shit!” she cried. At least her mind was off her adoption woes.
    She slugged down her hurricane and went for seconds.
    “What did you do? What did you say? What did you think? What did Bruce say? Are you freaked out? Oh, my God! That’s crazy!
     Where would he get that?”
    Which is the way Aunt G. J. oriented herself to tricky situations: alcohol and torrents of back-to-back questions.
    Jen got up and took her second drink into the family room and sat with James. They had always been great friends.
    “James, your mommy was telling me about what you said last