If I pursued this, I'd lose my son.
The thought was intolerable. I might never recover. I was sure that he wouldn't. For the first time in his life, he'd finally formed an attachment. What would it do to him to have it broken so abruptly? It would truly destroy his ability to trust any other human being.
I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't do anything that might hurt him.
And what about me? I had my own "attachment issues." I couldn't stand the thought of another failure. Another brick in the wall, as they say.
That was where I stayed stuck for the longest time. I walked around the house in physical pain for three weeks. My chest hurt. My head hurt. My legs hurt. My back hurt. My eyes hurt. My throat hurt. The only part of me that didn't hurt was my brain. That was so numb, I couldn't think.
I didn't know if he was a Martian or not. But something weird was going on. Wasn't it? And if it was just me — if I was going insane — then what right do I have to try to parent this child anyway? Either way I lose. If he's a Martian, I can't tell anyone. And if he isn't a Martian, then I'm going crazy.
I started looking for local evidence. I began browsing through my journal. I'd been making daily notes of interesting incidents, in case I ever wanted to write a book about our experiences. At first, I couldn't find anything. Most of the incidents I'd written about were fairly mundane. Not even good Readers' Digest material.
For instance, the week after he moved in, I'd taken him to the baseball game at Dodger Stadium. For the first part of the game, he'd been more interested in having a pennant and getting some cotton candy than in what was going on down on the stadium floor. But along about the fifth inning, he'd climbed up onto my lap and I began explaining the game to him. "See that man at home plate, holding the bat. Wish for him to hit the ball right out of the park."
"Okay," said Dennis.
Cra-a-ack! The ball went sailing straight out into the right field stands. Someone in the lower deck caught it and the runner sauntered easily around the bases while the organist played, "Glory, glory, Hallelujah."
"You're a good wisher, Dennis. That was terrific. Want to try it again?"
"No."
"Okay."
Two innings later, the Dodgers were one run behind. I asked Dennis to wish for hits again. Four pitches later, there were runners at first and third.
It didn't matter to me who came up to bat now; I hadn't remembered the names of any ballplayers since Roy Campanella was catching for Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax. As far as I was concerned, Who was on first, What was on second, and I Don't Know still played third. I liked baseball only so long as I didn't have to be an expert; but I'd never seen the Dodgers win a game. Every time I came to the stadium they lost; so I'd made it a point to stay away from Dodger Stadium to give them a fair chance at winning. I didn't expect them to win tonight; but Dennis's wishes had brought them from three runs behind.
"Okay, Dennis," I said, giving him a little squeeze. "It's time for one last wish. See that guy at the home plate, holding the bat. You gotta wish for him to hit a home run. All the way out of the park. Just like before. Okay?"
"Okay."
And just like before — cra-a-ack — the ball went sailing deep into right field, triggering a sudden cluster of excited fans scrambling down across the seats.
The Dodgers won that night. All the way home, I kept praising Dennis for his excellent wishing.
A couple of weeks after that, we were stopped at a light, waiting for it to change. It was one of those intersections that existed slightly sideways to reality. Whenever you stopped there, time slowed down to a crawl. Without even thinking, I said, "Dennis, wish for the light to turn green please."
"Okay," he said.
— and abruptly the light turned green. I frowned. It seemed to me the cycle hadn't quite completed.
Nah. I must have been daydreaming. I eased the car through the intersection. A moment later, we got caught at the next red light. I said a word.
"Why'd you say that?"
"These lights are supposed to be synchronized," I said. "So you only get green ones. We must be out of synch. Why don't you wish for this light to change too please."
"Okay."
— green.
"Boy! You are really a good wisher."
"Thank you."
A minute later, I said, "Can you wish this light to turn green too?"
"No," he said, abruptly angry. "You're going to use up all my wishes."
"Huh?" I looked over at him.
"I only have so many wishes and you're going to use them all up on stoplights." There was a hurt quality in his voice.
I pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. I turned to him and put my hand gently on his shoulder. "Oh, sweetheart. I don't know who told you that, but that's not so. The wish bag is bottomless. You can have as many wishes as you want."
"No, you can't," he insisted. "I have to save my wishes for things that are important."
"What's the most important thing you ever wished for? " I asked, already knowing the answer.
He didn't answer.
"What's the most important wish?" I repeated.
Very softly, he admitted, "I wished for a dad. Someone who would be nice to me."
"Uh-huh. And did you get your wish?"
He nodded.
"So, you see, sweetheart. There's no shortage of miracles."
I didn't know if he believed me. It was still too early in the process. We were still learning who each other was. I noted the conversation in my journal and let the matter slide. But it left me with an uncomfortable feeling. What has to happen to a child to make him believe there's a limit to wishes?
A year later, I looked at the words I'd written glowing on the computer screen, and wondered about Dennis's ability to wish. It was probably a coincidence. But maybe it wasn't. That time we'd matched four out of six numbers in the lottery and won eighty-eight dollars — was that the week I'd asked him to wish real hard for us to win?
Maybe Martians have precognitive or telekinetic powers…?
Dennis likes cleaning things. Without asking, he'll go out and wash the car, or the patio. He'll give the dogs baths. He'll vacuum the rugs and take the Dustbuster to the couch. He'll mop the floors. His favorite toys are a sponge and a squirt-bottle of Simple Green. I've seen him take a rusty old wrench he found in a vacant field and scrub the rust off of it until it shone like new. One night after dinner, after he finished methodically loading the dishwasher, I sat him down at the kitchen table and told him I had a surprise for him.
"What?"
"It's a book of puzzles."
"Oh." He sounded disappointed.
"No, listen. Here's the game. You have twenty minutes to do these puzzles, and then when you finish. I add them up and we'll find out how smart you are. Do you want to do this?"