disappeared to play a game with each other in Karen’s room.
Rebecca straightened the downstairs of the house. She kept dinner warm for Bill in the kitchen. At eight, Rebecca walked upstairs to help conclude the game.
“Time to get ready for bed, guys,” she said. “Let’s wrap it up.” Her maternal concern was met by the predictable groans.
Rebecca went back downstairs. The kids came down at quarter past the hour, giggling to each other. It was time for a downstairs story from a book, perhaps, but both Karen and Patrick seemed more concerned with some conspiratorial point between them.
“What’s going on, guys? “ Rebecca asked. Karen looked at Patrick.
“You ask,” Karen whispered.
Rebecca looked her children. Yes, indeed. There was a conspiracy. And a question. Something they wanted to know from Mom.
“Okay, guys,” Rebecca inquired. “Ask me what?” The kids giggled.
“Is Ronny good or bad?” Patrick asked.
“What?”
“Is Ronny good or bad?”
“Ronny who?”
“Ronny Sinbilt,” Karen said.
A wave of anxiety washed through Rebecca. “Not Ronny. Not again.” She thought she was rid of this.
“Why are we talking about Ronny again?’ Rebecca asked.
“Because he’s upstairs right now,” Karen said. What Rebecca felt, against her better judgment, was fear. Plain and simple.
“Listen guys,” she said, stifling a little tremor. “Will you do your mommy a big favor?’
She waited. They waited.
“Okay?” Rebecca asked. “A big favor. It bothers Mommy when you talk about Ronny. It bothers me because Daddy and I are the only ones in the house besides you. This is our home and no one else is here.”
“But…”
“Patrick!” Rebecca snapped, barely able to subdue her anger. “Ronny is your imaginary friend, right? So you have to remember that something that is in your imagination is not real.”
She had never quite seen a reaction like this from her son. He looked to his younger sister for help, but kept quiet. He looked as if he knew his mother were wrong, but didn’t want to disagree. Rebecca drew a breath, tried to dissipate the tension building within her, and told herself, reminded herself, that she was never ever to lose her temper with her children at times like this.
“Ronny’s real, Mommy,” Patrick said.
“He’s upstairs now,” Karen said. A second passed.
“No he’s not,” Rebecca answered. The kids didn’t disagree. Instead, they kept quiet. Rebecca thought about it.
“Okay,” she said, mounting up her courage, “he’s upstairs, right?” she asked.
Karen nodded. Then Patrick did, too.
“Where upstairs?”
“In his room,” Karen said.
“The ‘turret room’?” Patrick nodded.
“How do you know?”
“We saw him go in there.”
“Did he talk to you tonight?” Rebecca asked.
They shook their heads. Rebecca glanced upstairs. The second floor was completely quiet. Then a subtle creak. The landing at the top of the stairs was shadowy. Rebecca tightened up her courage just a little more.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I want to meet him. Show me.”
Patrick took one of her hands. Karen took the other. Her children led her to the stairs. They walked up the steps together. Rebecca felt her heart thumping hard in her chest. At the top of the steps, she hesitated. She pulled back her hands and wiped her sweating palms on her skirt.
“Okay,” she said. “Your mother can walk the rest of the way.”
She looked at the dark doorway to the turret room. The door was halfway open. There was some light from within, probably from outside. The house was quiet. She wished that Bill were home.
She walked to the room and stopped, trying not to appear frightened as she looked past the door. She was reminded of being a child, imagining a monster in the closet and being too scared to go over and open the closet door. She tried to remind herself how foolish those childhood fears had been. And yet she faced the same fears now.
“What’s the
Rebecca straightened the downstairs of the house. She kept dinner warm for Bill in the kitchen. At eight, Rebecca walked upstairs to help conclude the game.
“Time to get ready for bed, guys,” she said. “Let’s wrap it up.” Her maternal concern was met by the predictable groans.
Rebecca went back downstairs. The kids came down at quarter past the hour, giggling to each other. It was time for a downstairs story from a book, perhaps, but both Karen and Patrick seemed more concerned with some conspiratorial point between them.
“What’s going on, guys? “ Rebecca asked. Karen looked at Patrick.
“You ask,” Karen whispered.
Rebecca looked her children. Yes, indeed. There was a conspiracy. And a question. Something they wanted to know from Mom.
“Okay, guys,” Rebecca inquired. “Ask me what?” The kids giggled.
“Is Ronny good or bad?” Patrick asked.
“What?”
“Is Ronny good or bad?”
“Ronny who?”
“Ronny Sinbilt,” Karen said.
A wave of anxiety washed through Rebecca. “Not Ronny. Not again.” She thought she was rid of this.
“Why are we talking about Ronny again?’ Rebecca asked.
“Because he’s upstairs right now,” Karen said. What Rebecca felt, against her better judgment, was fear. Plain and simple.
“Listen guys,” she said, stifling a little tremor. “Will you do your mommy a big favor?’
She waited. They waited.
“Okay?” Rebecca asked. “A big favor. It bothers Mommy when you talk about Ronny. It bothers me because Daddy and I are the only ones in the house besides you. This is our home and no one else is here.”
“But…”
“Patrick!” Rebecca snapped, barely able to subdue her anger. “Ronny is your imaginary friend, right? So you have to remember that something that is in your imagination is not real.”
She had never quite seen a reaction like this from her son. He looked to his younger sister for help, but kept quiet. He looked as if he knew his mother were wrong, but didn’t want to disagree. Rebecca drew a breath, tried to dissipate the tension building within her, and told herself, reminded herself, that she was never ever to lose her temper with her children at times like this.
“Ronny’s real, Mommy,” Patrick said.
“He’s upstairs now,” Karen said. A second passed.
“No he’s not,” Rebecca answered. The kids didn’t disagree. Instead, they kept quiet. Rebecca thought about it.
“Okay,” she said, mounting up her courage, “he’s upstairs, right?” she asked.
Karen nodded. Then Patrick did, too.
“Where upstairs?”
“In his room,” Karen said.
“The ‘turret room’?” Patrick nodded.
“How do you know?”
“We saw him go in there.”
“Did he talk to you tonight?” Rebecca asked.
They shook their heads. Rebecca glanced upstairs. The second floor was completely quiet. Then a subtle creak. The landing at the top of the stairs was shadowy. Rebecca tightened up her courage just a little more.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I want to meet him. Show me.”
Patrick took one of her hands. Karen took the other. Her children led her to the stairs. They walked up the steps together. Rebecca felt her heart thumping hard in her chest. At the top of the steps, she hesitated. She pulled back her hands and wiped her sweating palms on her skirt.
“Okay,” she said. “Your mother can walk the rest of the way.”
She looked at the dark doorway to the turret room. The door was halfway open. There was some light from within, probably from outside. The house was quiet. She wished that Bill were home.
She walked to the room and stopped, trying not to appear frightened as she looked past the door. She was reminded of being a child, imagining a monster in the closet and being too scared to go over and open the closet door. She tried to remind herself how foolish those childhood fears had been. And yet she faced the same fears now.
“What’s the
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