Soul Survivor by Andrea Leininger, Bruce Leininger Page A

evening rituals, including the bath in which James and Bruce shared a tub and talked “man-to-man.”
     Then Andrea took over, and there were the three books and the hundred kisses and the good-night routine.
    But Andrea had another wrinkle. After the one hundred kisses, she had James lie on his back in his bed and close his eyes.
     She ran her hand through his hair, as if she were pulling something out, and flung whatever it was to the floor.
    “I’m taking out everything that scares you,” she said. “I’m taking out everything that makes you cry.” And her hand pantomimed
     another grasp and pull and toss to the floor. “Everything that makes you angry or that frightens you.”
    Then she reversed the process, grabbing something in the air and running her hand over his face. “Now we’re gonna put in everything
     that makes you happy, everything that makes you smile, everything that makes you laugh, and all the love of everyone who loves
     you.”
    She ran her hand softly over his forehead with each wish—or prayer, maybe—and James called it “putting the good dreams in.”
    It seemed to help—that is, the nightmares went from three or four times a week to two or three, but they didn’t stop or diminish
     in intensity. It was a small victory.
    After she inserted the last good dream on this first Thursday in October, Bruce came in to say good night. He kissed James
     and said, “No dreams about the little man tonight, okay buddy?”
    James said, “The little man’s name is James, Daddy.”
    “Baby,
your
name is James,” offered Andrea.
    But James insisted, “The little man is named James, too.”
    Andrea was confused. “Do you remember the little man’s last name?”
    “No, I can’t remember it.”
    Bruce and Andrea were sitting on the bed. It was one of those fragile moments when James offered up some small, select details,
     like dropping pearls. But both parents knew that it was only a brief glimpse into his dreams and that it could end with the
     least little pressure on him. James spoke when he wanted to speak, and he went silent and dark when he didn’t want to talk
     about it. Bruce compared it to the coin-operated telescopes on top of the Empire State Building. You put in your quarter and
     you got to see a great distance, and then, suddenly, when you were well and truly into it, on the cusp of perfect clarity,
     the scope shut down. The coin had run out.
    But Bruce and Andrea kept at it with James, albeit with the knowledge that they were seeing through a very capricious lens.
    “Can you remember anyone else in the dream?” asked Andrea. “Any friends?”
    James concentrated for a moment; then his face lit up and he said, “Jack!”
    Well, it was a name, but it was no big deal. There were a million guys named Jack. He could have said Frank or Tom or Joe.
     Jack could even be a nickname for James.
    “Do you remember Jack’s last name?” asked Andrea.
    And then James said, very clearly, “Larsen. It was Jack Larsen.”
    “Get the pen and paper,” said Bruce, holding down his excitement.
    Andrea went down to the office and fetched the legal pad and a pen, and Bruce started scribbling away, trying to remember
     it all in sequence. Andrea saw that James was sleepy, but asked one more question anyway.
    “Was Jack James’s friend?”
    And James replied, “He was a pilot, too.”
    It was too much to take in. They couldn’t push James much further. He was yawning and ready for sleep. So they kissed him
     on his forehead and went into the family room, where they sat quietly, trying to digest this latest development.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    J ACK LARSEN” PLUNGED the Leiningers into the heart of the matter: belief and skepticism.
    Andrea decided to believe. Under the circumstances, it felt like the sensible thing to do. She could not live indefinitely
     in a state of nervous fear. (Even in combat, soldiers under fire attend to the banal, everyday details of existence.) In the
     end, belief