The phone rings. It's my neighbor, alarmed. "Is The Kid okay? Is he hurt?"
I look out the bathroom window into the backyard, where he was last spotted. The Kid is rolling on the ground, clutching his ribcage. He gets up, walks partway across the yard and is thrown back to the ground by an invisible force.
"Oh," I say. "He's battling his ghosts."
There is silence on the line as my neighbor waits for an explanation. But how do I explain this one? That my son has recently started coming home from school telling me all about the dead people he's seen on the playground. That the ghosts have discovered that he can see them, and that they are not happy about it. That they are now attacking him and his only defense is to defeat them him with mind. That it's just like every other highly imaginative game he's played, except that he's NOT KIDDING MOM about this one.
I settle. "It's a new game," I say.
An entirely irritating new game that compels me to shout through a mouthful of refried beans, "NO GHOSTS AT THE DINNER TABLE."
Bonjour: Paris Surrounds
1 day ago